by Daniel Casey
Reg’s eyes narrowed watching Roth, and his tone became more serious, “The Cathedral isn’t stupid. At some point they’ll send detachments along most trade routes.”
Roth betrayed no anxiety but had forgotten about the Cathedral. “You know these hills and shores,” Reg nodded and Roth continued, “So you’ll be able to easily dodge any lakemen or Silvincians if they even come sniffing around.”
“I seem to recall you saying ‘tweren’t any kind of lakemen that set on you.”
“Yeah, well,” Roth bent down and started picking up the potatoes that had fallen out of the cart with him, “We know exactly where those men are.”
“True.” Reg watched as a few others in the caravan passed, “We’re maybe a day and a half, two days out from Rikonen’s barrier hills. And maybe a half day from the heart of the highlands proper in the opposite direction.”
“Rikonen.” Roth said assertively. As he dumped an armful of vegetables into the cart bed he asked, “We need to head into the highlands first, I’ve a camp we need to prep for our return.”
“Oh, yeah? Seems an unnecessary detour.” Reg shook his apple at Roth.
“It’ll be one night and I’ll need what’s there or else the trip to Rikonen will be pointless.”
Reg shrugged, “I’m not quite seeing the necessity of any of this, but I made a deal with you.”
“Think we can halve the time to Rikonen from there?”
“Would have to unload this veg.” He pointed to some potatoes that Roth had missed, “But Lo and Kia could definitely make that happen.” He walked over to the horses and began to unlatch them from the cart.
Roth surveyed the caravan. There were tinkers with all their worldly goods piled high on their backs, families walking together obviously some kind of migrant workers, a few free rangers on tall horses lazily trotting along, and low merchants pulling and driving carts like their own. Looking down the line, he saw it—a family of maybe seven or eight with only two on horseback.
Walking over to the stout dark-skinned men, he hailed them, “Friends, have a moment?” One of the mounted men with high wiry blonde hair set into thick dreadlocks pulled off to the side of the road and over to him.
“Aye, what have you?”
Roth made an open palmed, sweeping gesture toward the cart. “My companion and I need to change our course but we can’t take our cart and its meager contents with us.”
The halfling shook his head and the tin beading on dreadlocks made a pleasant tinging sound, “We haven’t the coin for that.”
“No, no, you misunderstand me,” Roth put out his hands in a sort of pleading gesture, “We don’t want to abandon it, we want to make sure someone gets some use out of it.”
The halfling was skeptical, “Why not just leave it, let whoever steps to it have it?”
“I’m from the highlands, we were taught to give what we can’t use to those who can.”
“You think I need your sad cart?” the halfling scoffed.
“I think you have two ponies and fourteen…no eighteen feet. Your progress to Havan will be slower than the rest of the caravan. Any trade you might hope for will be done by the time you arrive.”
The halfling scowled and furrowed his brow, “We’ve always done alright in the past.”
Just then, a woman halfling came up to them. Older and heavier set, she was hearty but weary looking. Sweat glistened on the dark skin of her face and arms, “Jaxar, what are you haggling about?” she demanded.
The halfling on the pony rolled his eyes, “Nothing Saxa.”
Roth saw his opening, “I was trying to give the young man here my wagon.” Roth pointed to the cart, “So that you all could ride instead of walk to Havan.”
Saxa nodded, “We don’t have the coin for that.”
Jaxar smiled, “I told him that.”
“I’m not looking to sell, I’m looking to give.”
Saxa slapped Jaxar’s leg with the back of her hand with what sounded like enough force to leave a bruise, “Then take the damn thing. You’re not the one walking, boy,” she said, exasperated, then turned around before Jaxar could reply, “Nez, get Ladaix and the others, we’ve found a wagon.”
“The veg is included as well.” Roth said smiling but Jaxar just looked at him displeased. Reg came up with their own horses and gave Roth the reins to Lo.
“Making friends?” He asked.
“After a fashion.” Roth mounted the horse and paused for a moment seeing stars.
Reg reached out and steadied him, “You doing alright?”
“Well enough.” Roth nodded, slapping his cheeks and shaking his head.
“Well enough?”
“I suspect so.”
“That’s hardly something to boast of.” Reg laughed as they turned their mounts away from the caravan and more directly west.
“Just a statement.”
“At least, we won’t be wandering blind.”
“Well, no, not blind.” Roth’s spurred Lo on and she took off at a steady canter.
Elvos, Mabon Day
Cochrane’s skin blushed beneath a clear and wide sky, all radiance, and his black eyes squinted. The foliage around him smoldered, the ground beneath his cracked leather boots blackened. Suddenly from seemingly out of nowhere, a small rabbit came hopping along. The impish looking creature paused, its nose twitched as though reacting to the stench of sulfur that filled the air, and then it scurried on. Cochrane looked around, all else was still, then slowly the sounds of the wild began again. He let out a deep sigh and collapsed to his knees.
A few feet in front of him were the corpses of two heavily armored men, further in the distance lay a smoking corpse of another, and to either side of Cochrane were the lifeless bodies of his men. Rajakhan’s body was riddled with arrows and Zir’s twisted horribly with deep gashes in his chest, an arm severed, and the flesh on half of his face burnt away to the skull. Near the other bodies, cracked dog-sized scorpion-like carapaces oozed a thick grey mucousy substance. Lodged in the neck of one of the armored bodies was a stiff stinger and the other had several of the creatures’ pincers clamped down in its arms and legs. The scene looked like a chaotic melee where everyone was the loser.
Cochrane heaved as light made its way through the canopy pouring over him. He felt ill. Still shaken, he vomited then raised his head, shook it violently, and looked over to where the rabbit had disappeared. He could feel his blood burning, his eyes and mouth were dry, and his burnt tunic waiting for the slightest reason to fall off him. Only his cloak was pristine with an eerie bright sheen; it had allowed him to survive. Leaning back, he stared up at the canopy realizing he was still holding the last splinter of his staff in his hand. The fingers of his gloves had been seared away, and he tightened his grip around the shard of wood in his hand. He stuck the bit into the ground and used it as leverage to stand.
“Light be damned,” Cochrane sneered and spat on the corpses. “I needs be more careful, there could be more of these wretched missionaries about.”
As he stood and began to shuffle along he felt all his wounds all at once. His arms and sides sent a sharp shooting pain through his bones and the joints of his knees seemed to be grinding. Cochrane grit his teeth hissing through them, “I detest this forest.”
It took him nearly two hours to reach the entrance to Elvos. Guards stood obviously bored, the humidity clung to them making their sun-bronzed skin look vaguely reptilian. From the canopy came the maddening buzz of insects and the invisible pop and crack of animals moving about deep in the bush. Leading up to this entrance to the merchant town was a poor dust road used by travelers coming from the south. The day’s unwavering light, the thick air, and relentless hum lulled the guards into a stupor.
“Where is the wharf?” He said just underneath the arch of the gateway.
The guards snapped back to reality suddenly realizing that a tall, bedraggled man stood before them, “Wha…”
“The boats.” Cochrane said.
&n
bsp; “Not looking too good.” The guard on his right said in a thick Adrenine accent.
“Really.” He humored him.
“The woodland take a bite out of ya?” The other guard asked.
“No, not at all. Simply fell off my horse.” Cochrane gave a toothy, mocking smile.
“Bad luck that.” The guard said without a hint of irony.
“I guess you could say so.”
“You need to be careful; this ain’t the place for amateurs.” The first guard warned him in a kind of paternal manner.
Cochrane looked straight ahead and shuffled pass the two into the town, “Is it not?”
Elvos was a ramshackle port, a trader town, where all races converged. Usually the good spirited found a reason to leave soon enough while those with a more devilish temperament hung around. The town reeked of sea fish and wet wood, Cochrane marveled at the how anyone could manage to turn a profit in such an ill-kept market. The eaves over the stalls and booths were tattered, the road was but a muddied path, and the vendors were sad looking malcontents. But, he remembered, trade makes its own rules.
Making his way to the nearest Cathedral pagoda, he knew his first priority had to be sending a message off to his employers. He debated whether to mention the loss of the hired blades and the encounter with the missionaries. In the end, he decided against it. What angered Cochrane was that his judgment of the mercenaries had been mistaken. Already the stupid men were dead. Granted, the missionaries had been fierce in their challenge and stumbling upon what had to have been a hive of some kind was certainly bad luck. But, it was he who had taken and dealt the most damage. The damn fools fought like children, flailing about and running off in all directions. He had lit the phosphor grenade less out of a sense of panic and more out of frustration. Thinking about it now, he felt the burn of shame at the stupidity of the move. He made it a point to do better.
Leaving the pagoda, Cochrane passed a city-guard who eyed him up and down and made a disapproving, if not snide, face. Cochrane’s brow furrowed and he remembered that he was still wearing rags. Moving down the marketplace, he found the vendors he needed and then with his arms full he entered a cobbler’s place. When he emerged a few moments, he wore a new black leather gambeson, leather trousers, and new knee boots. As he made his way out of the marketplace, he entered the city proper; he could feel the muck beneath his feet firm up and turn to proper cobbled stone. He needed to find a proper inn, a real bed, where he could wait for Towsend.
The sea breeze was not strong but it was constant. The scent of salt and water rot curled into Towsend’s nostrils. Elvos was a shantytown where the dregs from the north came to die, but it was one of the few entry points into the Ragan Mountains, beyond which The Aral sprawled. The northern nations had nothing left for him; this was going to be his last task for them.
“The seduction of the new.” He whispered standing on the wharf.
“That’s a lovely turn of phrase.” Towsend turned swiftly recognizing Cochrane’s voice; he was hunched over a stack of crates. “You know, you’re making a bit of a habit of this.” Cochrane didn’t look up from his work, “How is it that you always have a head start, but I always arrive first?”
Towsend cocked his head to one side, “I take my time.”
Cochrane put down his work and laughed, “Yes, yes, quite.”
“What are you doing?” He peered at the assortment that lay on the crate—a mortar and pestle, pouches of powders whose scents were overpowering, and a few tin cups.
“Enchantments.” Cochrane turned to face Towsend, “Now hold still.” He threw a handful of powder at Towsend’s chest who flinched as he felt a pellet burst. A brief cloud of bright orange rose, then dissipated, leaving a huge stain on him.
“There, now you’re a bit better of a person than you were.” Towsend scowled but before he could say anything, Cochrane hit him with another pellet. Towsend got a hand up just in time to block the pellet from hitting him square in the face, but the blue powder burst still covered him leaving a clean outline on his face where his hand had been raised.
Cochrane smile and then tossed a pouch to him, “Now why don’t you return the favor.”
Towsend caught the pouch gingerly, scowling he looked into the pouch and saw a number of different colored pellets, “What is this all about?”
“There’s a festival in town, anyone without these powder marks will stand out. Standing out will bring questions. Questions raise suspicions. Suspicions tighten tongues and open throats.”
“Ah. Alright then.” Towsend flicked a pellet right at Cochrane’s forehead creating a puff of yellow powder that enveloped his face. With his entire face doused in a mustard color, Cochrane gave an insincere smile.
“Wonderful. A few more and we’re set.” He pelted Towsend with several more. For a moment, the two were like children. When all was said and done, they looked like vibrant walking bruises.
Towsend smiled, looked around, “The others?”
Cochrane let out an exasperated sigh, “Dead.”
“Unfortunate.” Towsend ground his teeth, his levity gone.
Sweeping up his things and turning toward the town, Cochrane shrugged, “Nothing to be done about it, we move on.”
Towsend watched him go a few yards then followed, “We’ll need more.”
“I know.”
“We won’t be able to do it alone.”
“I know.”
“At least, one more.”
“It is what it is. I have already taken care of it.” Towsend stopped but Cochrane kept walking; a beat later realizing Towsend was glaring at him from behind. He turned to face his friend.
“Whom?” Towsend demanded.
Cochrane sighed, “Someone.”
“Whom?”
He looked down; he had been hoping to put this off, “A thief.”
“A thief?”
“Well, more of a corsair, very skilled, a good deal of experience with this kind of thing.”
“Whom.”
“His name is Riv.”
“Where is he from?”
“I don’t see how that matters.”
“It does.”
“Alright, before you react though I want you to realize that I wouldn’t make a poor choice.”
“Where is he from?”
“Sulecin. But he hasn’t…”
“You’re aligning us with The Cathedral?”
“Yes, yes and no. Riv is his own man and gives his allegiance to the man with the most coin.”
Towsend scoffed, “So we can trust him.”
Cochrane was solemn, “Yes we can. He’s not with The Cathedral. I’ll tell you more in the room.”
The streets were full of festivalgoers whose saris and sarongs were painted as bizarre rainbows. As they made their way through, they were hit with hundreds of color pellets and heard small crackling explosions all over. When they stepped into the inn, it was impossible to distinguish them from the rest of the citizens. The room Cochrane had let was nothing special, small and dark.
Towsend threw himself down on the bed immediately, “That was madness.”
“Hey, come on now, you’re getting that stuff all over.”
“Is it even possible to avoid it?”
Cochrane moved over to table that held a basin and pitcher. He pour the water and splashed some on his face, with his eyes closed he reached out and grabbed a nearby rag. He wiped his face and neck down, turned, and threw the rag at Towsend.
“What we need to do is get clean and head on over those mountains.” Cochrane began to change.
“Tell me more about this corsair.” Towsend wiped his face and hands.
“Riv Bloodtangle.”
“I don’t know that name. Doesn’t sound Cassubian.”
“You wouldn’t. It’s not.”
“So?”
“He’ll bring his ship to meet us in Wick.”
“Wick is our departure point.”
Cochrane nodded.
“So it’s just you and I headed to Lappala then.” Towsend rolled on his side and glared at Cochrane.
He stood shirtless holding out his hands, “What would you have me do?”
“Hire some blades.”
“We’re too far from worthwhile mercs.”
“I don’t like the idea of just the two of us trying to complete this.”
“Try harder to.” Cochrane said putting an end to the debate.
“Damn it.” Towsend flopped back down on the bed.
“So,” Cochrane pulled a thin grey tunic over his head, wiped down his trousers with a different rag, and began to change his boots, “we need to move quickly.” He gestured for Towsend to change.
“If we go back out there we’re just going to be covered in this shit again.”
Cochrane shook his head, “Festival is only on the main avenue, we’re leaving out the back.”
“Whatever,” Towsend sat up and wiping himself down, “Bloodtangle is showing up in Wick. He’ll just be waiting for us?”
“He’ll have a proper ship to take us back.”
“And he can be trusted?”
“I know him.” Cochrane said assertively.
“Alright,” Towsend stood, went over to the basin, and began to wash himself, “I just think this a bad idea.”
“When don’t you think that?” Cochrane chuckled.
Towsend shrugged, “Fair enough.” His face was washed of color. He pinned his hair back and slipped his shirt off. Grabbing the rag Cochrane had used he rinsed it a bit and began to wipe down his shoulders, neck, and temples.
“Look, either we convince the Lappalans and make it back with good news or we don’t. Either way…there’s a reason we were chosen for this.” Cochrane was solemn. He opened the door and mumbled about heading to the privy.
Towsend nodded his face hanging above the gray water of the basin. He whispered to himself, “Either way.”
