by Alex Aguilar
“Well… what do we have here?” he asked.
“Ayisha found her at the Stumblin’ Hare, Sir Skinne-” Milo tried to intervene.
But all it took was a raised finger to shut the boy up.
“I was asking the girl,” Skinner said, tipping his head slightly to the left in awe.
Skinner’s demeanor was calm and yet alarming all at once. He had a beard that was not fully grey but nearly there. His black hair was the same, long enough to reach his shoulders yet graying bit by bit. He must have been in his fifties or sixties, but he appeared to have the energy of a bear. What caught Robyn’s attention the most, however, was the scar on the man’s left cheek. A very particular scar, it was; the type of scar that only a branding iron could make. It was in the shape of a scorpion, with its pincers raised upwards and its tail curving up at the bottom.
Once again realizing she had been staring for far too long, Robyn decided to speak up for herself. “Pardon me, sir,” she said, her lower lip trembling. “I’m… Robyn Huxley of Elbon, sir…”
“Is that so?” Skinner raised a brow. “A Vallenghardian, eh? Why are you so far from home?”
“I saw ‘er walk into town earlier this evening,” Ayisha decided to say. “She was in the company of that orc that rides with the reds. But she claims he ain’t with ‘em no more.” Skinner’s brows lowered instantly at the mentioning of the Beast, causing for a much more menacing expression.
“H-He’s not!” Robyn argued, a hesitant stutter in her lip. “He’s not like them… He’s not here to hurt you and neither am I… I swear to y-”
Skinner raised a finger into the air once again, this time right at her.
Robyn couldn’t help but to stop talking, as if the man was using sorcery to control her tongue. She knew, however, that he wasn’t; the only sorcery the man needed was intimidation.
“You never answered my question,” Skinner said, his eyes narrowing into a perplexed stare. “What’s a girl like you doing so far from home, eh? More importantly, how on earth did you travel to the other side of Gravenstone all alone without dying?”
The room was silent all over again. Robyn panicked for a moment, suddenly wondering what had become of her beloved Nyx. The last she saw of him was the moment she left him at the tavern while she chased after the Beast. But the panic only lasted for so long, before she realized whom exactly she was panicking for. The dreadful feeling in her chest was replaced with reassurance, knowing very well that Nyx would rather, as he had proved it before, be killed again and again before giving up…
“I, um…” she hesitated. She realized every pair of eyes in the room was on her. And so, with a deep breath, she chose her words very carefully. “I wasn’t alone,” she said. “I had… help.”
“Did you, now?” Skinner asked; this time his stare was far less hostile and much more intrigued. “Help from who?”
* * *
“All aboard!” the caravan master shouted.
An unusually diverse bunch climbed into the back of a hooded wagon, finding comfort among the wood and steel; a human family of three, five woodland elves, and two gnomes, to be precise. The caravan master was standing by counting coins in his hands when he was abruptly approached by a green broad-shouldered figure wearing a torn vest and trousers with red leather patches.
“Oi! You there,” the figure said gruffly. “I hear ye headin’ north?”
“Aye, good sir,” the caravan master replied with a demeanor so calm that it surprised the orc that approached him. “Ten coppers for a ride, if you’re interested. Fifteen if you’re looking to go all the way up to Dehrvonshire. Though I must warn you, folks up there are rather close-minded about… outsiders.”
The orc suddenly drew one of his daggers. He held it up at the caravan master, who panicked for a slight moment until he saw that it wasn’t the sharp end that was being aimed at him.
“It ain’t much,” the orc said. “But it’s all I got.”
“Ohh,” the caravan master chuckled with relief. “Pardon me, sir. But I’ve no need f-”
“That stone there will get ye at least fifty coppers.”
The man’s eyes moved towards the dagger’s hilt. He hadn’t noticed the shiny green stone entrenched onto the wood. “Is that so?” he took the dagger and examined it. It wasn’t particularly special, but the stone was pretty enough that the man could swindle someone into thinking it was an emerald. And so the man threw it into his rucksack, shot the orc a friendly smirk, and said, “Welcome aboard, friend!”
The orc moved towards the back of the wagon. He had one foot on the wooden step when suddenly a voice beckoned him afar.
“Beast!” it called. A very familiar voice, it was. “Wait… Beast…!”
Glancing back, all the orc could see was fog. But as Nyx came closer, the curving trail in the mud became clearer; he emerged from the darkness, his voice winded as he begged for help.
“What the fuck are ye doin’ here?” the Beast asked as he stepped away from the caravan for a moment. The passengers sitting atop the wagon gasped at the sight of the striped black-and-white serpent. Grymsbi was full of serpents, sure. But never had they heard one speak before.
“Beast!” Nyx hissed, his dry tongue slithering in and out of his mouth. “Help… Please…”
“Where’s the scrap?!” the Beast asked when he didn’t spot her amidst the fog.
“Taken,” said Nyx, unable to speak more than a few words at a time.
The caravan master chuckled nervously from afar. “I-Is everything all right there, friend?”
“A moment!” the Beast growled, then looked back down at the serpent. “Taken by who?!”
“Don’t know,” Nyx struggled to catch his breath. “Follow… South…”
The Beast’s chest began pounding, and he was caught off guard by it. Had it been any other human, he would have turned the other way at that very moment. But this was Robyn… This was the girl that saved his life when everyone else left him to die, the girl that refused to leave him behind even when he had ordered her to.
“We must… Go… Now,” Nyx pressed him.
“Um… F-Friend?” the caravan master called again. “I see that you’ve got your hands tied at the moment, but we are running a bit late as it is and w-”
“I said a moment!” the Beast growled again.
“Beast!” Nyx spoke slowly and carefully, fighting through the pain. “Robyn… needs us…”
The orc sighed furiously, a cloud of grey mist gathering at his lips.
“I shoulda known bett’r,” he said. “I never shoulda listened to ye…”
“What?!”
“Ye heard the scrap, didn’t ye? Ye were right there!” the Beast grimaced. “She said I’d be welcome ‘ere. Said in Grymsbi, I’d have me freedom. Then I come ‘ere and it’s just as I expected. Nothing but a shithole.”
“She wanted to help!” Nyx tried to argue. “She risked h-”
“She’s a reckless scrap, is what she is!” the Beast turned, as if attempting to walk away.
Nyx wished suddenly for a pair of claws, he was so aggravated. Even as a snake, he was quite fast and caught up with the orc easily. But he could do nothing to stop the orc from leaving, for that he had to rely on his words, however physically painful they were.
“And what are you?!” he managed to say, his voice becoming raspy as if it wasn’t meant to be raised so loud. “Running like a coward… when your friends need you…?”
“She ain’t me friend!”
“She’s the closest thing to one you have!”
The Beast growled and gripped his axe. To any other person, the image would have been terrifying. But to Nyx, who had faced death more times than he could count, it was as if he was staring at a harmless critter. “Go on,” he said valiantly. “Kill me…”
But the Beast realized exactly whom he was trying to intimidate. Such a strange feeling it was, to know you could intimidate almost anyone and yet come across someone who faced you
with such boldness. First Robyn, now Nyx? Even someone as stubborn as the Beast couldn’t help but be intrigued by the pair.
“S-Sir?” the caravan master called nervously again. “I’m afraid it’s time now…”
The Beast did nothing this time, only sighed again, as if contemplating his decision one last time before making it.
“They left you to die…” Nyx said abruptly.
The Beast felt his hands start to shiver. He’d never felt vulnerable, at least not as far as he could remember. Such a feeling was foreign to him. As he stared down at the serpent, however, he saw real humanlike emotion in his eye; it was almost frightening.
“Th-They… left you… to die,” Nyx struggled on, his voice full of dread and sorrow and aching him awfully. “And… who saved you?”
The Beast was far too dogged to answer, but he felt the sting all the same.
“Who… saved… you?”
The Beast closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. “Robyn…” he muttered.
“Robyn,” Nyx repeated, and it was clear he was now using all of his muscle strength to speak. “I told her… to leave you… And still, she saved you…”
Memories of the disastrous raid ran through the Beast’s mind. The fight with the minotauro, the attack of the ogres, the hours he’d spent holding on to that rock so that he wouldn’t sink… And then there was Robyn, who had freed him simply because she couldn’t find it in her heart to leave him. Trying to fight back this strange new feeling, the Beast glared at Nyx for a long time before the serpent spoke his last words.
“If you won’t help… Kill me… Now… And I’ll help her myself…”
The Beast softened his grip on his axe almost involuntarily. His yellow eyes drifted into the distance, towards the foggy village of Grymsbi. “Damn it all to hells,” he grunted, and then a moment later he was walking briskly back towards the caravan master, cursing angrily under his breath the entire time.
“W-Well, hello again! I do hope everything is in order,” the caravan master said tensely. “Do forgive my mistrust towards your f-friend, the serpent. I’m not particularly fond of the dark art of sorcery. But I’m sure y-”
“Change o’ plans,” the Beast said gallingly. “I’m gonna need that dagger back…”
* * *
Even in the darkness, the trees were noticeably different. No longer were they surrounded by a massive roof of greenery; the trees were starting to look like actual trees, some hardly higher than fifteen or twenty feet. There was an unpleasantly pungent smell in the air, like that of humidity and horse droppings blending awfully with incense, and in the distance trails of smoke stained the skies just above a cluster of wooden cottages.
“Ahh Grymsbi,” said the thief Hudson Blackwood as he took a deep whiff.
“Smells bloody awful,” John had a hand over his nose and another over his belly.
“I know. Isn’t it a beauty?” Hudson grinned as he took a bite out of a green apple. “Say what you will about the fleapit of a town, but they sure know how to properly season a rabbit.”
John noticed the apple and instantly pressed a hand to his satchel. When he didn’t feel the bump, he locked eyes with the thief and scowled. “Will you stop doing that?!”
“I’ll stop doing it when you learn to keep a closer eye on your things, mate,” Hudson took another bite and tossed the apple back at John, who held it as if it had been slobbered on by a dog. “You should be thanking me, really. Think of it as free training.”
John felt the rumbling in his belly again and gave in to the hunger. Having eaten only one meal that day, he couldn’t afford to be finicky. He took a bite.
They could see Grymsbi getting bigger in the distance, now less than a mile ahead.
Syrena of Morganna was rather silent, as was usual of her. A sick feeling was settling into her gut, though it had very little to do with the smell in the air. Lately she had felt more confident than she had in years, it was obvious even in the way she walked. After years of isolation, the witch’s only companion had been her own conscience. Except now she had two… And they were quite real… Two companions with whom she had deceived death more than once, and nothing frightened her more than losing them when she had only just found them.
“Easy, darling,” Hudson said to her, noticing the wary look on her face. “It’ll be just fine, you’ll see. Grymsbi’s welcoming orcs and elves now. You’ll be the least of their worries, I promise you.”
Syrena turned to look at him. There it was, that nervous eye twitch; it was subtle, but it was there. Her left eye, so luminously orange, flickered beneath her fidgety eyelid. “I thought we were going to Wyrmwood!” she said.
“We are, darling. Grymsbi’s along the way.”
John felt a sudden guilt at being the only one eating, and so he offered the half-eaten apple to the anxious witch. She snatched it so willingly that it surprised John. She sunk her teeth into it and chewed so quickly she bit her tongue twice and yet hardly winced. At her waist, her black satchel was twisting and fidgeting as if something was pushing it from the inside.
“Will you stop that?!” Syrena hissed, and then instantly sighed as if it pained her to convey such a tone. “You’ll get us into trouble if you’re seen… d’you understand that?”
Sivvy pushed open the lid of the witch’s satchel and caught a glimpse of the outside, bringing with her that glowing blue aura of hers. She looked up at the witch and tilted her head in that curious manner of hers.
“Don’t give me that look!” Syrena said. “You have to stay in there…”
John and Hudson looked at one another fretfully. Every time their minds forgot about the pixie hidden in Syrena’s satchel, the curious little thing only came back to remind them. Hudson had tried to reason with Syrena, but she simply refused to hear it.
“She saved our lives!” she had argued. “We owe it to her!”
Hudson understood that, and he agreed with the witch. He only hoped that the people of Grymsbi were at least half as understanding.
As they got closer, John noticed the abundance of footprints along the muddy path; some of them were massive like an orc’s foot, others were much smaller like an adolescent’s or a young woman’s. “Grymsbi’s crawling with travelers, I presume?” he asked.
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Hudson remarked. “Especially now that it’s a sanctuary village. Folks of all sorts are migrating to Halghard and Grymsbi’s the first stop. So long as we stick together, we’ll be fine. And for gods’ sake, do try and behave, mate.”
John smirked. “I’ll try,” he said. He felt his stomach growling from the hunger again. The thief must have noticed it, for when Syrena handed him the apple he passed it right along to John.
And so they walked, much slower than their usual pace due to the lack of proper rest. Though there was constant banter among them, there was also a sense of companionship that hadn’t been there a week prior. Old Man Beckwit would often say there was nothing like a long journey on the road to make a group of misfits either bond like a family or grow to loathe one another like adversaries. In this case, John was thankful that the outcome was the former. And the proof was certainly there, from the way they walked affably side by side, to the way they passed the green apple back and forth to share.
When they finally arrived at Grymsbi, it was darker and emptier than usual. While it was usually lively, even at night, the peasants had grown wary as of late, as more nonhumans began migrating into town. John certainly noticed the nonhuman folk; it was near impossible not to notice, for he had never seen one walk through the streets of a human village before. Such things were simply not permitted in Vallenghard.
They approached the nearest tavern, a shabby old thing with a sign that read ‘The Stumblin’ Hare’ and another beneath it that read ‘Greenskins & Rabbits Welcome’. There was a beggar sitting at the front steps, an elderly elf with a silver head of hair and a beard; his skin was a pale blue and he was dressed in old rags that couldn’t possibly
have kept him warm enough. Though elves were known to be on the thinner side, this one looked like he was on the verge of starving to death. He rattled a tin cup as they walked by, and John reached into his pockets for any coppers he could spare. But when he drew out the coins and threw them into the elf’s cup, he noticed something peculiar.
The elf’s forearm had been marked by a number… It read: 0107.
The elf noticed and pulled his sleeve back up to cover the numbers, his eyes lighting up with shame. John stood there gawking like a snooping child until Hudson pulled him by the shoulder.
“Come, mate,” the thief muttered. “It’s best not to get involved, trust me.”
They went into the tavern and sat at the nearest empty table. It was rather lively, as it usually was later in the evenings. And there were a couple of nonhumans sitting and mingling about with the more broadminded peasants in town.
“What was that number?” John asked the moment they had some privacy, his mind still riddled with questions. Hudson sighed and his lips curved into a subtle smirk, a sad one, like a disheartened soul whose hope had vanished, leaving him incapable of a genuine smile.
“It does sound rather nice, does it not?” the thief remarked. “Grymsbi… the very first village in Halghard to bend the kingdom’s law. The first ‘sanctuary village’, they named it. And I must say, it does roll off the tongue… But they don’t tell you the nasty parts…”
“They… mark them?” John asked, his brows lowering and his gut turning.
“A permit number, they call it. Any nonhuman that migrates into the village must pay a fee to obtain one. Even the little ones. Anyone without it gets sent right back to where they came from.”
“But that’s bloody awful…”
Hudson exhaled. “You learn fast, mate.”
Suddenly there was a high-pitched squeal coming from Syrena’s satchel. She turned in her chair and pressed a hand down over the lid. “Stop it!” she hissed, and then immediately glanced all around. But so late in the evening, the peasants were far too drunk to notice or care.