Not So Epic- Chapter 5

Welcome Back to Tamalaria!

Andrei looked the group over as they stood assembled on the side of the wagon, the oxen grunting and dragging their hooves along the street. He saw the drowsiness hanging  around Dren, an aura of heavy sleep still mounted on him like a monkey examining a bunch of bananas on the branch he’s sitting on. Norto, dressed in his finest grubby travel tunics a man could retrieve from his hamper, hung over and still reeking of whatever rot-gut he had managed to pour down his throat in the wee hours of the morning, did not impress upon the minotaur freelancer any kinder feelings toward the man. Holly, however, was another story altogether.

            The cuyotai mage wore a simple but finely crafted leathern armor suit under a dark maroon travel cloak, her boots oiled but balanced with the telling crease lines that spoke of long use. If trouble makes its way into our path, it’s her who I’m going to want on my side, he thought. Like the young man as much as I do, he’ll be utterly useless in an actual combat situation. Another advantage Holly brought, so far as Andrei was concerned, was the fact that, according to her, she had no singular specialization in the schools of magic, no title like aquamancer, pyromancer, or other such terms. As a man whose view of magic was, to put it politely, ‘unkind’, this made him feel a great deal more comfortable with Holly than he would with most magic-users. The shamans of his own tribe in the north-central mountains proclaimed no titles for themselves, treating magic and all of its applications as things to be respected, revered, and used only for the good of the tribe. When mages and sorcerers began taking on specific lines of study, it tended, from what he’d observed, to lean toward efforts to obtain and wield obscene arcane powers. The wanton destruction such people could commit, while impressive, was also terrifying, and nothing that he wanted to be around most of the time.

            This young woman, however, came with none of those worries. He didn’t doubt her overall magical prowess, however; though he did not possess the ability to see a magic-wielder’s mana, the spirits that rode his soul could sense her power.  –There is greatness in this one-, one of the whispers rasped inside his mind. Andrei said nothing, thought nothing, in response to it, though he agreed with its assessment. He hitched a sigh and planted his rough hands on his hips, giving his three companions one more once-over.

            “All right, we’ve got a long trek ahead of us,” he said, starting what would be a brief speech before departure from the city. “We’re going to leave Desanadron along Coast-Cross Road, since it’s the widest east-to-west roadway in this godsforsaken city. Once we’re outside of the metro’s outer limits, we’ll make our way to the first major crossroads meeting and take the mountaineer trade road northeast. It’s well-patrolled, should keep us out of any kind of danger for a few days as we move along. However, three days along, we’re going to break off of the main road and angle north, toward the town of Melker. We’ll review our travel plan once we get there and put our feet up under an actual roof for a night before moving on.”

            The older smithy shook with a few rumbling chuckles, a snide grin on his face. “When did you have time to come up with an itinerary, Andrei? I thought you freelancers tended to waste all of your time and money on ale, women and second-rate equipment,” he said, snickering even more. Andrei gave him a deadpan stare, hands still on his hips.

            “Sure, I had plenty to drink,” the minotaur replied evenly. “But not so much that I couldn’t tend to preparations. As for women, I don’t indulge when I’m on the job, which I have been since you agreed to the monks’ request.  It isn’t that I don’t like women, but finding a female minotaur in this city who isn’t either a constable or a criminal is somewhat difficult, at least within the narrow timeframe I’ve had to work with. And as for second-rate equipment, old man,” he grumbled, crossing his arms and leaning his head slightly toward the portly blacksmith. “If I wanted some, I’d just have to ask you to warm up your forge,” he finished with a mischievous grin. Norto’s own mirth vanished quickly, and he ‘harumph’ed before looking away. “Dren, Miss Holly, you two will ride up in the driver’s seat of the wagon for now, Norto, in the back of the wagon. I’ll walk lead until we’re clear of the city, then come back to a lead-guard positioning. Are we clear?” There were nothing but nods from the other three, followed by the small human and his cuyotai friend hopping up onto the driver’s bench enthusiastically, the older human murmuring under his breath as he headed to the open back.

            A minute later, they were on their way, walking south toward Coast Cross Road. And so the journey begins, Andrei thought, checking his weapons one more time before jogging out ahead of the wagon.

**

            The narrow man pulled his second glove back on over his left hand, the mystical flames extinguishing as the enchanted leather came down tight against the flesh. Behind him smoldered a pile of corpses, six powerful jaft warriors who had stood no chance against his powers. Before the first of them had even had a chance to clear his warhammer from his back, Jago had thrown off his gloves and made the short, sharp movements which transported a portion of the flames from his hand and reawakened them inside of the blue-fleshed man’s skull. The warrior’s brains and skull had splattered his comrades mere seconds after they had come upon Jago.

            The brute warriors hadn’t even been intending any harm to the well-dressed outlander, truth be told, but that mattered not to him. This land was not his own, and anything that seemed like it might be a threat was to be dealt with in the harshest, swiftest manner. Sure, he wouldn’t make many friends that way, but the stranger wasn’t here to make friends; he was here to locate and mark the connection point the Master had identified from his lair, deep within the world from whence Jago came. He briefly looked over his shoulder at the slain men, and wondered, for a moment, if they might have more allies nearby. If so, perhaps it would be prudent to keep one hand available, pulling the left glove off once more and tucking it into his trouser pocket. The flames burst to life around his fingertips, slithering down to his palm, wrapping his wrist in foul power.

            Surveying the surrounding grasslands and the road upon which the jafts had been traveling, he believed he could identify which direction they came from. It appeared they had come from the southeast, and a brief adjustment of his power allowed Jago to look far off in that direction, though not so far as he might have back in his own world. They’ve industrialized enough here to cloud the air, he thought. Not as bad as some worlds, but still. He caught sight, despite this limitation, of what looked like the outskirts of a sizable town in that direction. While he needed to ultimately head northwest, he had arrived in this world with nothing more than his own powers, the clothes on his back, and an objective.  A few decades-dead bodies inside of the mountain fastness he had arrived in yielded him some coin and a travel bag, but nothing else. If he wanted to make his travels swifter, he might be best served making his way to that city and hope that the coin he had discovered would be enough to purchase a dependable horse.

            If it wasn’t, he’d find some other method of gaining a mount. Lord Quoth had not been specific about restrictions regarding what he could or could not do in this world in the course of his mission, but he presumed that maintaining a low profile would be best.  In that vein, he would only resort to murder and horse theft as a desperation move. He didn’t have a tight time table, so if it took him a few days, even a week, to make the money necessary, then so be it. Though, murder and theft would certainly be a good sight more entertaining.

            Before passing by the corpses he had freshly created, Jago swept the fields around him for any sign of more potential enemies. Finding nothing more than a few stray crabbits, which would steer well clear of him, he pulled on the second glove, slicked back his hair, and began pawing through their gear bags, plucking out some more coins of various values, some jewelry, and bags of dried and salted meats. The first jaft he’d slain had a camp kit in his bag, useful for the journey he’d be on. The last one, which turned out to be a female (whom, he noted, was the only one of the bunch with any kind of hair on the head, a point he would like to know more about), also had in her bags what appeared to be several decks of cards, all of them placed in colorful boxes. He didn’t recognize any of them, and none had the same number of cards. One of the decks came with a set of four six-sided dice as well, each side carved with a strange symbol. He assumed these markings were the blue people’s native tongue in written form.

            Best not to take these ones, he thought, leaving them in the dead woman’s bag. There might be questions about how I would have come across items so clearly not intended for a man of my apparent species. His scavenging finished, the stranger named Jago began walking toward the main road, then headed toward the town, hoping that with his coin count now raised, he might not have to worry so much about the purchase of a mount.

**

            That didn’t take long, Andrei thought as he walked along, hand on the handle of his battle axe. He had heard the familiar ‘crack-hiss’ of the top of one of his many bottles of beer in the wagon a few moments ago, mere minutes after having left the city of Desanadron proper, the road quickly transitioning from cobblestone to oiled hard packed dirt. He could spot the first roadway guard station about a quarter of a mile down the road, saw a few vague man-like shapes milling around near the outpost. These soldiers would belong to the Desanadron military police, but beyond them, every other trade road outpost would be manned by members of one of the many guilds operating throughout the realms. If they were lucky, those guild members would be men and women of honor, upholding contracts penned with the Desanadronian High Council. If they weren’t lucky, Andrei or Norto would possibly be forced to pay a bribe to continue along unmolested.

            Well, if we feel like avoiding a fight, Andrei  thought with a smirk. Could be nice to get the blood pumping, though, test out what Holly’s capable of in a confrontation. Onward they rolled, the minotaur keeping an eye out for anything threatening. So close to civilization, he didn’t think there would be much to see, and by the time they drew near the outpost, he’d seen nothing to shake him of that conviction. One of the heavily armored men of the outpost, a tall, dark-furred werewolf with an ash greatbow in hand, stepped up to the side of the road and raised one hand in greeting to them. Andrei looked over to Dren and made a fist in the air, fingers toward the young smithy. Dren, seeming to recognize what this meant, pulled up gently on the reins, bringing the oxen and the wagon to a slow halt.

            “Hail, travelers,” said the werewolf guardsman, approaching Andrei with one hand out to him. Andrei took it and shook, two firm pumps. “Taking a trip out of the city,” asked the guard, angling his head to one side to peek up at Dren and Holly. Over his chainmail shirt the bulky lycanthrope wore the dark blue cloak and service coat of a Desanadron military policeman, three angled stripes on the right sleeve.

            “Aye, we are, sergeant,” Andrei replied. “These two, and another man in the back of the wagon, the blacksmith Norto.”

            “Ah, Norto,” said the guard with a smile. “A great smithy is he! Why, I believe most of our equipment here was forged by his hands. If you would permit, I’d like to give him my personal thanks,” said the sergeant.

            “By all means,” said Andrei, waving the man back to the wagon. Though if your weapons or armor are worth a damn, they were likely crafted by Dren, he mentally added. By the time the sergeant got to the back of the wagon, four of the other five men on duty had joined him, and were all deep in giving Norto their semi-worshipful thanks for their gear. One, however, remained right where he was. Andrei took this man in, a stalwart dwarven man decked out in heavy half-plate blue steel armor, a barshot crossbow resting against his shoulder plate. The barshot was much like any other crossbow in terms of general design, but rather than firing a bolt, it shot a dense spike attached to a diamond fiber thread, which could be retracted with a crank on the side of the weapon. Andrei admired the weapon’s design, and he could see that the dwarf had made at least one modification to it himself. Curious, the minotaur freelancer approached the guard and dipped his head down to him as a sign of respect. “Master dwarf,” he said.

            “Sir,” the dwarf replied. “Somefin’ I can help you wiff?”

            “Your barshot,” Andrei said, pointing at the weapon. “What’s the modification do?” The dwarf’s archetypical sour expression broke into a deadly grin, one that exposed ruinous teeth and lines around his thick beard and moustache that spoke of great age.

            “Keen eye, traveler,” the dwarf said quietly. He tapped a red button on the end of the handle crank. “If I push this in, it releases the spike tip from the thread line. Then,” he said, pointing to a small, glowing dot that Andrei could barely see on the same side of the weapon’s stock. “If I poke this after the release, this sends a signal to the spark cap set in the spike, nested cozily in about three tablespoons worth of hellfire powder.” Andrei whistled appreciatively, understanding from firsthand experience the raw damage such a quantity of hellfire powder could do. A single tablespoon could take out half a bedroom, melting copper, bronze or silver into useless puddles. Three tablespoons, though? That much powder in a small area could fell a dragon, if it landed in the right place.

            Andrei turned back to the wagon, where Dren and Holly both appeared to be waiting patiently but anxiously to get moving again. “He’s a fraud, you know,” the dwarf said quietly at his side. Andrei looked down at him out of the corner of his eye. “Norto, I mean. See this?” He patted his cuirass breastplate with the flat of his free hand. “Was the youngster there did this, and it’s the finest work you’ll find this side of the Allenian Hills, I’d set my watch and warrant on it. That Norto? He hasn’t produced anything of worth since tricking the lad into doing the lion’s share of the work.”

            “Why not tell your comrades about that,” Andrei asked. The dwarf just shook his head, making a sour frown.

            “Wouldn’t do any good,” the guard said. “I’m just a private here, they’ll never listen to me. Back in Traithrock? Sure, they’d have had no choice but to hear me out, I was a technical sergeant before moving down ‘ere. Besides, there’s not many of us knows the difference, and those of us that do, well, we sort of have an unspoken agreement amongst ourselves.”

            “And that is?”

            “Whether the old man kicks it or the youngster finally opens his own forge, we’re jumping ship to Dren openly soon’s Norto’s not a factor. We daren’t do so before then, though,” the dwarf added even more quietly. “We’ve already responded twice in the last year to disturbances at their shop, neighbors informing us of noise problems. Every time, looked like Norto had broken everything by throwing it at the lad.” Andrei glared at the back of the wagon, his previous distaste for Norto ratcheting up another couple of notches. “Keep an eye on the youngster. I’d like to get a special order for some gauntlets for the missus this year, and Dren’s the one I trust wif such a job.”

            “I’ll bring him back in one piece, master dwarf,” Andrei replied. “You have my word.” A couple of minutes later, the other guards finally peeled away from the wagon and returned to their posts, and Dren gently flopped the reins to get the oxen moving forward again, the beasts leaving large piles of stool behind them as they went. Andrei fell back when they were about a hundred yards past the outpost, letting the driver’s bench draw level with him on his left so that he walked alongside the young smithy.

            “That had to be more than a little irritating for you,” the minotaur remarked. Dren shrugged his shoulders.

            “I’ve gotten used to it,” Dren replied. “It was nice to see officer Tekart, though, the dwarf gent you were speaking with. He always brings me special projects.”

            “He mentioned wanting some gauntlets for his wife,” Andrei said. “I told him I’d bring you back to the city in one piece. If I can’t manage that, how worried should I be about him?”

            “His former unit up in Traithrock brought down the red dragon Antellicap twelve years ago,” Dren said evenly. “That should give you an idea.”

            “How many men were in that unit,” Andrei asked, eyebrow raised.

            “Eight.” Andrei pursed his lips and nodded, ranging out ahead of the wagon once more. –That would mean you should be very careful to keep Dren alive-, one of the spirits whispered in his mind. Clearly, he thought back, wincing as he heard yet another ‘crack-hiss’ of one of his beers. He had better leave some for me.

**

            Dren shook himself once, twice, then pulled up his trousers and tied them tight once more, coming out from behind the large stone he had ducked behind to tend to his necessary. A brief jog twenty feet brought him back to the patch of cleared scrub grass Holly sat upon with her camp blanket spread out beneath her, easing down beside her and grabbing a small wedge of cheese from a bucket containing some of their travel provisions. “Did you need to go,” he asked her as she swallowed some salted beef.

            “I probably should,” she replied, adjusting up onto her knees. “And here, don’t let Norto take even a sip of this,” she added quietly, eyeballing the older smithy, seated by himself closer to the wagon, which Andrei had guided off of the trade road some fifteen yards away. She handed Dren a small wineskin, the cap unscrewed just enough for the young man to catch a whiff of the potent but sweet-smelling liquor within. “Palberry wine,” she said. “I brought it just for us.”

            “Oh,” Dren said, feeling his cheeks flush a little. “Well, all right. I’ll wait to try it until you get back.” She gave him a small peck on the cheek, then hopped up and sprang away toward the large stones he had used to shield himself, leaving him with a face practically burning from the rush of blood to his cheeks. Andrei, also by himself and midway between them and the wagon, had a sloppy smile on his face, eyes half-lidded, and the minotaur freelancer gave him a thumb’s up as he chomped into a hunk of ham. Dren looked down, unable to hide his embarrassment.

            Holly came back and flopped down next to him, snagging the wineskin and taking a healthy pull on it before offering it back to him. “Just sip, Dren,” she cautioned. “It’s sweet, but strong.” He did as suggested, and he could tell within moments that she was quite right in her assessment. He pushed the stopper back into the neck of the wineskin and handed it back, and the cuyotai mage tucked it back into the long meal box. “You done for now?”

            “Yes,” Dren said, popping the last of his cheese wedge into his mouth and helping her clean and pack up the kit. She carried the long box while Dren tucked the blanket under an arm and brought it back to the wagon, easing it up into the back. Holly headed around to the driver’s bench, and Dren was about to follow her when a vicious hand grabbed his bicep, fingers digging into the nerve on the inside of his arm, and yanked him around, face to face with Norto. The older man’s nose blared like a beacon up at him, brows furrowed in apparent anger, though over what Dren could hardly credit a guess. “What,” Dren rasped, trying to pull his arm away.

            “You’re in my employ, boy,” Norto snarled, pressing his fingers in even harder. “We stop for the evening, you prep my meal and tent before traipsing off with your doggy bitch, you understand me?” In that moment, horrified by the older man’s racist epithet and sense of entitlement, a realization crashed through Dren’s mind with the brute force of a battering ram; he hated Norto. Not the sort of strong dislike or distaste that he often felt for the criminals and ne’er-do-wells he sometimes did business with back in the city, but a fierce and awful hate. But he was still afraid of the older man, and had a duty to uphold as his apprentice. He sighed, looked aside, and nodded. “That’s what I thought. Now out of the way,” Norto snapped, shoving him roughly aside and clambering up into the back of the wagon, snagging and cracking open another of Andrei’s green bottles of beer from an ice chest on the left side of the wagon.

            Dren rubbed the inside of his arm as he walked around front, careful to take his hand away before coming into view of his friend, who smiled softly at him as he climbed up onto the bench. Andrei, he could see just past Holly’s head, was ambling back toward the road from the stone outcropping, tying up his own trousers. Norto knew he was off taking his necessary, Dren thought. He wouldn’t have tried something like that otherwise. But what do I do, tattle on him to Mr. Dolstov? No, this is none of his business, he thought, taking a silent hand signal from Andrei as his cue, flapping the reins twice as Dolstov jogged alongside the oxen, the company’s pace set a little quicker for this stretch of the day’s travel. I’ll just have to get through it, Dren thought.

            He just hoped Holly wouldn’t come to realize how bad things were.

**

            While a pair of smithies, a cuyotai mage, and a minotaur alcoholic with spirits riding his soul plodded along northeast on one end of the realms of Tamalaria, a strange figure made his way through packed crowds along the streets of Ja-Wen, the second-largest city in all of the realm, flustered by the sheer press of bodies around him at the midday market hour. Jago could feel his frustration mounting like a rising tide within him as he tried to avoid collisions and brushes with the various sentients filling the unpaved streets of the metropolis from side to side and end to end. It struck him as madness that anybody would willingly live in such a place, where the notion of personal space apparently held little if any meaning.

            At one point, he had caught a small, yellowish-skinned man with a short gray beard covering most of his face and wild white hair with his grubby, stub-fingered hand in one of his pockets. Jago had snapped his hand down on the little man’s wrist, a creature the natives called a ‘gnome’, and the little prick had not even had the decency to act embarrassed or afraid. Instead, the diminutive man had kicked him in the groin, yanked his hand free of Jago’s pocket, and sprinted off into the milling mass of bodies in the street. The stranger was on his knees, groaning in agony, and now, only minutes later, he was once more on the edge of simply yanking his gloves off and unleashing a torrent of his power into the people around him.

            No, Jago, he cautioned himself, weaving in and out of the crowds. Keep your temper, find a stables, and get to bargaining. Staying here for any length of time would be a hellish notion, and being arrested for mass murder would be a surefire way to be forced to stick around. Relying on the most charming smile he could summon, he located a likely-looking storefront, ducked inside, and breathed a deep sigh of relief at the openness of the shop’s main room, no other customers present. An elven woman looked up from a dense book on her countertop and offered him a bright smile of welcome.

            “Hello, sir,” she said, her voice light, musical. “Welcome to Lisa’s Elixirs, one of fair Ja-Wen’s finest apothecaries! What can I interest you in today?” Jago pushed one hand back over his slicked hair, straightened his tie, and strode up to the counter, his long legs making the effort fluid, serpentine.

            “I fear I’m not here to do business, madam,” he replied, layering his voice with as much charm as he could muster. “I’m new to town, and merely wish to locate a stables, from which to purchase a mount. Mayhap you could direct me?” He reached into his pocket for the compass he had taken from one of the jaft corpses, and realized with a start that the gnome thief who had kicked him in the balls had purloined it. “Ah. Well,” he said, bringing his hands up onto the counter, tapping his fingers along the old wood. “It would appear I might need to purchase something after all. Do you carry any compasses?” The elven woman nodded, reaching under the counter and pulling out a small tray lined with several such, each one tagged with a small paper. Jago noticed that the prices were numbers, but after each one came a small letter, ‘g’, ‘s/t’, and ‘c’. The cheapest-looking one was labeled ‘5c’, and he picked it up.

            “Five coppers for that one, sir, though I must profess, any kind of jolt, and it’ll likely break,” said the clerk. “You look like a man of some refinement. Perhaps, if you’re trying to be economical but practical, this one would be more to your liking,” she said, holding up one with a ‘7s/t’ tag. “Seven silvers or tins.”

            “Tins?” Jago thought about the coinage he had taken off of the blue-fleshed humanoids, and recalled that the silver-hued ones had not, in fact, been silver, but an inferior metal.

            “Aye, tins. They’ve become more popular as lycanthropes move more and more into the cities around the realms,” said the elf. “There’s not as much demand for silver as currency as a result. There’s some countries don’t even use silver anymore, like the Fiefdom of Lemago. What say you, sir,” she asked, waggling the compass she had plucked up. Jago performed a quick calculation in his head, estimating that the scale of currency would place gold coins as most valuable, followed by silvers or tins, and lastly, coppers. He set the travel bag around his shoulder on the floor, and rummaged around inside until he laid his gloved fingers on a gold coin, setting it on the counter. She took the coin, opened another box out of sight on her side of the counter, and set three tin coins out for him as change. He tossed these into the bag and closed the zipper, slinging the bag back over his shoulder and tucking the compass in his inner blazer pocket. “As for the nearest stables, sir, you’ll want to head over to Jerome’s Hooves and Such. It’s three streets north, and it’ll be on your left after you make the turn west.”

            Jago thanked her for her patience and assistance, and left the shop for the press of the streets once more. He hadn’t been inside for long, but it appeared to him that some of the hustle and bustle had died down, though there were still plenty of pockets of passersby to maneuver around. It took nearly half an hour for him to get to the stables she had pointed him to, and much to his relief, he had just enough gold coins on hand to purchase outright a draught horse from Jerome, an elven man whose magical power came off of him in nearly tangible waves. Jago didn’t yet comprehend how the powers of this world worked, but he recognized power when he came across it, and he wondered why a man so obviously filled with supernatural strength would waste his time and talents being a trader in horseflesh.

            Then again, this is not my world to understand, he mused as he led his new mount out to the street. Just before exiting the stables, though, he stood before the animal and took its face in his gloved hands, pressing his own forehead against its snout, connecting his mind to the beast’s with a twitch of his will. If you should fail to serve me, to heed my commands in any way, I will slaughter you and eat you. Stamp one hoof if you understand me, he sent into the mind of the horse, which visibly trembled before him. One foot rose, stamped at the loose hay at the entrance of the stables. Excellent. Hold still while I get atop you.

            The stranger named Jago, now mounted and prepared for his journey, made his way back toward the road out of town. If everything came this easily to him while in this world, he might just stick around for a while after his task was complete. It might be nice, after all, to take in some sport.

**

            As the company came within sight of another guard outpost in the late afternoon, Andrei fell back behind the wagon for a moment, directing Norto to hand him one of his green bottles of ale, of which several empties had been stacked up neatly beside the older smithy. Andrei wrinkled his nose at the sight of them, making a quick mental note to have a word with the old man later on about pacing himself. The minotaur had himself been bone dry since lunch, having only partaken of a single ale during the midday break so that he could be clear-headed in the event of a threat to the company. Norto handed him the bottle, which Andrei cracked open and downed in one quick series of gulps, tossing the bottle back behind him and off to one side of the road, jogging to get out in front of the wagon once again.

            When the group was about a hundred yards away from the outpost, Andrei could make out a large white banner flapping from a flag pole mounted on the side of the modest outpost building. In the middle of the field of white was a pair of crimson spears, crossed over with a diagonal slash of green, the sigil of a mercenary outfit known as The Reacher Company. He spotted seven people around the building, all of them holding great-bows, long spears strapped to their backs. The outfit was appropriately named, specializing in ranged combat, relying on superior reach against hostiles. The Reacher Company had a solid reputation, not only as capable, but honorable as well. This contingent was likely on contract to the city-state to serve as trade road guards.

            Andrei put his fist up to bring the group to a halt at a range of about sixty yards. The bowmen could still attack at that range, but the distance, combined with the faint breeze coming down out of the north, would foul most of their attacks if Andrei had misread the situation. He raised both hands over his head, fingers splayed to show he was not presently armed. After a moment, one of the bowmen set his bow into a shoulder catch and raised his own hands overhead in return, and Andrei led the company forward. As they drew close, the fragrant aroma of cooking meat and tangy spices filling his nostrils invitingly.

            “Supper time for the men,” Andrei asked of the woman who had returned his signal of peace, a tall, broad human woman with short cropped black hair. She could have been quite pretty in Andrei’s estimation, if not for the factors of A) being human, and B) having a wicked scar along the left side of her cheek from the corner of her mouth all the way up to her ear, the lobe of which was missing.

            “It is indeed, fair traveler,” she replied amiably. “We have bathroom facilities inside, if your companions would like to freshen up, no charge. Stapper’s got pork ribs on the smoker out back, but a meal and drink will come at charge, I’m afraid.” Andrei took another good whiff of the air, struggling not to salivate.

            “I’ll pay,” Andrei said, holding up one finger to the woman and walking over toward Dren and Holly. “Pull the wagon around the side, we’re going to take our evening meal a little early here with these folks. I’ll pay for a plate for all of us and some drinks, plus there’s bathrooms,” he added, which seemed to turn on a sparkle in Holly’s eyes. She hopped down off of the bench and rushed around the oxen, making a bee line for the woman in charge whom Andrei had spoken with. As Dren directed the oxen around the side of the building, Norto came stumbling out of the back, barely remaining upright when his feet hit the ground. Andrei returned to the human woman and whispered, “I’d keep an eye on that one of ours, ma’am.”

            “Oh? Is he a thief?”

            “No, just a drunk.” The woman gave him an amused look, and he blinked rapidly at her. “What?”

            “This from a man who has ale fresh on his breath,” she remarked.

            “Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Andrei said, waving his hands defensively. “I’m a complete wastrel most of the time. There’s whole weeks of my life I’ve lost to the amber blur, no doubts about it. But I’m on the job right now, Miss-“

            “Captain Tate,” the scarred woman interjected.

            “Captain, sorry, and I don’t let myself get blitzed on the job, unless I’m alone. If there’s nobody else to worry about, there’s nobody else to disappoint or put in danger with my habits. I only caution you to keep an eye on him because he’s already gone through nine of my bottles of travel ale. If he gets near your supply, he might not think twice about tapping into it.” Tate gave the old smithy a quick once-over as the man brushed past them on his way inside the outpost, a veritable cloud of booze-and-sweat stench hanging about his person.

            “I’ll tell the others. Now, for the meal, it’s five coppers a head,” she said. Andrei fished a couple of silver coins from one of his pouches and handed them over to her.

            “Pretty cheap.”

            “We get volume discounts from a farmstead nearby, family’s name is Feber. Humans, decent folk. We agree to send a couple of our men round to keep an eye on the farm’s outskirts, keep the monster population from affecting their crops. It’s never much of anything too dangerous, a renderman here or there’s the worst of it. I think there’s a nest of them somewhere in the region.”

            “What type,” Andrei asked, following her inside now that Dren was making his way past them. Captain Tate pushed the door open ahead of the minotaur, and he strode into a broad, open front room that looked more like a well-maintained tavern or eatery than a militia outpost. The scents of ale and pork filled him with joy, and the sharp bite of his salivary glands kicking into overdrive filled his mouth. The floorboards echoed loudly as his boots clopped along beside the captain, who led him to the serving bar to stand in line behind Dren and a couple of the Reacher men and women waiting to be served.

            “Bronze, so not too tough,” said Tate. “But we had some real trouble about four months back, when a weaver beast pack came ripping through.” Andrei shuddered involuntarily. Weaver beasts were a type of rashum that physically appeared to be enormous salamanders, each easily the size of a healthy wolf, with blade-sharp bone protrusions along their flanks. The creatures posed little threat by themselves, but they were crafty and dangerous in packs. What troubled Andrei the most about them, however, was not the combat threat they posed, but the fact that they ate various metals. “We came across them feeding on a couple of the rendermen, so we lucked out that they were too busy feeding to notice us coming up on them.”

            “How many were there?”

            “Seven. Hold up,” she said, pushing her plate toward one of her men on the other side of the counter, a cherub-faced young man who looked more at home with a pair of tongs in hand than he ever would a weapon. “Two for me, Stapper,” Tate said.

            “Aye, captain,” the chubby youth replied, grabbing two sets of ribs and loading them on her plate before pushing it back. “And you, sir?”

            “What sides have you got,” Andrei asked

            “Oh, we’ve got mashed, peas, corn on the cob, and buttered spinach. Simple fare, but good, sir.”

            “Just one, then,” the minotaur replied. The rest of his plate was loaded up with sides by another server, and he and the captain took a table together in the corner off to the right of the outpost’s front door, where he could keep an eye on Dren and Holly, who were seated with a jaft woman who had her bow leaning against the table for easy reach.

            “They look pretty cozy,” Tate commented after taking a huge bite from her meat. “Are they together? Involved, I mean.”

            “Not that I know of, though it’s obvious that she’s inclined that way,” Andrei responded. He pointed with his fork at Norto, who was himself seated with several stern-looking lizardmen in the uniforms of the Reacher Company. “As for that one, he’s Norto, the smith. Heard of him?”

            “I have,” said Tate through a mouthful of meat. She armed sauce from her mouth like a brute and took a quick glance at Norto over her shoulder. “He’s got a good reputation.”

            “Don’t buy into it,” Andrei said. “Young Dren there’s his ‘prentice, and it’s him who’s the real talent of them.” Andrei finished off his peas, moving onto his mashed for a moment before speaking again. “Captain Tate, have you served anywhere near the north-central mountains in recent years?” Tate paused mid-bite, lowered her second set of ribs, and wiped her hands off on a napkin.

            “Four years ago, when I was just a sergeant with the company,” she replied. “I served a three-month service guarding the Wayfarer clan Morrison. Fairly quiet gig, with a couple of exceptions. Why?”

            “That’s where we’re headed,” Andrei replied. “I just want to know what sort of trouble we can expect in the region. I haven’t been out that way in a while. Most of my jobs in the last seven, eight years have been cutting through lands south of the Allenians.”

            “Well, you’re in luck, then,” said Tate, pausing to take a swig of ale. “One of my closest friends in the company is still out that way, working a protection detail on an official out of the city of Trios in the Freehold Territories. I’ve had a letter from him just a month or two ago. After dinner, I’ll go to my quarters and fetch it for you, he’s been keeping track of rashum activity in the area. You might find the information useful.”

            “My thanks, captain,” Andrei said, enjoying the rest of his meal in a companionable silence with her. Tate struck him as a capable woman, and her straightforward conversation with him left the freelancer wondering if perhaps mercenary outfits like hers might not be all bad. He knew there were some that were honorable, like the Reacher Company, but even such an organization was bound to have a few bad eggs. He took joy that this unit wasn’t one.

            When she brought him the letter outside about twenty minutes later, Tate had a middle-aged half-elf man with her, a blank parchment held in his left hand. “Mr. Dolstov, this is corporal Pelk. He’s going to make a copy of that letter for you. It will only last a few hours, but I imagine that’s long enough for you to memorize the information you’ll need or write it down elsewhere,” said the captain.

            “In a rush to be rid of us, captain,” Andrei chided amiably. Tate’s expression remained flat, however, and he wondered for a moment if he had given some offense.

            “Through no fault of yours, Mr. Dolstov. One of our rangers reported in ten minutes ago that there’s a herd of buffalo aiming south nearby, and we’ve got a chance to fully restock our meat supplies without having to spend any money if we get a good hunt in. You understand, I wager?” Andrei barked a hearty laugh and nodded, shaking the captain’s hand and taking the copied letter, which glimmered with traces of the simple magic her corporal had used to produce it. Dren and Holly, both looking tired but full and happy on the wagon’s bench, were but waiting on him to lead the oxen off down the road, which he did a few moments later, drinking in the fresh late afternoon breeze that came their way.

            He managed to guide them on another three hours before the day’s light began faltering. He got the oxen to pull the wagon about thirty yards off the road, settling in near a sparkling pond in the midst of a high grass field. As the minotaur set about making his own tent ready, he caught sight of Dren hustling about with Norto’s travel trunk, preparing the older smithy’s space before tending to his own. Andrei said nothing to either man about this, though as Norto climbed into his tent, the sun setting just under the horizon line, the minotaur pulled Holly aside near the rear of the wagon.

            “Miss Holly, forgive me for asking, but has Dren always been such a pushover,” Andrei asked quietly as he fetched a couple of bottles of ale out of his ice box. He offered her one, but the cuyotai mage declined with a polite wave of her hand.

            “For as long as I’ve known him, yes,” she replied with a weary sigh. “I really wish he would just punch that old sod and have done with it, open his own forge, but he can’t yet afford the guild fees. He might be able to when this whole mission of ours is over, but I’m worried he might not out of some sense of loyalty.” Andrei popped the cap on his first ale, took a long pull on it, leaning back against the wagon’s rear.

            “What about his loyalty to himself? I’m sorry, but if this is going to be the way of this trip, it’s going to be an awfully long journey for our boy there.”

            “I know. I’ve tried talking to him about it, but he shuts down on me sometimes,” Holly said. “For now, there isn’t much to do about it. I’m going to settle in and get some rest, Mr. Dolstov. You can wake me in a few hours to take the watch.” Andrei grunted and came around to the fire Dren had set up beside the pond, mentally locking in the arrangement of the three tents to his right. Norto’s tent was set up right between Dren and Holly’s, effectively taking up a chaperone’s position. Andrei could see the calculation that went into this seemingly innocuous decision, and though he didn’t like Norto one whit, he had to confess to himself that the man possessed a certain low cunning. Keep them separated and maintain your stranglehold, is that it, old man?

            -You see much clearer when you don’t kill your mind with alcohol,- came one of the whispers in his head.

            Shut up, you, he replied. He drained his ale and looked about, making sure nobody was looking at him as he stood up and threw the bottle off into the dark as hard as he could. It sailed up and away like a rocket, and where it would come down was anybody’s best guess.

            -Such a gross misuse of the power we’ve granted you,- came another whisper, this one deeper, older. –Surely you recognize that there are better applications for your strength.-

            See my previous answer, you twat, Andrei snarled in his head, snapping open the second ale and downing it quickly. Now leave me be. I have three people and two oxen to protect tonight, and for many nights ahead. I don’t need the distraction of you pricks.

            -Fair enough,- came yet a third whisper in reply. –Do not forget, Andrei, that we are here. We can lend you more than simple brute force.-

            I’ll keep that in mind, he replied, and for once he was not being sarcastic. He took a walk around the perimeter of the pond a few times over the course of his watch, finally awakening Holly when dawn was a good four hours distant. It wouldn’t be a great deal of sleep, but it would be enough for him to function on. Before he could get into the wagon to take his own rest, Holly stopped him with a gentle hand on his elbow.

            “Wait, Mr. Dolstov,” she said, and the minotaur faced her, curious despite his fatigue. “I’ve been meaning to ask, but I didn’t want to risk Dren or Norto overhearing. You have a spiritual influence about you, yes? I can see it in the aura about you.” Andrei snorted, hands on his hips, shaking his head.

            “I was worried you’d sense something,” he said. “Come, have a seat,” he said, patting the rear end of the wagon. “I’ll tell you all about it.” Holly hoisted herself up on the wagon, and Andrei took another long pull of his ale, steeling himself to tell his tale. He had only told a few people about it, but every time he did, he felt a little better about it afterward. He hadn’t been around Holly long, but he had a sense that she was one of those few people whom he could trust with such a story, so he decided that he would tell it. “It was a long time ago, when I was but a boy…”

**

            He was forty-nine years old, and in his clan, this was the borderland between boyhood and manhood. The Dol Clan of minotaurs lived and died by its long-standing traditions, and unless he wanted to remain viewed as a child among them, forced to remain with the family in the northwestern mountains, held and populated mostly by dwarves, he would have to take on the ritual and be done with it. His father, being a shaman highly regarded in the clan, would be the one to perform the ritual, and this factor made the whole task seem even more vital. He had to prove himself not only to the clan as a whole, but especially to his father.

            The fact that his father was also an uncontrollable drunkard was an unfortunate fact of life, but he trusted the old man to keep his shit together long enough to see him through the ritual in one piece. Sitting in his private yurt, set up close to his parents’ abode, young Andrei kept his eyes shut and focused on the words he would have to recite at the ritual later that night, when the moon shone bright over the village. All of the men would be present, women excluded from being present during the ritual. It was the same for the passage from girlhood into womanhood, with the men being forced to remain in their yurts or outside of the village altogether, hunting or foraging, or perhaps even in nearby Traithrock to tend to trade business.

            His mother would be praying to the gods on his behalf, he knew, and while this would offer him some comfort, the knowledge that his father would be invoking ancient magics and using them on him filled young Andrei with pure terror. He was more like his mother and older brother in that way, abhorring all things magical in nature, fearing them utterly. He had seen an illeck pyromancer some two years earlier, fleeing military forces from Traithrock where he had murdered several rivals in the field of pyromantic study. The waif-like man had flung cones of deadly fire at his pursuers, and when he came within range of the village, the maniac had attempted to set it ablaze to distract the dwarven soldiers on his tail. Andrei had watched in horror as cousins and friends had been reduced to burning, blackened bones by his sorcery, until the high shaman of the clan had conjured a scorpion made of stone from the very mountain itself to beat the illeck to death with its rock-formed tail.

            He tried not to think of that as he concentrated on the words he would have to recite, but the struggle was immense. Nothing good comes of magic, he thought. He remained in his yurt another half an hour before rising to his cloven feet and walking outside, milling about the village and consorting with his friends and family. His brother, Hovart, he found at the village forge, sharpening his long sword with a whetstone and hammer, adjusting the hilt’s placement.

            “Brother,” Hovart exclaimed, setting aside his weapon and embracing Andrei tightly. “How are you feeling about tonight?”

            “Honestly? Troubled,” Andrei replied, hands in the pockets of his loose tunic trousers. He shivered despite the warmth offered by his bearskin coat, the mountain air sharper than usual on this day. “I can sense the spirits gathering, but I haven’t seen father in hours. Do you know where he is?”

            “Yes, though you won’t like it much. He’s in Gods’ Mouth Cavern, consorting with the spirits,” Hovart replied. “He took five skins with him.”

            “Shit,” Andrei muttered. “Will he even be awake to perform the ritual?”

            “Five skins is not enough to fell our father,” Hovart said. “And you know he would not willingly risk you coming to harm.” The older minotaur took up his sword from the anvil he’d set it on, regarded it for a moment, then slid it into its sheath. Minotaurs usually preferred axes and hammers as their primary weapons, but Hovart had never been a typical minotaur. His own manhood ritual had proven that as well. “What kind of spirit are you hoping will be called to you,” Hovart asked.

            “I’m hoping for one of strength,” Andrei replied. His brother rolled his eyes and snickered. “What?”

            “It’s just that strength is the most common type of spirit called forth, little brother,” said Hovart. “I feel fortunate that mine was grace. I’m our village’s only swordsman, you know, and I believe it’s because of the spirit tied to my soul. I suppose, if you look at our family, it makes sense that you get one of strength. Father’s was one of wisdom, though it doesn’t seem to have helped with his drinking. If you do get one of strength, it will mean we three Dolstov men have a balance among us. Highly unusual.”

            Andrei shared a few more pleasantries and jibes with his brother before returning to his yurt, where he removed the bearskin coat and began applying the oils and body paint necessary for the ritual to take place. A single thick black line he drew from his throat down to his navel, bisecting it under his pectoral muscles with a horizontal line of crimson and placing a single yellow dot over his heart. I am ready, spirits, he thought. One of you will be called to me, and we shall be bound unto my death. Let our life be one of greatness, he thought, silently offering a prayer to the ancient gods of his people.

            He remained in that silence for a little over an hour, when his brother pulled open the flap of his yurt and regarded him with the flat, cold glare of a predator. “It is time, Andrei Dolstov. The spirits are roused, and you are to become a man. Speak now the name of your father and mother.”

            “Patra Dolstov, Nissa Dolstov,” Andrei replied.

            “It is well,” said Hovart. “Follow me now to the fire, boy Andrei, where you will become a man.” Andrei, bare-chested and exposed to the elements, stepped out into a devilish wind blowing through the mountains, the whirl and shriek of the air currents escorting his nerves through a wonderland funhouse of paranoia. He held in check any sign of the bitter cold affecting him, marching along stoically behind his brother. He saw pockets of his male peers standing about, all facing him now, all watching him fiercely. Hovart guided him after several minutes between two of the village’s tallest yurts into a standing circle of boulders, a kind of bowl the clan had arranged by moving huge stones together to form a semi-sheltered ring on the edge of the village. Shielded from the wind in the middle of the ring stood a tall fire, on the other side of which was Patra Dolstov, his father.

            Standing around the circular walls of stone were several more of his kinsmen, but they did not hold Andrei’s attention for long. Above the fire, up where the winds should by rights have ripped them apart and cast any physically visible sign of them away like so much chaff, scores of faint, glowing figures, shifting and spinning, taking various not-shapes for fractions of an instant before morphing once again. From these shapes came raspy whispers, all on the edge of hearing, the words not quite understandable amid the din of the wind overhead or the fire burning before the gathered minotaurs.

            “Andrei Dolstov,” his father said, his head bobbing up and down a little. Well, shit, Andrei thought. No surprise he’s buzzed. At least he seems to be holding it together. “Come forth into the light of the spirit fire.” Andrei did as bid, trying to keep from angling his head back to stare up at the spirits floating and flashing by overhead. His father came around one side of the tall flames, producing a crude stone knife from within his voluminous dark yellow shaman’s robes. Andrei took it, ignoring the stink of harsh drink surrounding his father, instead focusing on the rough, crenellated texture of the stone knife’s handle, turning it this way and that. “Know you what you must do, that we shall no longer name you ‘boy’?”

            “Yes,” Andrei said, holding forth his left arm, making a fist as he gripped the knife in his right hand. The words came to him now, as smooth and as simple as they could be, words he had agonized over memorizing precisely, so that nothing could be said to have gone afoul because of him. “Spirits of the ancients, whose lands we now possess! I stand before you a boy no more, prepared to spill my blood for honor, for glory, and for the good of the clan! And now, I offer to you this,” he called out to the ectoplasmic entities swirling about overhead, holding his hand out near the fire and gashing the palm open with the stone blade. “A pathway for you, that you may be bonded to mine soul!”

            And here his father began chanting in low, guttural tones, speaking in the native minotaur tongue. It was a strange thing for Andrei, hearing the old speech in the air. Sure, he knew it, as did all of the villagers, but it had become a rare thing indeed to hold onto any more than a few phrases or terms that did not translate well into the common tongue.

            Wait, something’s wrong here, he thought, watching as the spirits began writhing and snapping around one another, flying about in a tightening, accelerating ring, loosing a strange, warbling cry that made his bowels threaten to release of their own accord. He could see the spirits descending, the world around him flashing brilliant white, and then-

**

            “Well, what happened,” Holly asked, the whole of her attention wrapped in Andrei’s story. The minotaur freelancer checked his wrist time piece quickly; it had only taken about ten minutes to tell her all of this, but it felt like it had been hours. –That’s the trick of reliving an event when relating it to another-, chimed in one of the whispers in his mind.

            “It turned out that my father, being besotted, had accidentally used the plural term for spirit when beseeching one to bond with me in the final invocation of the ritual. As a result, I wound up with a few spirits of strength binding themselves to my soul,” he replied, taking a swig of ale from a green bottle.

            “How many is ‘a few’,” the cuyotai mage asked.

            “Twenty-six,” Andrei replied quickly, flinging the emptied bottle off into the darkness of the night.

            “Gods,” Holly gasped, hand on her throat. She shook her head, trying to imagine what that would be like, feeling so many presences, so many others, inhabiting her body. It would be a constant, living violation, one that would quickly send her off to test if gravity still worked when one leaped off the top of a ten-story building head-first. “Do, do you hear them? I mean, do they speak to you, like they do to the shamans who summon them?”

            “Inside my own head, yup,” Andrei said, hauling himself to his feet with a grunt. He reached up under her armpits and gently lowered her from the back of the wagon, climbing up inside himself. He tossed a thin floor pad down in the narrow aisle between their travel trunks and grabbed one of his long-suffering camp blankets, preparing his own resting place for later in the night. When it was laid out for him, he walked Holly to her own tent, lowering his voice to a whisper pitch. “That’s why I drink, Miss Holly. It quiets them. Now get some rest. I’ll wake you in another hour.” Holly tried to argue that he should sleep now, but he assured her he’d be fine another hour. So, Holly nodded, ducked down, and crawled inside of her tent, leaving the lumbering minotaur alone on the edge of the campfire. He moved away from her tent and settled on the ground a few feet from the flames, keeping his attention moving out in the darkness. The smell of the fire, burning wood and leaves, offered some mild solace as he tried to come to terms with the fact that he had shared one of the most personal, private moments of his life with a young woman he had barely spent a day with.

            -How long has it been since you had a companion worth sharing anything with at all?-, one of the spirits whispered within.

            Fair point. There came from the darkness to the southeast of the camp a loud scrabbling noise, and without pausing to even attempt a sound sighting of whatever was out there, Andrei snatched a rock from the ring he’d set around the fire as a containment barrier and hurled it at whatever was out there. There came a loud ‘crack!’, followed by a thump. The huge minotaur grabbed a flaming branch from the fire and stalked out into the dark, coming upon a rumpled form lying in the tall grass. As he brought the improvised torch closer, he could see that the creature was some sort of sentient, one of the smaller races. Whatever it was, it was groaning, and after rolling over onto its back, Andrei grinned down at the little man; it was a goblin, dressed in the midnight black leathers typical of sneaks and thieves. There was a bloody, angry knot throbbing just to the left of the small, faintly green man’s temple where the rock had struck him, knocking the goblin into a stupor that pitched him forward onto his face. His stout, hooked nose appeared to be broken from the fall, more blood coating his lower face.

            “Are you able to hear me,” Andrei asked quietly, leaning down over the fallen goblin.

            “Just barely,” grunted the intruder with another loud groan, trying to sit up. Andrei helped him back down to the earth by pressing lightly down on his chest with his free hand. The goblin’s eyes opened wide, and he shook his head to try and clear it, flecks of coppery-scented blood flying about. “There’s some kind of droning going on.” The goblin squinted his eyes shut as he probed the large gash on his forehead with a finger, wincing at the pain. He pulled his hand back, then let his arm flop to the side and glowered up at Andrei. “You hit me with a rock.”

            “You were sneaking up on my camp,” Andrei pointed out. “I merely reacted out of defense. What were you doing, sneaking up on us?”

            “I was gonna nick something from your wagon,” said the goblin plainly, as if this should have been obvious. Andrei snorted, pulling his hand up off of the little man and sitting down in the grass next to him, the greenskin sitting up with an effort. Of all of the greenskin races, goblins were the most common, with a population realms-wide that nearly equaled that of dwarves. They weren’t nearly so populous as humans, the most common of all the sentients, but compared to kobolds, orcs, trolls, ogres and hobgoblins, they were practically locusts.

            “So you’re a thief,” Andrei said. “Well, at least you’re honest. Anything in particular you tend to swipe first? Besides coin, I mean.”

            “Potions and alchemical powders,” the diminutive thief said. Andrei rummaged in one of his hip pouches, handing over to the wounded goblin a small folded rag and a bottle of wound-cleansing chemical. The goblin nodded his appreciation and soaked the rag, then pressed it with a hiss to the ragged injury. “Gods that stings.”

            “You’re lucky I wasn’t throwing very hard,” Andrei commented.

            “Oh, yes, very lucky indeed. I’ve got the great fortune to just have a good quarter of my face look like a brain-fried butcher boy has been at me with a tenderizing hammer,” quipped the goblin. He saw the flat, vaguely displeased look the big man was giving him, sighed and shook his head. “Sorry, man, I know. You’ve got every right to want to have killed me. I’m just another goblin sneak thief trying to take what I haven’t earned, I get it.” He moved to hand the rag back to Andrei, but the minotaur waved it off, standing up and sauntering over toward the wagon. He returned a minute later, jammed the improvised torch into the soft soil, and eased down once more next to the goblin. He handed the little man a small blue envelope.

            “Frost sheet powder,” Andrei said, pointing to the envelope as the goblin took it. “I’ve had it a while, don’t have much use for such things. Should fetch you a few coin in one of the nearby towns or the city, if that’s where you’re headed.” The thief stared at him a moment, then looked at the envelope and began snickering. “What’s so funny,” Andrei asked.

            “Well, I’m sorry, but I’ve come across a lot of different sorts of brutes in my time, and I can tell that you’re a brute, no doubts about that,” said the smaller man, taking the bloody rag away from his head and setting it aside. He tucked the envelope away in his leather cuirass, pulling from one of his own pouches a roll of medical tape, beginning the process of wrapping his head. “But you’re not the mindless sort. For a minotaur, you’ve sort of broken my expectations.”

            “Well, that’s mutual, at least,” said Andrei. “Goblins don’t usually travel alone out in the wilds, do they?” The little man made no response, but his wrapping job did slow down for just a moment. “What happened to the others,” Andrei asked pointedly.

            “We tried ambushing one of the trade road guards,” said the goblin thief, using a safety pin to secure the end of his bandaging. “Didn’t realize he was just riding ahead of a couple of his comrades. Those two fell on us and it got real ugly, real quick. I heard them coming, got out quick, but when I looked back, my brothers in black were being torn apart. Seven seasoned sneaks, all of them quite skilled with a knife or a crossbow, but these guardsmen were both jafts, and clearly veteran fighters of some sort. My boys didn’t stand a chance, so I bolted.”

            “How long ago was this,” Andrei asked.

            “About two weeks back,” said the goblin, now pulling at blades of grass to busy his hands. “I’ve been making my way west since it happened. I figure I’ll make it to Desanadron, try and scrape together a few odd jobs, maybe make an in-road to one of the thieves’ guilds there.” Andrei sucked air in through his teeth, shaking his head.

            “Might not be the best idea right now,” the minotaur said. “I wasn’t in the city long, but from what I saw, the local constabulary is more military police than simple law enforcement. The sort of guilds that would be ideal for your particular skill set, I suspect, are deep underground right now.” The goblin snorted, shaking his head. Andrei patted him on the back briefly, hauled himself up to his feet, and brushed the loose grass from his backside. “You might do okay with some solo pickpocketing for a while, though. Markets are pretty packed early in the day, especially on the south side of the metro.” Andrei reached down, and though he was still wary of any sign of kindness or mercy from a man whom he’d just been caught trying to steal from, the goblin thief accepted the offered hand and stood up with Andrei’s assistance. “Come ‘ere, one more thing I can do for you.”

            Andrei led the goblin to the back of the wagon, taking a step up the rungs and reaching over on the right side, pulling one of the thicker travel blankets out of a sling stitched into the side of the arched canvas. He hopped back down and presented it to the goblin. “Quality traveling blanket. I’ve got a couple more for myself and these folk, but they all brought their own. Never hurts to make the road a little more comfy.” The goblin took the blanket in hand, gave Andrei a thin-lipped, measureless expression, and nodded.

            “Thank you, sir,” said the goblin evenly. “What was your name? I fear I never asked.”

            “Dolstov. Andrei Dolstov,” the lumbering minotaur replied. “You can probably make a comfortable layout for yourself about fifty yards west of us in the tall grass, and my companions won’t likely see you out there come dawn. We’ll be moving on, and you can get some rest, benefit from the proximity to the fire.”

            “That sounds good,” said the goblin, turning to head west. Andrei caught him by the elbow of his left arm, however, turned him slightly back toward himself.

            “But let me make this clear,” said the freelancer, his voice now softer, terrifying in its seeming lack of passion.  “If I catch you trying to snag anything else from us tonight, or you turn out to be lying to me about being out here alone, I will tear that hooked nose off of your face and jam it up your ass so fast you’ll think you’ve been fucked by the letter ‘J’, do you understand me?” The goblin’s face turned ashen in moments, his head dumbly bobbing up and down in acceptance. “Great. Have a good sleep,” Andrei said with a smile, taking himself without another look back to the fireside, settling in to observe until he felt he could turn the watch over to Holly.

            It was, thankfully for them, the only incident of that first long night of travel.