Page 53 of No Place in Time

Men stepped out from the trees on both sides of the road. Six of them, maybe seven, rough-clothed, armed with clubs and knives. One had a rusted sword.

“Stay where ye are,” the man with the sword said. He was grinning.

The pilgrims froze.

“We don’t want trouble,” the old man said, his voice steady. “We’re on pilgrimage to—”

“Don’t care.” The thief jerked his chin toward the donkey. “That’ll do. And whatever coin ye’re carryin’. All of ye.”

Finn’s hand went to his belt, where his own coin and the stolen tools pressed against his side. If they searched him, they’d take those too.

One thief moved toward a woman near the front of the group, reaching for the bundle she carried. She pulled back, clutching it to her chest.

“Let go, woman.”

“Please,” she said. “It’s all I have.”

The thief grabbed her arm and wrenched the bundle free. She cried out and fell.

Finn moved without thinking. He crossed the distance in three strides and drove his shoulder into the man’s side, sending him sprawling. The bundle hit the ground, and Finn snatched it up, tossing it back to the woman.

“Run,” he told her.

The thief with the sword was already coming. Finn ducked the first swing, felt the blade whistle over his head, and came up hard with his fist. It connected with the man’s jaw and sent him staggering back.

A sharp pain stabbed at his ribs. Cracked, maybe broken. He rolled, saw the club coming again, and threw up his arm. The impact jarred his bones. His vision blurred and his stomach churned.

Around him the pilgrims were scattering, shouting. Someone was fighting back, one of the younger men. The donkey brayed and kicked, scattering two of the thieves.

Finn struggled to his feet, but hands grabbed him from behind and slammed him face-first into the dirt. He tasted blood.

“Check him,” someone barked.

Rough hands patted him down. They found the tools.

“What’s this, then?”

Finn twisted, pain searing through his back and ribs as he tried to pull free, but the man holding him was stronger. The thief yanked the bundle free from Finn’s belt and tossed it to the one with the sword.

“Files and other tools,” the man said, unimpressed. “Probably worth somethin’ to a smith.” He pocketed them.

The thieves took what they wanted—coins, food, the donkey’s packs—and melted back into the trees.

Finn lay in the road, sharp pain in his ribs with every breath, his shoulders locked up and burning, and stared at the dirt.

The tools were gone. His last remaining coins were gone.

The old pilgrim helped him sit up. “Can ye walk?”

Finn nodded, though his head swam when he moved.

“Ye fought well,” the man said quietly. “Foolish, but well.”

Finn didn’t answer. The pain in his ribs was nothing compared to the hollow ache spreading through his chest.

He had failed.

Finn thanked the old man and split off before Canterbury’s gates. He turned east, toward Kent, toward the cave. His ribs screamed with every breath. The tools were gone.