Free Ward of the Philosopher by D. P. Prior Page B

down in the village. Why did he have to have some old philos… He could never say the word. All he knew was that a man no one had seen for years was to teach him, and that was an end to the matter.  
    It was finally Nub’s growl that made the choice for him, and Deacon was off through the thicket, briars snagging at his jerkin, branches whipping back in his face. He ducked beneath an overhang and stepped onto a faded trail. His heart lurched, and his breaths whistled in and out of his lungs.
    Sucking in a gasp of crisp autumn air, he hollered, “Nub! Here, boy!”
    The rustle of bracken told him the dog was in the thick of it, so Deacon broke himself off a dry branch and used it to beat a path after him. He felt like the explorers Jarl sometimes spoke about by the fire on those nights he was home, the ones who’d made their way to Sahul on the other side of Urddynoor. They’d gone to talk sense into the savages that lived there, the heretics who hated Nous. Not that Jarl was much for the faith of the Templum; he just put up with it for Gralia’s sake.
    Nub’s shabby butt poked above a grass clump. The tufted tail of a gray squirrel flashed past him and scurried up a tree. Nub waddled to the base of the trunk, barking like he did at dinnertime. His open jaws made him look such an ugly mutt, which Deacon supposed he was: squat and muscly, with a face that was all wrinkles and sags. Slobber sprayed from his mouth, and his hindquarters wagged furiously.  
    Nub stopped and sniffed the air. He looked at Deacon with his watery eyes, gave a hesitant yap, and then he was off again, back the way he’d come.
    Deacon followed him out onto the trail, and this time, Nub stuck to it, scampering ahead and stopping in fits and starts to check Deacon was still behind him. The dog turned a circle, chasing his own tail, then cocked his head, whining insistently. When Deacon tried to calm him, Nub snarled and darted through the trees. He kept on running, faster and faster, and it was all Deacon could do to keep up. For a moment, he thought he heard voices—kids laughing and yelling—but it was so far off, he could have imagined it.  
    Nub scampered across a clearing and straight up the bank of a grassy knoll. Deacon balked at the base. The place gave him the shivers. It was a tumulus, one of the burial mounds Jarl spooked him about on the Night of the Spirits. Rabbits had made their burrows in the sides, and chunks of flint riddled it like the fossilized scales of some long-dead dragon.  
    Nub went over the top and let out a peal of barks. Forgetting his fear, Deacon scrambled up and spread his arms wide, like he’d conquered the world’s tallest mountain. But then he swooned, and the eggs he’d had for breakfast came back up his throat. He dropped to his haunches and clutched the grass to steady himself.  
    Keeping low to the ground, he scrabbled down the other side on his butt, until he got halfway and felt brave enough to stand and run. His foot snagged in a burrow, and pain shot through his ankle. He flipped into the air, coming down hard on his shoulder and tumbling the rest of the way. He hit a slick patch of mud and went skidding into a tree trunk, bouncing off and ending up face down in the dirt.  
    Everything hurt, his pounding head most of all, but he was more worried about Nub.  
    The dog had stopped barking.
    Deacon could hear a faint whimper deeper into the copse. He rubbed his aching shoulder, spat out a mouthful of dirt, and stumbled after the sound, wincing each time he put any weight on his bad leg. His britches clung to him, caked in mud.
    He picked up another trail, this one barely visible. It didn’t look like anyone had come this way for a long time. His ankle loosened with each step, until the pain was little more than a dull throb.
    The track snaked through the trees till it reached a steep bank. He caught sight of Nub slipping and sliding to the bottom, but Deacon had to go more slowly, grabbing onto