Jer ruffled his tousled hair as the winter rain drenched it icy cold. He started to shiver, for all the good that did him. His soaked clothes stuck to his bony frame; his sheepskin coat sopping wet. His legs were beginning to stiffen. It feels like hours have passed since I’ve been standing here. It made no difference; he just had to wait. He began to walk, and stumbled upon a log. He felt it's jagged surface and sat on it. He felt it poking his thighs, but his mind raced, and he ignored the pain.

He promised. He damned promised. Jer could not bring himself to leave, no matter how much his body shook, or how his eyes were unable to make anything out in the clearing. Right here, I’m sure of that. He strained to see through the foliage of the trees, few as it was, but the rain and rising mist dulled his vision.

Yet he did not have to see the moon to know he’d come at the right time. They had agreed on it a fortnight before, and neither were like to forget. Much less I. All I gave him were three silver coins. Was that really enough?

The wind blew against the flapping leaves, filtering through the branches. They sang a tune most unpleasant to his ears. What he had on him would be all he would take with him: the coat, his travel-roughened pants, his old leather boots, and his knife. His sword would have raised suspicions, so he was forced to leave it behind.

He heard a noise, and drew the knife from his belt. He stumbled forward, and stood his ground to face whatever came, be it a guard, an army, or the damned cripple he had trusted.

But it was a squirrel, or so he thought by the sounds of the quick, little steps it took. He heard it climb up a tree and then it went quiet again, save for the continuing trickle of the rain. He’s huddled up in a hole. I wish I could do just the same, he thought as he sat back on the log. The few leaves that still stuck to the trees were dripping with rainwater, leaving a musky smell in the dank air. He remembered the night he had talked to the cripple.

A bird had been roasting in the fire, the skin cracking and peeling on its own as Jer approached the lopsided man. Torches were lined up in the tavern’s stone walls, tinting the place with a reddish glow.

“So, ‘tis you who wants to go with us, eh?” the cripple said with the thick accent of the Mourning Islands.

Jer looked around to see who had heard but it made no matter; he was placing his life in their hands. Drunken Islanders were gulping from their wineskins and a particularly short one was boiling his wine in the fire on the middle of the tavern. Jer looked back at the cripple.

“Yes.” He had to be careful to not speak too much. Luckily, he was not the questioning type. His hand fumbled in his pocket, emerging with three silver coins.

“Tha’ll do.” The cripple nodded in approval as he grabbed the coins from his hand, “Meet me in a fortnight,” he said. “We leave at midnight.”

Compared to the rest of the men, Grott, or the Half-Foot as they called him, was taller than most. Jer’s father had told him that he had lost his right foot from an infection, though some whispered it had been during the Ruggs’ Rages, and his father knew less of him than any other gossiping townsfolk did. Either way, the man still proudly wore boots on both of his feet, though his walk was lopsided.

“Now I eat,” said the Half-Foot. A cane was firm in his hand as he strode slowly towards the other Islanders who were already taking the bird from the fire. Grott turned his massive head, his coarse black hair covering his eyes and said, “At the clearing where I found you.”

You better not forget, cripple. The rain had succumbed to a drizzle, but the tree leaves held enough water to drip for the rest of the night. I cannot go back to the town now. My head would be on a pike faster than I could stutter my last words. It was dark, and he couldn’t make anything out. Not that he wanted to, either, but the warmth of a torch would be welcoming. Except the guards’ torches.

The bitter cold froze bit deep to his bones and he wished that if they caught him, they would have the pity to torch him. But I’m no witch. His lungs were burning, and he cupped his hands around his nose and breathed in deeply.

Outside of the clearing, he could hear movement. He twisted his head, and squinted his eyes, but it was near impossible to see anything. He only heard the ceaselessly moving leaves. Damned animals.

“Fancy meeting you here.” A breath rich with mead filled his nostrils. Jer’s throat stiffened. He clenched his knife, but a blow to his hand flew it across the clearing.

“Calm there. I’m the Half Foot, not whatever you’re fleeing.”

“I thought so.” Jer tried to sound calm, but his voice betrayed him. He could feel his throat muscles relaxing. His hand throbbed with pain, but he was glad for it all the same. He got on his knees and started to palm the ground, feeling for his knife.

“No, no. No weapons on the boat,” the Half-Foot said.

With that, the cripple took him by his shoulder with his strong hand and pulled him up. He felt Jer's back for a sword or a shield, but he had none. He continued, passing his rough hand on the sides of his legs and hips.

“I shall inspect you later under torch light,” he said, invisible in the murky clearing, “but for now, you’ll follow me.”