Chapter 14: Some Real Teeth—Both Literally and Figuratively

James thanked the trader, and he and Subotai found the nearest tavern, planning to get drunk until they couldn’t see. They rented a room for the night and stored their goods under the bed. Then it was time to get drunk.

They drank until their world spun, until language blurred into laughter and the night vanished into a haze of spilled ale and bad singing. When morning finally clawed its way into their skulls, they woke in a ditch at the edge of town, faces gritty with dirt and the sharp stink of last night’s regrets. James could only laugh, thumping Subotai on the back, both of them groaning. There was nothing like a good run to cure a hangover.

They found their way back to the tavern and checked the room to make sure they hadn’t been robbed. After a quick breakfast of last night’s stew, stale bread and watery beer, they packed up their things—salted meat, fresh bread from the tavern, a flask of cheap spirits for the road, more herbs, and dried fruit. Once they were ready, they set out again, moving at a relentless pace, pushing themselves hard and letting sweat drive the last of the drink from their bodies.

The next month blurred into a single long run. Day after day, they moved north, sometimes deep into the night when the path was clear. Forests pressed in around them, fields of tall grass whispered in the wind, mountains rose blue and cold in the distance. Sometimes, they found empty roads. Sometimes, they lost the path and cut through thickets and mud, boots soaked and legs scratched raw by brambles. Towns were rare, and when they appeared, they were as dirty and smelly as the first—noisy, foul with sweat and piss, full of faces that watched strangers with suspicion and greed.

Whenever they reached a town, they sold the pile of furs they’d collected on the journey, splitting the money evenly. One of the traders told them that if they treated the furs correctly, they would get more. James asked what he would have to do.

“You do a good job of scraping the skins, but you need to stretch them out on a wooden frame until they dry. It makes them easier to work with. If you don’t, we have to, and that takes extra time. I’d prefer to have you do it, which is why I’d pay more.”

“There are only two of us and we are on the move, so we can’t take the time to stretch the furs and then carry the frames with us. But I thank you for your advice.” James replied.

For the first time in weeks, they indulged. James hired a woman—dark hair, sharp tongue, bright eyes. Subotai found his own distraction in a bottle.

That night, James lay between her legs in the cramped, candle-lit room, savoring the slick heat of her pussy. This was his first woman in the new world outside of the Slavers’ camp. There, it always felt like rape. Here, it is a simple transaction. Satisfied, James collapsed against her thighs, dozing in the afterglow, letting the world fade away for a while.

There were definitely more towns now, more scattered pockets of civilization, the farther north they traveled. Each one was different—some bustling crossroads full of noise and trade, others little more than a handful of houses clustered around a muddy well. But the rhythm stayed the same: run hard, sell what they could, stock up on supplies, and move on. The market stalls grew more familiar, their bags heavier with each passing week. James found himself growing almost comfortable with the routine of haggling for dried meat, bargaining for salt and spices, sometimes even picking up a sweet treat or a new piece of gear when the coin was right. As their goods increased, James considered a wheelbarrow or small cart to help carry the items. But he could not find anyone who knew what a wheelbarrow was, and the carts were too bulky. So they traded for better backpacks.

What surprised James most was Subotai. He had half expected the man to wander off the first time they hit a decent-sized town, to get bored and disappear into the crowd like so many travelers did. But Subotai stuck to him like a shadow—or, more accurately, like a particularly cheerful puppy. James didn’t know if it was the thrill of freedom, the rare comfort of real friendship, or just the simple fact that neither of them liked being alone after so many years of hardship and betrayal. Maybe Subotai had been left for dead too many times, or maybe he’d never really had someone to rely on before. James didn’t ask, and Subotai didn’t volunteer his story. What mattered was that, day after day, he was still there.

James grew to rely on it. Subotai’s laugh, sudden and infectious, came at the worst possible moments—stumbling into a muddy ditch, burning a meal, getting nearly trampled by a spooked donkey in the market. His friend had an endless supply of bad jokes and warnings about what not to eat, pointing at mystery meats and dubious pastries.

“Careful, you don’t know how long that’s been out,” Subotai would say, eyes twinkling with mischief.

James would just shrug and eat it anyway, never one to waste food. “You only live once,” he’d reply, grinning, shoving another bite into his mouth. Not exactly accurate in his case.

Subotai would just shake his head, chuckling. “I’ll remind you of that tomorrow when you’re shitting out your bottoms.”

Sometimes, James thought about how much of that was true. He was technically on his second life now, not that Subotai needed to know about that particular twist. The time in the Salvers’ camp taught him the value of keeping secrets.

There was something comforting about the rhythm they’d built, the cycle of running, eating, laughing, and always heading north. With every new town, every shared meal and half-drunk night, the sharp edge of survival dulled a little. The world seemed wider, safer, even if only for a moment. And for the first time since being captured, James could see something like a future stretching out ahead—one built not just on endurance, but on the unexpected, stubborn warmth of friendship.

The two of them sat on the edge of the forest, the world around them painted with the silvery blue of starlight. Their fire crackled, throwing sparks up toward the night sky, a tiny oasis of warmth and comfort in a world that could turn savage without warning. Crickets sang in the grass. An owl called somewhere deep among the trees. The night was almost peaceful—almost.