Page 94 of Fires of the Forsaken
“Ah.” I wandered over to his bed and peered around, trying not to touch his sheets because…when was the last time he’d washed them? If he'deverwashed them.Yeck.
A warm breeze whistled through the window, ruffling the pile of papers on the sill. He had a stone on top, to keep them from blowing away, but I still got a good eye-full of the front page.
“Wait—hang on,” I reached over and scooted the paper out from under the rock. “This is Monschau! Germany!” The picture was a black-and-white sketch of Tudor-style buildings lining a canal. Which could have been the homes here, in Sakar, but a few of the buildings in the drawing were definitely restaurants. People sat outside at round tables, the plates in front of them stacked high with food. And the mountains and ruins in the background were a dead giveaway. “Itis!I mean—you don't understand, Idrainedmy bank account to go backpacking through Europe after high school. Worked my way through almost every country in the EU until…well, that’s a story for another time.” I waved my arm to shoo the memory away. “And Monschau—I stayed there for a month.Best place ever!Absolutely loved it. I’d recognize it anywhere. But…” I stared at the picture again, and then glanced at Cheriour.
He stood motionless on the other side of the room, the leather strap dangling from his fingers.
“How thehelldo you have a picture like this?” I asked. “And it’s asketch!Did you draw this? How would you even know about this town? Have you been there? Did you—”
“We need to go,” Cheriour grunted.
“But—hey!” I yelped when he strode across the room and tossed the leather strap over my head.
“So what was your favorite part about Monschau?” I asked.
No response.
“Did you go to the mustard mill?”
Silence.
“How ‘bout one of their Christmas markets?”
Cheriour quietly adjusted the leather around my torso.
“Are we gonna pretend I didn’t see—”
“Focus,Addie. I’ll only show you how to do this once.” Cheriour popped my poleaxe into the holster, demonstrating how to secure it.
The harnessing rig was cool. There were two straps: one slung across my chest diagonally, the other clipped around my waist. The axe part sat at my hip with all the pointy ends safely concealed in leather. Thankfuck.
Unfortunately, the other end, which rested against my left shoulder, wasnotcovered. I saw the tip out of the corner of my eye.
“Stop worrying about it,” Cheriour said.
“I didn’t even say anything. I don't think. Did I?”
“You didn’t have to. The end is not as sharp as it looks, and it's angled away from your face. Now—focus—when you withdraw the poleaxe, you’ll need to release this clip first.” He tapped on the leather pouch covering the axe head. “Understood?”
“Yes, but—”
“I doubt you’ll be foolish enough to slice your hand on the blades,” he added, correctly interpreting what I’d been about to say.
I wasn't so sure. And Ihatedhow tight this thing was. Like a damn corset.
I tugged at the straps. “It’s kinda uncomfortable.”
“It’s fitted correctly. The leather will soften as it wears in.”
I pulled the straps a little harder.Stretch, motherfuckers!“Sooo, you’ve got a seriously creative mind. A regular genius. Between this,” I let the straps go, shimming my shoulders a bit to work the stiffness out of the leather. “And yourspot-ondepiction of a German city in the 21stcentury.” I waved the paper under his nose, grinning when he snatched it out of my hands. “You drew that picture, don’t try to deny it.”
He sighed as he put the drawing back under the rock.
“I mean, it’sstunning. But youaregonna have to tell me how you knew about Monschau—”
“Sacrifice will be saddled with the rest of your supplies.” Cheriour interrupted. He moved around the room, plucking knives from the floor, under the bed, behind the desk (it seemed he left things wherever they fell) and strapping them to the holster he wore on his chest.
“Supplies? How long—”
