Dais had left most of his meager belongings stashed while he took down the buck. He’d been forced to abandon his gear in his haste to get away from whoever had been searching for him. All he carried now were his weapons, his empty canteen and a sodden pouch with rations that hadn’t held up well after his trek down the river. “Will nothing go my way?” he muttered. The question had no sooner left his mouth than he heard it. Voices. Far off, moving closer. A smile curved his lips. Perhaps fate was finally going to shine on him. About bloody time. And then again, perhaps fate was more in the mood to taunt him. Hours later, Dais stood on weary feet before a Warlord as he repeated his story for the third time. His clothes were stiff with river water and his belly was a tight, cold knot. His throat was parched. He needed food. He needed water. He needed a damn bath. But the men before him weren’t in a congenial mood—basic courtesies were either beyond them or they simply didn’t care to extend them.
