For a moment, the young man’s eyes were filled with sadness. But then he smiled again.
“Sorry about the village,” he said, straightened up and walked toward the gate.
Well, to what had once been a gate.
He needed to get as far away from this place as possible. The square will soon be filled with the imperial guards, adventurers, bounty hunters, and members of various guilds, united under the same banner ― to find and kill the Ternite.
Forty-seven thousand gold was a hefty sum to be placed on anyone’s head, be they an Ernite or a Ternite. The most powerful and experienced of bounty hunters didn’t seem to mind that the young man’s score was now up for seven lives and one more village...
But who was counting, anyway?
Three days later, Mystria Road
Vane the Stinker gave another order and put the old telescope to his eyes. The lenses had long cracked, turning the image into a kaleidoscope, but Vane didn’t have the heart to sell or exchange it, let alone throw it away. He had stolen it from Reiki, the most famous pirate on the planet, on one of the many raids on the Seven Seas.
No longer a pirate, Vane spent his days leading a local band. Today they were observing a caravan moving along the main road of the Middle Kingdom. No one in their right mind would dare attack the road, as even the neighboring kingdoms knew how well it was guarded. It was precise because of those rumors that Vane had decided to get involved in this adventure.
There were many currencies in this world, ranging from magical trinkets to gold, but the most valuable currency of all was one’s name. Many doors would become open for those whose name was known throughout the kingdoms...
“Chief,” Bloodhound whispered in his ear, one of the newcomers good for being cannon fodder and not much else. “Everything’s ready. We start at five.”
Vane nodded and raised his hand. The archers immediately dipped the tips of their enchanted arrows into jars of poison and the marksmen began loading their muskets. Vane, being an experienced killer, preferred doing business the old-fashioned way ― with a pair of daggers and several poisoned darts, which were much better than the newly-invented single-shot pistols.
However, such conservative beliefs didn’t prevent him from carrying several firearms on his belt and a couple of bombs in his bag. At least gnomes were capable of something, unlike their dwarven cousins.
A couple of minutes later, the caravan turned the corner ― four stagecoaches covered with white linen, a dozen travelers on foot and mounts, and the guards. There were no more than a dozen of them, but they had good armor, a couple of marksmen, and a magician at the forefront.
“Chief,” Bloodhound whispered again, “they have no clerics, we checked. But they have a warlock and a druid.”
“That ain’t good,” Vane thought.
Dressed in green and walking in front of the group was the druid. Their kind was easy to handle if there were no forests nearby. Once, in the Marda Forest, Vane had fought a druid. Luck must’ve been on his side then as he and his group of seven managed to take the druid down. Unfortunately, they were now some thirty feet away from a forest so he doubted that they’d have the upper hand.
As for the warlock, Vane wasn’t that worried about him. During his rather longish life, he had met and fought many warlocks. All they could do was spread their fingers. Powerful as they were, they were no match for him and his rusty, but trusty, rapier. Vane doubted that he’d ever run into powerful warlocks, like Urg the Toothless from the famous minstrel’s ballads, the slayer of the Demon Fehem, on an old dusty road. No, roads were full of Ternites fresh out of school.
“Tell the shooters to aim at the druid, I’ll take on the warlock.” He didn’t want to take any chances. If the warlock turned out to be more powerful than he looked, only he could take care of him.
“On my signal...”
The scout disappeared into the foliage. Vane spat; he never liked those who were too scared to take up arms. However, he had to admit that scouts had no equals in terms of speed and stealth and that their espionage work was top-notch. However, even a farmer or a carpenter could defeat them in combat.
Vane took out his weapon of choice. With four needles held tightly between his fingers, he resembled a feline ready to jump. Whoever, his “claws” were more deadly as they were soaked with poison that paralyzed the lungs.
Suffocating to death was one of the most unpleasant ways to go.
“Move out!”
Squatting, he whistled a melody similar to the call of a nightingale. There was a crack, then a rumble that shook the earth. The caravan’s path became blocked by trees that shot out from the ground, raising clouds of dust and debris. The druid had managed to block the attack from the front, but those on the rear weren’t as lucky. Two arches on horseback were crushed to death; the men shouted and the horses whined as their bones and muscles got minced and reduced to a pile of gore.
Vane ran forth. His step was light and his movements swift. The warlock, an inexperienced Ternite, saw the grass sway and then fell over. His spear fell from his hands with a rattle. Eyes bulging and mouth-frothing, he seemed to be tearing his own throat. A sickle soon chopped his head off, putting him out of his misery.
Vane didn’t have to turn around to know who had come to his aid. The mad laughter that broke out was very familiar to him. The owner of the sickles was a mad sadist, but he was well versed in the art of killing and pillaging and was thus a valuable asset.
Seven more needles were released, hitting flesh unprotected by armor and the hardwood of the stagecoaches. People screamed, someone tried to draw their sword but it was quickly claimed by either an arrow or a blade. The bandits were having little trouble taking care of the guards, but the druid still remained a pain in their rear. Whispering a spell, he started untwisting his staff.
Bullets dug into the thorny thickets rising from the ground. At that moment, long spikes sprouted from the enchanted plants.
“The air!” Vane cried.
Fifty shields were simultaneously lifted upward ― a hail of thorns released at an unbelievable speed covered the sky for a moment, turning day into night. As the bodies fell, one could hear both cheers and joyful chuckles. The first was made by those lucky enough to have avoided getting an extra hole in their body, and the second by the onlookers. There never was solidarity among thieves or bandits; one man’s suffering was another man’s cause for fun.
Vane knew from experience that the druid would need a couple of seconds to recover after such a powerful spell. This is why he wasn’t surprised when he heard a lone shot come from the forest. One of his marksmen had waited for his time to shine.
The bullet went through the thorns. The druid didn’t have the time to cry out when the projectile burst into hundreds of smaller ones. The riddled body fell on the ground ― the staff rolled downhill with a dull rattle.
“Ho!” Vane shouted.
“Ho!” the gang responded cheerfully.
The fight began. The guards didn’t stand a chance. They fell dead the moment they unsheathed their swords. Not one of them could fight alone against three or four bandits. There were bloodcurdling screams and shouts, desperate cries for help, clanging of metal and smell of blood, but Vane didn’t allow himself to get distracted. He needed to find the warlock, the only one that was capable of stopping them singlehandedly.
“Warlock!” he shouted, plunging a dagger into the visor of someone’s helmet. “Where are you?!”
A tall man emerged from between the stagecoaches when the last guard fell. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, wrapped in a tattered cloak, and with his head covered by a hood that hid his face. His powerful arms were wrapped in leather straps. On his back, he carried a longsword.
“Tell me your name, vermin,” he said calmly, “so I know who to add to my list.”
“Vane the Stinker.” Smiling, he gestured his gang to halt.
Chapter 8
T he bandits surrounded them in a
semicircle, like an audience around a stage. But instead of a curtain, they had the tattered covers of the stagecoaches, and instead of an orchestra, they had the moans and pleas of the dying. Some of the bandits were even relieving those who had already passed of their boots and valuables.
“I’ve heard of you,” the warlock said. He reached for his sword and unsheathed it slowly. The blade glittered silver in the sun. “You’re a pirate from the Seven Seas. What brings you so far away from water?”
“The wind of change,” Vane sneered.
“Well, I fear your ship has sunk to the bottom of the ocean. Sign of the Boar!”
There was a resounding pop and the warlock appeared behind Vane. He moved with such speed that it looked like he had teleported.
“You’re strong.”
The warlock suddenly knelt down. Gasping, he collapsed into the muck and blood. A hilt of a dagger could be seen sticking out from his throat.
“Pft, another poser,” Vane spat.
“Chief,” Bloodhound said, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. “What shall we do with the captives?”
Vane turned around and saw several tied-up Ernites and Ternites, however, they seemed impossible to distinguish.
“Kill them.”
“No!”
“Wait!”
“Please!”
But the bandits didn’t know mercy.
In a couple of minutes, everyone had been eliminated. After such a massacre, Vane was sure that a hefty bounty would be placed on his head. There was no greater honor for a vagabond than a large sum promised for their capture ― a bounty was like a recognition, an unofficial sign of respect.
“Are we there yet?” someone asked.
At that moment, several poisoned needles were thrown toward the source of the voice. Turning around, Vane couldn’t believe his eyes ― a young man with a black bandana deflected all of his needles with an ordinary wooden staff.
One could say that he simply hadn’t thrown them hard enough or that he had missed, but Vane was confident in his skills. One of his men unsheathed his sword, but Vane stopped him with a wave of his hand.
“Who are you?” he asked the stranger.
“Me?” the young man replied, struggling to pull the needles out of his staff. “I’m a florist. Nice to meet you!”
A minute passed in silence, broken only but the howling of the wind and the young man’s groans as he continued to pull the needles out of the wood. The bandits suddenly burst into laughter. Many even dropped their weapons and doubled over, leaning onto their neighbors and holding their stomachs. Only Vane remained calm.
“A florist without flowers,” he said, putting his hand on the hilt of his remaining dagger. Even with only one blade, he could take anyone down.
The young man looked around, spread his arms, and shrugged.
“They were stolen.”
“What were you doing in the caravan then?”
“I was on my way to Mystria. Can I go? I’m just a poor florist, your friends will laugh at you if you beat an unarmed man. You’ll become the butt of every joke.”
Vane pondered in silence, nervously stroking the hilt of his dagger.
“What an idiot!” his men laughed, slapping each other on the shoulders and backs.
“Where did you say you were from?”
The young man shrugged again. “I’ve no home.”
“Chief,” Bloodhound said. “We’ve collected the loot and killed the witnesses. Your coat of arms has been left on the boxes and the stagecoaches. We must leave before the knights arrive... The druid had definitely sent a signal.”
“We should retreat,” said the owner of the sickles, the blades of which glittered in the sun like rubies.
But Vane was in no hurry to leave. No one dared to rush him as such a thing would be considered an act of mocking his authority, and Vane didn’t like those who thought him incompetent. He had found that a dagger to the eye worked wonders with such impudent bastards.
The childish naivety and joyful smile faded away from the florist’s face. Vane reflexively took a defensive stance and grabbed the hilt of his dagger.
“So, will you let me go?” the young man asked.
Vane, a seasoned pirate, and bandit who had walked from many an ambush and trap unscathed, knew when it was the time to retreat. Looking at the imp with the face of an angel standing in front of him, he felt his fingers tremble as he reached for his pistol. Every cell in his body was shouting that he shouldn’t fight the florist.
“Get out of here,” he growled.
The bandits froze and stared in bewilderment at their leader, surprised to see him show mercy. Vane ignored their stares: he’d survive a mutiny, but he wasn’t sure if he’d survive a fight with the stranger.
“We’ll meet again,” he said, watching the florist leave. Without looking back, the young man jumped over the collapsed tree and disappeared from sight.
Among the shocked and disapproving whispers, Vane heard a wheeze. The owner of the two sickles, throat slit open, fell to the ground, twitching and jerking like a dying insect as he desperately tried to stop the blood gushing from his wound.
“Anyone have any complaints?!” Vane growled. “Get moving or else I’ll rip your spine out through your asshole and beat you with it!”
Falling silent, the bandits rushed to their positions, not wishing to anger their leader any further. Taking a deep breath, Vane tried to calm his trembling hands. He felt like a wounded beast that had just barely managed to escape the clutches of death.
“An ordinary florist, huh?” he said to himself, wondering what kind of a monster he had just met on the usually quiet and calm road. “Perhaps the winds of change truly are blowing...”
322.A.D. Age of the Drunken Monk, 26th day of Tamir, Middle Kingdom, Mystria
A Week Later
The wonderful city of Mystria, the capital of the Middle Kingdom, a paradise on Earth for both the Ernites and the Ternites. The smell that hung in the air wasn’t that of horse dung or trash as was the case in other capitals, but of perfumes, spiced coffee or tea, brought from the far East.
As for the buildings... Oh, the buildings! A wonder to be seen! Each decorated with carvings and glass windows, housing the kind and hospitable people of Mystria.
One could always hear music echoing through the streets. There was always some festivity. There was always dance, the smell of tart wine and shouts of unbridled joy that often mixed with the ringing of the temple bells. The temples, majestic and grandiose, with towers so high that you couldn’t see their golden domes even if you leaned your head back as far as your body allowed you to.
As for the fine arts, Mystria was the home of the most famous Mystria Theather, upon the stage of which many famous actors had performed, and in the seats of which the highest of nobility sat! The king and the queen included!
And speaking of the ruling couple, it would be disrespectful not to say a couple of words about them. The king, in whose beard had only recently appeared a couple of gray hairs, was a wise ruler. Strict, but also fair, he watched over his kingdom with the love of a farmer tending to his crops. He didn’t like wars; in his fifteen years of rule, he had only once engaged in war with his eastern neighbor. After that, no one dared to raise their sword in the Middle Kingdom.
His wife, Queen Elassia, the daughter of King Edmund of the United Kingdom of Dabin, was a woman of unprecedented beauty. No artist, no matter how skilled they were, could ever catch her beauty on canvas. No poet could ever find the words to describe her. The gracious queen, even though she had long past thirty years of age, retained much of her youthful blush, forcing the ambassadors to prostrate themselves at her knees and kiss her hand in admiration.
However, despite the fact that this city was incredibly beautiful, we won’t talk about it.
Near the edge of the city was a tavern, a famous gathering place of many adventurers and mercenaries and other morally questionable members of the society.
C
hapter 9
T hat evening, under the light of the brightest star in the sky, the Rusty Cleaver was noisier than usual. There were toasts, drunken giggles, joyful shouts, laughter, and merry conversations. The festive mood was, luckily, uninterrupted by the tavern’s guard, the famous fist-fighter called Cleaver.
But in the midst of all the fun and joy, at one of the tables on the first floor, the cheapest of the three that served as a dining area (the top two were reserved for lodging), was a strange group. One of them was a very young man of either seventeen or eighteen years. Such young patrons weren’t an uncommon sight as the terna was usually discovered in a person at the age of twelve.
One of the members of the group, a tall and broad-shouldered man, hung his heavy musket and longbow on his chair. The bow was so big that it’d take three strong men to pull its string.
His friend next to him was of the same height, but his narrow shoulders made him look shorter and slimmer. This, however, didn’t prevent him from carrying two swords, which was a rather rare sight.
The last man was stocky and short, but so wide that he almost looked like a square. He held a heavy shield and a mace, but he had packed his armor into the big bag next to his chair.
As for the ladies of the group, they were a sight to behold. The older of the two had hung her sheathed saber on the back of her chair. Her wavy hair was gathered in a tight bun, and her arms and shoulders were adorned with scars. Her dark eyes, although smiling, looked tenaciously at anyone who came too close to their table.
In comparison to all of them, the other girl looked like a gentle flower hidden in a thorn bush. She kept her gaze on the table, awkwardly tugging at her lush, chestnut curls. Thin fingers gripped the handle of her staff, which looked so small and dainty that one could easily mistake it for a wand.
The company was barely noticeable in the dimly lit and packed corner of the tavern. Had anyone said that they were a famous group of adventurers about whom more than one song had been written, no one would’ve believed them. Known as the Wandering Stumps, the group was known for having completed several particularly dangerous missions issued by the king himself. This was a great honor and an even greater responsibility.
Ash. The Legends of the Nameless World. Progression Gamelit Story Page 4