by A.R. Wise
Chapter Five
Saffi kept quiet, just like her father had asked, but she was getting angrier the longer he avoided her questions. It was obvious that Ward knew more than he was admitting, and that the stranger who’d shown up the night before had affected him. Her father promised to explain, but pleaded with her not to ask any questions until they were out of town. Ward had spent the night at the shop, packing their wagon with supplies, and then picked up Saffi at home. They were taking a trip out to Golden Rock to sell his overstock. It wasn’t uncommon for shops to do things like this, although they never closed their shops to do it, instead hiring traveling merchants to take their wares off their hands.
Saffi had asked to meet with her friends before they left, but Ward assured her they wouldn’t be gone long. She didn’t believe him.
Ward had to meet with a representative of the Guild of Bakers to get approval to close his shop, and Saffi expected it to be problematic since the only other baker in the North District had already closed temporarily due to a family illness. Ward explained that he would have to pay the guild off, which was why the stranger had left the pel. That made Saffi question her father again about the tall, mysterious man who’d shown up at the shop, but Ward pleaded with her to save the questions for when they got out of town.
Now they were outside of their home on the outskirts of the farms, packing the last few things they needed into the wagon. They’d owned the wagon since the days when Ward was a baker in the Central Market, but the mule was new. Ward had purchased it for a tidy sum from Lady Desirae, the wife of a Third-Barrister and owner of a nearby stable. The animal wasn’t used to hauling wagons, having lived his life as a companion animal to Desirae’s horses until now.
“Should I whip him?” asked Ward as he sat on the cushioned bench at the front of the wagon. He had a black, leather whip that Desirae had given him, and had been warned that the mule, Stephen, could be headstrong.
“Let’s try these again,” said Saffi as she picked up the straps that were connected to the driving bit in the animal’s mouth. She pulled gently on them, and Stephen responded by turning his head from side to side, lazily looking in the direction that she pulled. “Come on, boy, let’s go.”
The mule snorted and padded on the cobbled walkway, rooted where he stood.
“He’s not giving us much choice,” said Ward as he let the whip uncurl.
“Maybe see if he’s hungry before you hit him,” said Saffi as she turned and reached for one of the loaves of bread in the back of the uncovered wagon.
“Mules don’t eat bread, do they?” asked Ward. “I thought they just ate carrots and hay and stuff like that.”
“Want me to find a carrot cake?” asked Saffi as she produced a loaf of sourdough.
“Just give me that.” Ward took the bread and ripped off a piece as he got down from the wagon, causing the entire thing to rattle as he dismounted. “All right, you daft half-horse. Is this what you want?” He held the bread out in front of the animal. Stephen sniffed the bread, and nearly looked interested in eating it, but then the animal grunted, tensed his rear, and let out an obnoxiously loud fart before going to the bathroom.
“Oh!” Saffi covered her nose and laughed. “He’s pooping.”
Ward smelled the bread he’d offered to Stephen and then said, “Well that’s a mighty nice way to react to a friendly gesture, you filthy thing.”
Saffi heard the splash of something wet hitting the ground, and looked down to see urine flowing out from under Stephen. She continued to laugh and then said, “He’s letting it all out.”
“By the Nine!” Ward backed away, grimacing as he watched the animal relieve itself. “What’s wrong with this thing?”
Saffi was going to suggest they try to get their pel back from Desirae when Stephen decided it was time to move. He snorted and then started walking, leaving Ward scrambling to get aboard. Saffi tried to pull on the reins, but Stephen just grunted and let his head be pulled back, refusing to do as he was told.
“Stop him,” said Ward as he jogged alongside the wagon.
“I’m trying.” Saffi jerked on the reins. She stood up, and pulled the leather straps as hard as she could, finally forcing the animal into submission. Ward climbed up beside her, causing the small wagon to creak and lean to the side.
“This creature’s turning out to be the deal of a lifetime.”
Ward and Saffi made their way through the East District, and then maneuvered down a thin residential road instead of passing through the busy Central Market where the Courts were still in session, meeting with peasants with minor squabbles. The executions and exiles had already been tried, and the prisoners’ wagons would be leaving soon. Ward had secured protection from the Swords heading out to the plains, sacrificing a few pel to their commander for the honor.
“What if this guy doesn’t show?” asked Saffi as she kept an eye on the side of the road to make sure the wagon didn’t lurch over into the gutter that ran along the side.
“The Swords? They’ll be there.”
“No, not them,” said Saffi. “The stranger. What if he never shows up? How long are we going to wait at the crossroads for him?”
Ward shrugged, apparently still trying to avoid the topic of the stranger who’d visited the shop the night before. Saffi had agreed to avoid talking about the stranger and the reason for their trip until they were out of the city, but asking about guards on Devon’s Road seemed like fair game.
“We’re not waiting for anyone,” said Ward. “We’re going to get to the crossroads, and if someone’s there to accompany us on our way to Golden Rock, then good. If not, we’ll go alone.”
“Alone?” asked Saffi, astounded that her father would say such a thing. “All the way to Golden Rock?”
Ward scowled and shushed her before looking out around them at the townsfolk milling about. “We’ll be fine.”
“Fine? Through the Robber’s Spine by ourselves?”
“Keep your voice down,” said Ward as he stared ahead, focused on the road and the unpredictable ass leading them.
Saffi lowered her volume and asked, “What about the marauders, or the dead, or the goblins?”
“Goblins?” asked Ward, glancing over at his daughter in amusement.
“Yes,” said Saffi, sure of herself. “I’ve heard from some of my friends that there are goblins all over the Steel Plains.”
“You have?” Ward laughed and then said, “You’ve been letting them fill your head with nonsense. Trust me, the rivers and the roads aren’t filled with serpents and ghouls like the merchants say they are.”
“Then how come this is the first time you’ve ever taken me outside of the city?”
“Why would we go out there? We’ve got a perfectly good shop here in New Carrington. There’s no point in traveling past the gates.”
“Then why are we headed out now?”
Ward looked over at his daughter, his bushy red eyebrows meeting in the middle as he frowned. “Can you please…”
“I know, I know,” said Saffi as she sat back and crossed her arms. “Wait until we get out of the city.”
“No,” said Ward. “Wait until we’re to the crossroads.”
“That wasn’t the deal.”
“It is now,” said Ward. “Be patient, kid. Enjoy yourself for now, because knowing everything’s not as great as you might think.”
“And do you know everything?”
Ward winked at her and said, “I know why we’re leaving town, and that puts me a few steps ahead of you at least.”
“That’s nice, Dad,” said Saffi as she crossed her arms and looked away.
They made their way north, through the packed residential streets and into farmland that separated the center of town from the wall. New Carrington was a mid-sized city, ruled by an aristocracy that had been tied to the Church of the Order for many years. Despite the slow decline of the faithful, the influence of the church was still evident, with all of New Carrington
being free of any technology, or what the church referred to as ‘Steam and Gleam.’ It was widely accepted that the Dead Age was brought on by a former civilization’s failure to heed the warnings of the Gods as they continued to build monstrous temples, trying to reach the heavens themselves. The cities of that bygone age had long since been destroyed by time and nature, but their underground dwellings still yielded a bevy of treasures.
There’d been a time, long ago, when explorers plundered those underground crypts, returning with a wealth of gadgets and books. Some cities began to utilize the knowledge of the ancients, and ignored the simple ways of The Order in favor of the treasures of the old world. That’s also when the undead menace reappeared, signaling the start of what some feared would be another Dead Age. The Order was quick to take control of cities everywhere, demanding that the people give up the sinful treasures of the devils that had brought about the first Dead Age. Walls were built around the five largest cities, and the new resurgence of zombies were kept at bay. After that, The Order kept the populace in line, shunning anything that they suspected as being emblematic of the ancients.
The dead still lived, wandering the plains, but in manageable numbers. Where once they’d been a devastating plague, now they were more a nuisance, no worse than the bandits who made a home between the cities, refusing to be locked within society’s walls.
Men and women with the title of First-Swords made their living escorting merchants and travelers along the roads between the cities, and it was usually easy money. All travelers carried an extra bag of pel, known as a ‘robber’s tax’, that would be offered to any bandits who set upon the wagons. The bandits would send a peaceful envoy to the travelers, announce their intent, and then the merchant would decide whether or not to dip into his robber’s tax. If the merchant refused, then the bandit would inform his group, and they would decide whether or not to attack. It was almost always a civil act, carried out between two parties who had no desire for battle. The only thing keeping bandits from overrunning the roads, eager to collect as many robber’s taxes as possible, were the occasional false wagons that the cities would send out, filled with Swords, ready to arrest or slay any brigands who came along.
Saffi knew that her father had spent time as an Apprentice-Sword, but he didn’t go on many protection jobs, instead he was employed by the city government due to his father’s connections. Ward came from a long line of well-respected Swords, and his brother, a Sixth-Sword, had been hired on as the personal guard of an aristocrat in Golden Rock, an honored position. Ward should’ve expected the same, had he not been cast out of the guild for reasons he still refused to discuss.
“There’s our baker,” said one of the Swords waiting at the gate. It was Gandry, an obnoxious boy who’d lived at the orphanage with Saffi years ago. He recognized Saffi and added, “Didn’t know the witch was coming.”
Ward pulled hard on the reins, struggling with Stephen and twisting the mule’s head side to side until the animal finally slowed beside one of the wagons. Gandry walked up to Saffi, and she glared down at him. “I’m an Apprentice-Baker now.”
“Yeah, but you’ll always be Saffi the Witch to me,” said Gandry, delighting in the name-calling.
“Watch your mouth, Sword,” said Ward as he leaned over his daughter and pointed down at the young guard. “You’ll give my daughter the respect she deserves.”
Gandry looked honestly surprised and regretful that he’d upset Ward. He raised his brow, like a scorned puppy, and apologized, “Didn’t mean nothing by it, sir. It’s just that Saffi and I know each other. We used to be mates back at the orphanage.” Gandry held his arm out, offering his assistance to the lady if she wanted to get down.
“She’s a Baker now,” said Ward.
“Right, right,” said Gandry. “Of course. We just used to call her…”
“I know what you used to call her,” said Ward. “And you’re not going to call her that while I’m in earshot.”
Gandry apologized again as Ward got down from the wagon. Saffi refused Gandry’s hand, and said, “I’ll wait up here.”
“I’ll be back in a minute,” said Ward. “I have to meet with the Captain of the Watch.” He pointed towards the gate. New Carrington was protected by a massive stone wall, stretching the entire circumference of the city and manned with Archers at all hours. The wall had four entrances, not including the waterway, and each of the gates were kept closed except for three times per day when travelers were allowed in and out. The wall was ringed by a moat, and camps were kept on the outside, near the bridges, where arriving travelers were kept safe in wait of the next scheduled opening. The gates were enormous, as tall as a house, with an iron portcullis on the inner side that was kept shut until the bridge was lowered. Anyone arriving had to pass through the gate, and was at the mercy of the slits in the walls, known as murder holes, where archers could snipe anyone entering as they came up against the portcullis. There were also gaps in the stonework above where Archers could either fire down from or pour oil upon invaders. The gate was marred by the black stains of old battles, back during a civil war between factions of the church, before the aristocracy took control.
Gandry waited until Ward was a few steps away and then glanced up at Saffi with a raised brow. He whispered, “What’s with him?”
“He doesn’t let anyone call me anything but a Baker now,” said Saffi. “He says it’s disrespectful to be named anything that’s not related to a guild.”
“It’s just a nickname,” said the young Sword. “Some of the guys still call me Gandry the Bull. Remember that time I charged the teacher and knocked him flat on his rear?” He knelt slightly, mimicking the position he’d taken just before running at their former teacher at the orphanage several years earlier. “He thought he could take me. You remember that? Big dumb oaf. When I get going, I swear I can knock a house down.”
Saffi had never cared much for Gandry, and would’ve normally ignored him in an attempt to get him to leave, but she was curious about something. She glanced over at her father, making sure he was far from the wagon, and then asked Gandry, “Can I ask you something?”
“Maybe,” he said. “Depends on what it is.” He had a lascivious smile, which made Saffi slightly nauseous.
“Have you heard much about what happened out in Everglenn?”
“The Scholar sacked it,” said Gandry, matter-of-factly. “Do you know about him?”
“A little. Tell me what you’ve heard.”
“Sure,” said Gandry as he casually leaned against the wagon, near Saffi’s legs. She straightened her skirt and moved her leg away from him, as if his touch was infectious. “He’s a half-dead that’s got an army of zombies. All of the Swords know about him. They say he’s seven feet tall, and that he wears an old-world style mask, with goggles.” Gandry traced circles around his own eyes, and spoke as if telling a ghost story to children. “They say he wears the mask because his face is rotted away, and that he’s just a talking skull beneath it, held together by black magic.”
Saffi groaned in disbelief. “That’s nonsense.”
“Believe what you want, but there’s a reason the guild upped our prices. We’re charging almost twice as much for every Sword sent out with merchants now. Word is, this Scholar fellow’s got an army of dead twice the size of Golden Rock’s guard, and everywhere they go they’re getting more. Think about it. Every time he kills someone they just pop right back up on their side, ready to chase down meat. Almost unstoppable.” He smiled up at Saffi and added, “Almost.”
“How’s he controlling them?” asked Saffi. “I thought zombies were mindless; just running after food.”
The crank connected to the portcullis’s chain began to grind, and the massive grate began its slow ascent, the metal squealing as it went, interrupting Saffi and Gandry’s conversation. Ward was on his way back, and Saffi knew by his expression that something was wrong. Ward was scowling and muttering to himself, his thick mustache quivering as he snarled.<
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Gandry must’ve noticed Ward’s sour mood as well, because he walked quietly away, back to the prisoners’ wagons. Ward got to the wagon and pulled himself back up to the driver’s seat.
“What’s wrong?” asked Saffi.
“Worthless sods.” Ward spat off his side of the wagon and then made a foul gesture in the direction of the gate. “They’re charging us a protection fee for the whole trip, even though we’re just going to the crossroads. Combined with what I had to bribe the guild with, and the cost of that damn donkey, this trip’s already costing us too damn much.”
“What about the pel the stranger left?” asked Saffi.
“Won’t use it unless I have to,” said Ward. “Got it all still. I don’t like spending other people’s money. When we see that fellow again, I’ll give it back.”
Birds cawed above, driven from their perches by the grinding portcullis chain. They circled angrily, waiting for the gate to open so that they could settle again on the crenellated parapets where they scanned the fields for mice. The morning fog had been burned away, but a midnight rain shower had left the air thick and the ground muddy. The prisoner wagons had settled in the earth, their wheels sunk as they waited off the cobbled road. It took several minutes for the Swords to dig the wheels out enough that the horses could pull the heavy wagons out of the mud and up onto the raised road. A line began to form, with the prisoner wagons in the lead. There were a few merchants going along, also planning to split away at the crossroads, and they moved ahead of Ward and Saffi as their donkey, Stephen, continued to give them trouble.
Ward cursed and ranted before finally unspooling the whip. He was about to strike the obstinate ass, but Saffi pleaded with him not to. She insisted she could get the mule to obey, and got down to gently speak to Stephen. She’d always been good with animals, and a few minutes later Stephen began to follow after one of the other merchant wagons. Saffi looked pleased with herself as Ward hauled her back up into her seat.
They passed through the New Carrington gate, and Saffi admired the wide, yawning entrance. Hooves clopped on the wooden bridge, and the wagons creaked along out to Devon’s Road, headed towards the Steel Plains. The camps outside the gate were filled with merchants, all eager to get their wares into the city, waiting for the leaving party before getting their chance to head inside. The gate camps were also well-known for their black market. While the area was under the protection of the city guard, it wasn’t patrolled heavily, and certain laws within the walls weren’t applicable out here. This was where customers interested in the treasures of the ancients could come to visit the merchants who lingered on the outskirts of The Order’s law.
Saffi caught sight of one of these merchants in the distance, obvious by the shine of his unique carriage, built out of one of the old world vehicles. “Dad, look,” she said as she pointed out across the gathered wagons waiting in the camp at the gleaming red one in the distance.
Ward squinted as he looked out at the merchant. He grunted disapproval and then said, “That fellow had better be careful. It might be legal to have old world goods out here, but the Order doesn’t take kindly to them being flamboyant about it.”
Saffi rarely ever spent time outside of New Carrington, only stealing away through the gate on occasion with friends to marvel at the old world relics. Seeing an ancient device was exciting for her. “Where do you think he got that?” The merchant’s carriage seemed to be made entirely of metal, and gleamed red like a jewel, contrasted by the expanse of rolling green fields beyond. It was raised high off the ground, supported by a wooden wagon beneath, although the carriage looked as if it once had wheels as well. The merchant had a ladder attached to the side of it, and the carriage’s door was open, revealing black seats and a steering wheel within.
“Is that a wagon?” asked Saffi. “Is he selling it?”
“It’s an old world wagon,” said Ward. “And I doubt he’s mad enough to sell it. He’s probably just charging folks who want a chance to sit in it.”
“Oh, I bet you’re right,” said Saffi. “There’s a boy climbing up into it now. Have you ever been in one?”
Ward didn’t answer.
Saffi ignored his silence and continued to muse, “I heard they used to drive those without horses, like magic. I’d love to see that. Wouldn’t you?”
“Nope,” said Ward flatly. “We’re better off these days. The folks that made those things drove themselves right into oblivion.”
Saffi groaned and rolled her eyes. “Since when are you so devout?”
“The Order’s not wrong about everything.”
Saffi again ignored the direction her father was taking the conversation, and focused on her wonderment instead. “I’d heard people had dug up some of the old world things, but I thought everything was all decrepit and rotted. I didn’t know there were still things in that sort of condition.”
“Most of the stuff they’ve dug up is useless, broken garbage,” said Ward. “Who knows how long it’s been buried? Two, three thousand years at least. But every now and again someone digs their way into an underground passage that hasn’t crumbled away. There’s a good chance you’ll see more stuff like that out here, so do me a favor and keep in mind the warnings about them. You’re better off leaving that sort of stuff alone.”
They were moving further away from the old world merchant, and Saffi stood so that she could look back at him. Ward took her hand and pulled her back down into her seat. “We’re trying to keep a low profile, remember?”
“Why?” asked Saffi, annoyed. “Why do we care who knows we’re leaving?”
“Just trust me, kid,” said Ward. “Please?”
“I’m getting tired of all these secrets, Dad.”
Ward nodded and said, “I know, but sometimes life’s better with a few good secrets.” He reached over and took his daughter’s hand, squeezed gently, and smiled at her. She was going to argue with him, but the sweetness in his eyes stilled her response.