Using a compact, bushy trees for cover, Opites leaned his shoulder against the saloon with an ear to the wall. He understood bits and pieces of the humans' conversations. The humans' speech patterns were simple, most said the same words, the same topics, day after day.
Unsteady footfalls approached his direction. He remained stationary while his keen vision followed the man's shadow toward the tiny building the humans referred to as the outhouse. The man fell against the building with a curse while he fumbled with opening the door.
Opites' gaze turned skyward. The moon disappeared behind thickening clouds. He backed away from the saloon before anyone noticed him and out of hearing range.
Kyknos and Blathyllos trotted quietly up to Opites, keeping to the shadows.
"Your brother's plan has not worked as he had expected in the valley. Akheron said the humans chased him. He barely made it out," Kyknos said.
Opites nodded, never taking his eyes off the saloon entrance.
"What do they say, Opites?" Blathyllos asked.
"They speak of their families. No mention of our kind. Although, one spoke of encountering one of us. His tale bored me and I lost interest, but by his description I believe he was speaking of Zeuxidamos." He raised his hand with a glance over his shoulder. "Ready?"
"It is safe?"
"They will not be prepared." Opites readied his bow.
Blathyllos kept watch outside while Opites and Kyknos entered the saloon. The swinging doors hit Kyknos in the rump. He leaped forward, startled.
Blathyllos chuckled.
Inside, the centaurs stepped over plain tables and simple chairs, crushing them beneath their weight. Kyknos shot arrows at anyone who looked to be an adversary, deliberating missing them by inches as a warning.
Opites reached behind the bar and seized a hand full of bottles, while Kyknos held his bow steady. The bartender raised his hands and backed away from the bar.
The the saloon's occupants held little interest to Opites. Most slumped over their tables, while one, he recognized from the cabin at the edge of the woods. The trapper stared at him in surprise and kept his hands under the table.
With Kyknos leading the way out, Opites kicked at a broken table in the way of their exit. With a backward glance, they exited the saloon. Opites was last to leave and didn't stop, even when he heard the powerful blast of the human's iron bow with arrows. At the same time, it was a sting much worse than a nest of angry hornets radiated from his upper arm, and he dared not look at the damage. Now was not the time.
Opites handed the alcohol bottles to Blathyllos, who placed them inside a bag he had slung over his shoulder. They galloped back toward their homeland without a word.
Once he determined they were far enough away and no one followed, Opites slowed to a walk. Kyknos eyed him with concern, but that was his usual expression as of late. Blathyllos' whites of his eyes revealed far more than concern.
"Go that way," Opites said, pointing toward the direction of the mountains. "It's better if we split up. I shall go through the plains."
"We should not leave you. You are wounded," Kyknos said with hesitation.
"I don't know, my brother," Blathyllos said. "You should not be left alone."
"It's just a surface graze," Opites said. "I've been hit worse by a neighboring tribesman's arrow, many seasons past. Remember? I am fine. Go now."
Opites waited until he no longer saw Kyknos and Blathyllos as they disappeared into the forest. He surveyed the environment and the path he would take. Endless wasteland and tall grass spanned beyond. In the distance, beyond the lingering mist, he knew the safety of their lands resided. Trepidation filled him. He shuddered from the thought of having to travel through the mist. Maybe he had made a mistake. Maybe he should have gone with the others. The fear of being captured outweighed any further thoughts on the matter.
With his bow and arrow ready, he trotted through the thick, scratchy, brown grass that had grown taller than usual. He raised his head higher to see above the tall grasses' seed heads. A sweat broke out on his lower horse body. His heart beat faster as the two pairs of lungs in his upper and lower bodies quickened with shallow breathing. The morning sun peeked over the horizon, casting an eerie hue over the land as fog rose from the cooler earth, blending in with the mist that seemed to always reside in that area.
The sulfuric aroma of rotten plant life and water permeated his senses. He couldn't fathom how he ended up where he had. His hooves sank deeper into the mucky black dirt. Oddly, the height of the grasses hadn't changed. He cantered through the grasses toward the edge of the grassland where the pastureland looked more promising.
Opites glanced at his arm. The bleeding had stopped. One good thing. He inhaled a deep breath, filling both sets of lungs with the damp air.
Kyknos always worries for nothing.
An ache followed his spine, originating from the wound on his arm. He closed his eyes, hoping when they opened he might have relief from the spreading pain in his temple, but Opites opened his eyes to find his vision had blurred. Panic surged through his body. His skin broke out in a foamy sweat with the heat of his rapidly beating heart, despite the cool temperature. He eyed his empty hands and panic rose to the forefront of his thoughts. His bow was missing. He thoughts raced with trepidation.
Where had I lost my bow? Where are my arrows? I must have lost more blood than I thought. Why can't I think? I don't know where I am.
He forced himself onward. The pitch of the land changed as did the scents of the plant life and earth. Water oozed out of the ground with each step he took. The mud took on a life of its own. Black, slimy hands reached up from the ooze and seized a hold of his legs up to the cannon bones. Mud clung to his fetlocks, weighing him down. The wet earth surrounded his pasterns, sucking him down into the earth. He raised his front feet with intentions of stepping out of the mud.
He fought the impossible muck until fatigue overwhelmed him. His eyes closed as he rested a moment, until a slow, descending sensation pulled on his legs again. Freezing mud reached the bottom of his horse belly. He managed to kick himself free, but it didn't last. The muck pulled him back in to sink a litter deeper than the last, each time he stopped to rest.
At that moment, Opites understood his mistake, his error in direction. He had entered into the area of the grasslands known by his kind as the Forbidden Mire, a place that should not exist in the middle of the prairie land.
