The trickle of water arouses my sight as if the gods were forming the world before me, a blurry reality becoming focused and sharp.


    And expecting to see the walls of the hollow, I''m confused at the scene before me.


    It''s not a pit in the earth but a river. The Darmor River. It''s the same spot I rested before, where Seamil and I fished when we were young.


    I mumble a curse at my bewilderment.


    How in the heavens did I get here? I do not remember.


    Realizing I''m sitting against a rock, my eyes drop down to a patch of blood on my coat near my abdomen.


    Have I been wounded?


    In panic, I scramble to uncover my undershirt but I see no more blood. Yet, I press my stomach, waiting to feel the pain of a puncture but it doesn''t come. Then with my fingers, I rub the stain. It''s dry.


    As my confusion grows, an offensive smell wafts past, following the calm wind drifting down the waterway. I turn my head – it aches – and see the charred remains of a small creature, a flying squirrel perhaps, skewered on a spit over the embers of a fire. It is blackened as if it was covered in tar.


    I look down at the blood stain again and back at the fire.


    Did I kill the rodent?


    I don''t remember. I don''t remember anything. The last moments I can recall is leaving the siege line and riding the king''s steed towards the hollow.


    And where is the king''s steed? She''s disappeared from me again.


    I clamber up, pain immediately shooting through my leg. As I wince, I knock something with a clank.


    Glaring down at my feet, I see the bottle, the firewater Seamil gave me. It''s uncorked and empty.


    Surely I didn''t drink all of it. Or maybe I did.


    Could it have made me think I stopped at the hollow when in fact I stopped here?


    Shit. Seamil was right about the potency.


    A flash of chestnut flickers in the corner of my eye and I lash my neck around, making it wrench in agony.


    If an enemy or a vicious beast was stalking me, I''d surely be done for, but it''s only the king''s steed trotting out from a large bush.


    Though my neck is not pleased with her appearance, I''m happy to see her, to see she hasn''t met her fate from the dangers in the forest.


    The mare clatters over the rocks and softly plants her muzzle into my cheek.


    It''s a pleasant feeling and I can tell she wants to go home. So do I.


    ''Let''s go, Bess,'' I say.


    And as I mount, I''m overcome with guilt. Guilt of failing at what I was sent to do.


    What will the king have to say? What will Seamil have to say?


    But why should I feel this way? King Jabora was never going to end this war in peace.


    I surrender to these thoughts, eager to pick up my sheriff duties once again. I wonder how my men are getting along.


    The slog through the First Forest is slow as it was the previous time but I eventually make it out and onto the wilding road.


    Clouds soon fill the clear sky and rain is quick to follow.


    The rest of the journey back to the city is a somber one, yet I make swift work, the farmers'' fields skipping by like flat stones on a pond.


    I must say, I''m glad when the southern wall appears to emerge from the ground, the gate not a beast anymore but a budding warm embrace.


    I''m even more delighted that it''s still light outside despite the weather. I''m in no mood to be mistaken for an enemy and die by a weapon of my people.


    As I get closer, the faint shouts of my name drift towards me from the top of the wall. Not long after, the gate opens its arms and a man walks out. Seamil has come to welcome me back.


    Yes, a good friend.


    With muted joy, I gallop to him and he graces me with a smile. I return the gesture.


    ''Pannor, what a relief,'' Seamil bursts out, grabbing the steed''s harness. ''The heavens answered my prayers.'' The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    ''You prayed to the heavens,'' I reply, crossing my brows. ''Now I''ve heard everything.''


    ''To be truthful, I always do when it comes to you.''


    ''I will take that not as an insult.''


    I climb off the steed and we shake hands, a soldier''s handshake once again.


    ''What happened there?'' Seamil asks, glancing down at my clothes and the spot of blood shimmering with rain. ''Did something happen? Were you attacked? Was it the enemy?''


    ''A flying squirrel took my fancy,'' I reply before lying, ''It went down well. There''s nothing like fresh meat.''


    Seamil looks relieved. ''Did you bring me any?''


    ''You have access to enough food.''


    He frowns. ''You know, this joke will eventually get stale.''


    ''As stale as stolen–'' I start.


    ''Enough,'' Seamil bursts out a chuckle. ''Come, let''s get out of the rain.''


    ''Indeed.''


    Seamil leads me and the king''s steed through the gate and to the side door in the wall from where he had appeared to see me off.


    ''After you,'' he then says.


    I enter, shuffling through to a room cramped with large wooden gears encompassing almost every inch apart from a small space in the middle where a table and two chairs sit.


    After tying up the horse to a brazier outside, Seamil follows me in.


    ''When did the gear room get these?'' I ask, nodding to the furniture.


    ''I brought them down for you,'' Seamil answers. ''I thought you may want to rest on your return and I didn''t think you''d want to walk all the way up to my office.''


    ''That was kind.''


    ''It''s a shame all the taverns are closed in the city. I would have taken you there. It would have been like the old days. Coming back from war and having a good long drink. Getting pissed until the early hours the next day.''


    ''I miss those days. Speaking of which, I saw the old inn. It''s still standing.''


    Seamil shakes his head as he takes a seat. ''The stunts we used to get up to in there, hey?''


    I sit down too and reply, ''The dagger throwing tourneys will be etched into my brain for eternity.''


    ''I still can''t believe nobody was killed.''


    Suddenly, the wooden gears in the room begin to spin, making my ears throb. And it awakens an ache in my head too.


    I wince.


    ''Are you well?'' Seamil asks.


    ''Just a bit tired.''


    When the wooden gears stop turning, the gate thudding to a close outside, Seamil asks eagerly yet calmly, ''So, Pannor, what''s the news from our enemy? From the siege line?''


    I hate to give him the bad news.


    ''Sorry, old friend. My attempt at peace has failed. I''m sure King Jabora was never going to even contemplate the thought. I was there for amusement only.''


    As if I''ve just punched him in the gut, Seamil briefly looks away before replying, ''Pannor, you have no need to apologize to anyone, let alone me.''


    Silence passes between us until I say, ''Though our future looks certain, at least my travels have made me certain of something. That Sir Blouf has embraced the bosom of the enemy.''


    Seamil regains some vigour. ''We should go to him at this very moment and do to him what should have been done to him a long time ago.''


    ''That will not help matters, Seamil.''


    ''But nothing matters anymore.''


    ''To preserve our way of life for as long as we can matters.''


    Seamil furrows his face.


    ''What?'' I say.


    ''Enough with the freethinking talk,'' Seamil replies. ''Let''s drink our worries away.''


    I snort. ''Yes, let''s. But maybe I should see the king first before we commence our partaking.''


    ''That imbecile can wait.'' Seamil pulls from under him a dark glass bottle and plonks it on the table.


    ''More of that firewater you gave me?''


    ''A little less potent,'' he replies, grabbing some glasses, too. ''Did you have some?''


    I nod as Seamil begins to pour.


    ''Quite something, hey?''


    ''Indeed,'' I reply.


    Seamil then hands me a glass and whips up his own. ''To what''s to come. Whatever that is.''


    With haste, I down my drink.


    **************************************


    I don''t know how many rounds Seamil and I have in the gear room. All I know is that it''s pitch black before I come to, finding myself riding back home on the king''s steed.


    And I''m drunk. Wasted.


    Less potent, Seamil said. I''m not sure about that. Or maybe I just can''t take my firewater anymore.


    As I dawdle down a lane, weaving through rubble the vigils have not yet cleared away, an old army shanty springs from my lips.


    I raise my voice with every chorus about the Jolly Giant Slayer, not caring of the chance the Night Cleaver will hear.


    Did he know I was away? Does he know I''ve returned? Could he be following me now?


    My singing erupts thunderously, echoing against the buildings still erect.


    If the Night Cleaver, or whoever wants me dead, is around, I dare him to pounce. I want him to pounce. I''ll run this mare right through them.


    But he doesn''t show and I soon tire of warbling to this doomed city.


    Another chorus, however, picks up the mantle, a chorus of neighs that the king''s steed joins with strength.


    Entering my street, I see the source. Another welcoming party awaits. And a much bigger one.


    Surrounded by a dozen torch-wielding guards on horseback, the king''s golden carriage sits by the front door of my home.


    Shit.


    I can see a shadow inside the closed coach, the silhouette of a crown perched on its head.


    Shit.


    I wonder how long His Majesty has been waiting. Not too long I hope.


    I curse again, knowing I should have gone straight to the palace the instant I returned instead of getting drunk with Seamil.


    My old friend has always been a bad influence on me.


    And once again, guilt riddles my body.


    Does His Majesty know I''ve failed? I''m sure he wouldn''t be here otherwise. Well, I''m about to find out.


    I slap my face as I near but it doesn''t do much to sober me up.


    With a string of boisterous neighs, my ride gives my approach away and a guard is quick to trot to the window of the carriage. He mouths a few words and the carriage door opens as swift as an airborne arrow.


    The king appears from within and climbs down, his regal cloak making him look as hefty as King Jabora. And his gaze latches onto me like flies on shit.


    Once over, I bow deeply, catching myself from falling from the steed. ''Your Majesty,'' I slur.


    The king looks me up and down, a scowl on his painted face, before growling back, ''Sheriff. Inside. Now.''


    ''Yes, Your Majesty.''


    I fumble from the steed, a guard ready to take the reins, and I lead His Majesty inside my home, the first time he''s ever graced my abode.


    To the kitchen we go, the only room acceptable to receive him. But he doesn''t look impressed at the humble accommodations.


    After lighting a candle, and as the king takes a seat, I say, ''I would have come to the palace–''


    ''But you didn''t,'' he snaps.


    ''No, Your Majesty.'' I stumble to pull a seat out for myself.


    ''I haven''t given you permission to sit.''


    I bow. ''Forgive me, Your Majesty.''


    ''Forgive you for what? For failing at what I had asked of you?'' The king then shouts, ''Or for you being completely drunk in front of your liege?''


    I lower my head in respect and shame.


    ''You are a disgrace, Pannor Harg,'' the king continues. ''And I have no choice but to relieve you of your sheriff duties.''


    My heart falls into an abyss at the words. I want to argue but I don''t.


    ''Yes, Your Majesty,'' I say.


    The king stands, shakes his head and leaves.