Page 30 of Halfling
“No one’s gonna help you here,” spat a woman to Sorcha’s right.
“Get out of here, orc-slut. Run while you can,” hissed another.
When Sorcha kept her hands up in placation, and her mouth shut to keep back the sick, the man with the hoe grunted, spat at her feet again, and turned on his heel. The crowd that had gathered around them grumbled and hissedorc-slutat her under their breath.
She stood there for a long while as the town warily got back to its business, though suspicious eyes remained on her. A hostile note thrummed through town, and Sorcha clenched her teeth against the desire to turn tail and run.
Instead, she began putting one foot in front of the other.
If they weren’t going to drive her out of town, she might as well press on and see ifsomeonewould help her. She couldn’t afford not to.
Blinking back the sting of tears, Sorcha kept her pace measured as she pushed further into Birrin. Sneers and frowns followed her, making her neck prickle.
She kept to the main path, skirting around others who glared at her as they passed. Unable to avoid every shoulder thrown into hers, Sorcha bit down on her grunts and tamed her glares.
Just keep walking.
Little paths branched out from the main one like tributaries of a river, but she kept to the widest one, not wanting to give anyone an opportunity to corner her between buildings. Finally, the main path spilled out into something of a town square, a wide-open space with errant patches of grass and multiple hitching posts.
To her right, she finally spied what she’d been looking for. A clapboard building stood beneath a wide awning that shaded a battered porch and creaky sign of a barrel. A woman as weathered as the boards of the ancient porch she stood on looked on the square with a scowl, which she readily turned on Sorcha when she came into sight.
With a swish of patchwork skirts, the woman headed back inside.
Sucking in a breath, Sorcha made for the trading post.
The door creaked as she entered, announcing her. The smell of leather and dust invaded her nose, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust in the dimness. Despite the many windows lining the back wall, piles of goods stood in haphazard arrangements. Crates spilled over with onions, rope, uncut fabrics, and raw wool. An array of saddles hung on the east wall, interspersed with different sizes of shoes and tack. Sorcha wove around wagon wheels, mismatched arrows with fraying fletching, threadbare sacks of potatoes, dull pewter goblets, and barrels of iron bits. Her eyes couldn’t quite take it all in, but they caught on what looked like a pile of hastily folded cloth.
An aggressively cleared throat drew her eyes to the far side of the trading post.
The shopkeeper had ensconced herself behind a counter made of an enormous raw-edged plank of redwood balanced on two barrels. The lines of a hard life were etched into her tanned face, and her puff of graying hair was tied to the top of her head in a neat knot. Hands splayed on the battered countertop, the woman eyed her sourly.
“This is a trading post. You won’t find any charity here.”
“Oh, no, I didn’t think I would,” Sorcha replied with a mirthless smile. “I can pay.”
“We don’t takethat kindof payment.”
“And I’m not offering.” Not that this woman should shame one who did.Honestly, what do they think happens to the women captured by orcs?
She pulled the small sack of coins Orek had gifted her from herpocket, letting it jangle. The shopkeeper’s posture, predictably,straightened. Gold was a universal language. And it didn’t need to buy her kindness or hospitality at this point; mere supplies would do.
Perhaps Father and Lord Darrow didn’t come down here because they knew what a miserable place it was.
“I’ve had a long few days getting here. I understand the town wants me gone, so the sooner I can get what I need, the sooner I leave.”
Her tea-brown eyes on the coin purse, the shopkeeper grumbled, “And what all would that be?”
“Clothes. A pack. Blankets and a bedroll. Foodstuffs. And a bath, if possible.”
The woman’s thin lips disappeared into her mouth. “Is that it?”
“A map, if you have one. I know I’ve got a long journey home, so having a direction is a good start.”
“That’ll take a while to find,” the shopkeeper huffed.
Sorcha widened her stance and put a hand on her hip. There was a reason her mother sent her along to the markets to haggle for the household necessities; Sorcha was unmoved by her siblings’ tears and merchants’ scowls. Tired, hungry, and dirty, she felt downright formidable.
“I can help look after a bath.”
