Chapter Fifty-Seven: Mercantile Deception

  The breeze wafted in from the Great Lake Duarc—the largest body of water in the eastern province. With it came the moist, fresh air mixed with a mineral-like afternote. The sun’s golden rays glimmered across the rolling surface, dancing and reflecting off its surface, mixed with the bright azure reflection of the clear skies above.

  A well-worn dirt path hugged the eastern bank of the great lake, flanked by deep amber trees—a mix of oak, hazelwood and maple. The merchant cart rumbled along, its worn wheels rattling in tandem with the trot of the calm and stoic black gulper horse that pulled it along.

  The frost-hardened mud had the texture of old wood, which would have emphasised the clattering of the horse’s hooves, if not for the thick layer of dried and shed leaves from the surrounding forestry’s abscission.

  The cart itself was the perfect representation of mercantilism—an assortment of pelts hung over the back of the cart. Next to it lay a large sack, with the hilts of various weapons sticking out—swords, polearms, blunt weapons. In the centre of the cart, partially covering the furs, was an unidentifiable object draped in a cloth, about the size of a beer barrel.

  A curious collection, no doubt. The owner — a crimson-haired elven lass, who looked too delicate for such a trade, her silken hair flowing steadily in the breeze, almost melding with the autumnal backdrop of the woods behind her—was a merchant who likely specialised in various goods.

  What was equally interesting were the various scratch marks, and the dried brown-red marks all over the cart—well-worn but also as if it had been bathed in battle, in the blood of foes.

  More likely, however, the cart had simply seen better days.

  Either way, this sight was unremarkable, common in fact. After all, this northbound road led towards the city of Solvelis, the largest city in the Eastern province and the last urban centre before the border with the Nalthrys state.

  Despite the orderly veneer of the Holy Empire, there would always exist a simple truth.

  Where there is civilisation, predatory vagrants roam between the law, order and settlements.

  And what better morsel than the defenceless, singular mercantile lass, her cart bloated with goods — a defenceless bounty. Her voice lifted in a tuneful hum, carrying the hymns of the church like a birdsong.

  Completely unaware of the danger that watched from the trees.

  ***

  Out of the corner of the crimson-haired elf’s vision, four figures emerged, their gait casual, almost gloating—anticipatory glee at the approaching bounty.

  The lead figure called out, his red complexion a stark contrast to the polite, almost protective inflection of his voice. “Hold up there, lass! You seem like you need some help.” His face piqued with a smile, barely concealing its predatory intent.

  The crimson-haired elf pulled gently on the reins, her core tightening as she relaxed her weight into the saddle—a counterintuitive motion given the looming figures.

  Then again, what choice did she have?

  His two companions: a stout dwarf wielding a two-handed mace, and flanked by the axe-wielding half-orc, a human with a sword and shield, chainmail draped over what would otherwise be an unassuming tunic and lower garments. Trailing slightly behind them was a slender drow, her body wrapped in leather armour, her hands hovering lightly over the two crossbows slung at her belt.

  The horse came to a stop, just two sword lengths away from the band of obstruction. It let out a soft huff, as if exasperated at the inconvenience this unexpected stop had brought on its leisurely trot through the beautiful autumn scenery.

  The merchant elf was hunched in fear, tracing the approaching half-orc. His eyebrows raised in curiosity, not at the worn state of the cart, but at how it contrasted with the youthful. Almost baby-like complexion of the supposed owner of the goods.

  He grinned, bowing in a mock representation of a noble salutation. “Now what’s a picture of beauty and youth like you doing out here all by your lonesome?”

  The mace-wielding human added, pacing past the lead half-orc towards the cart. “Yeh, look at these goods ya got," his eyes flicked to the nervous figure on horseback before focusing on the cart.

  “Quite a heavy haul you got there; don’t tell me a little wee-one like you had to do all that by yerself?” A mocking chuckle escaped his lips as he gestured to his sword-wielding companion, beckoning him towards the cart’s contents.

  The elf’s voice came, almost childlike, breathy and meek. “Please… I don’t want any trouble…” her hands raised in surrender.

  The half-orc straightened his posture, almost in a protective, reassuring stance. “No problems gonna be with ya, lass; we are just folks worried about cha.”

  A feminine, low, raspy voice came from behind the half-orc. “Looks like you need protection. My good, strong friends here can provide.”

  A soft shake came from the elf. “I think I am fine… just let me pass.”

  “Tsk, tsk,” the half-orc rumbled, his voice a low purr. “Come down, little lady. Let’s get a good look at you. The road couldn’t have been easy for someone as delicate as you.” The false politeness in his voice was stretched as thin as a sliver of cured venison, a brittle veil over the command of every word.

  “Hey Gerek, check it out, she has quite the haul!” The human male said as he picked up the rucksack containing the various weapons.

  The half-orc’s brow furrowed briefly before a mocking smile relaxed his features. “Now, now, what’s a little puppy like you doing with dangerous stuff like that?”

  “Nothing... I just found them,” the elf said, retreating towards the cart, away from the orc, hands fidgeting at her side—as if drawn like a magnet to the weapon that hung by her side.

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  The red-faced orc eyes the slender, thin blade. “Ha. And whatcha got there? An oversized toothpick?”

  The elf with red hair’s face briefly showed a scowl, as if the orc’s words were offensive, before fear took over, her lips trembling and sealed.

  “That’s not somethin you should be havin… Give it to me, Lassy.” His hand extended, eyes fixed on the thin, long blade.

  “No… this is mine…. I won’t…I can’t…”

  The half-orc’s smile widened, licking his lips as if the stuttering, pathetic, stuttering refusal was like the finest honey.

  Before he could indulge in the delicious act, prolonging her fear, a sharp voice from the dwarf cut him off.

  “Looks like she got more here — pelts and something big! Maybe it’s some treazure!” gesturing to the fabric-draped object.

  The drow’s voice remarked, “Oh, can’t have that be unguarded, get it secure, Valok!” calling out to the dwarf.

  “Shut yer pipe, Ongil, don’t take orders from-chu.” as the female elf.

  “Don’t! Please don’t take what’s under there! That’s mine!” the elf turned back, before she felt something rock hard wrap her feeble arms.

  “Calm yerself. Your stuff will be in good hands. After this, we can talk about payment for getting these dangerous things off ya,” he gestured with his pointer finger to the rest of the goods—the pelts, half concealed under the fabric.

  The last thing the elf saw was the tacit nod from the mace-wielding dwarf, weapon now sheathed as he lifted himself into the cart.

  Thak Thak Thak.

  The dwarf’s steps echoed on the cart in the now still clearing, as if the forest held its breath in anticipation of something.

  Tears gathered in the elf’s ocean-blue eyes as they met the half-orc. “You are scum,” the venom in her voice varied by the breathy whisper, barely audible.

  The half-orc pulled away, seemingly offended by the elf’s words. “Oh…? Care to say that a little louder, little pup?”

  Fllwock

  The sound of the fabric being lifted.

  Then, a sharp gasp from the dwarf. Before the sound could fully escape his throat, a blur of motion erupted from the cart. A pained scream was cut short by the wet, horrible crunch of bone.

  In that split moment, the gloating eyes of the orc shot up, seeing a mass of mottled grey, fangs barred, sunk deep into the torso of his ally.

  Then came the sound of steel on leather, a flash of silver across his vision.

  At first, nothing, at least until he felt the wet warmth across his neck.

  The world tilted sideways. His head felt light as it spun, the sky and ground churning into a dizzying blur.

  The world rose up as if he were falling—the ground rising to meet him as if in an embrace.

  The next thing he felt—heard—was a soft thump. His vision pointed towards the heavens at a sight that was instantly recognisable; a body stood in a proud posture.

  His own, without its head.

  The last thing he felt was the sounds: the clanging of steel, the panicked screams of his comrades—Ongil, Valok, and Huren—mixed with the low, guttural growl of a beast tearing something apart.

  Before the world faded to black as oblivion claimed him.

  ***

  The shovel, slick with crimson, met the earth with a soft thud, each impact accompanied by the scent of damp soil and iron. A slender figure, all sharp angles and taut muscle, wielded the tool. Sunlight glinted off youthful skin, marred only by a pale scar tracing the left cheek.

  The unmistakable visage of Selriph Daryth, a runaway mage, responsible for the brutal murder of faithful servants of the church—at-large somewhere in the Empire, if the dated wanted posters were to be believed.

  That somewhere was here, on the forested paths flanking Lake Duarc, presiding over the latest aftermath of his handiwork.

  The fugitive mage called out to the wolf, who had been watching the youth dig the makeshift burial place for their latest victims, or rather, monetary contributors for their journey.

  “Why couldn’t you have left their armour intact … only the lead orc’s gear can be sold.” Selriph let out an exasperated sigh.

  The slightest tilt of Emmett’s head—a typical gesture of curiosity—was betrayed by its blank facade. The small movement gave away nothing, merely adding to the ambiguity of its expression.

  “And the pelts — we cannot sell any of these because you always decide to sink your maws into them. You realise that we still lack the funds for even a week in Solvelis?” Selriph’s voice grew irritated as he stamped on the unmarked graves of the bandits.

  Emmett stared deadpan.

  “I doubt you grasp what I’m saying... You understand how to be quiet, to even stay docile in the cart, but can’t help tearing animal and human apart once you get the chance?”

  The dire wolf let out a whimper, as if protesting his companion’s rising temper.

  A flicker of pity tightened Selriph’s expression. “Sorry, friend … I didn’t mean that. It’s just that we need this coin.” Selriph retrieved the pack from the ground and walked to the road where Nightwind and the merchant cart were, musing, “Who knows how long it will take us to locate this Shepherd’s Trail and what they might demand of us…”

  Selriph turned back, witnessing the dire wolf growling, not in hostility at the words of his mouth, but at the graves they were about to part with.

  “I know Emmett. Of all the unlawful ruffians we had dealt with so far, this lot was by far the lowest scum.” Selriph flinched when his hand touched the spot the orc had touched.

  Damn bastards, imagine if that were a real, helpless lass.

  The youth turned, his hand settling on the bloodied pouch—gold collected from their latest haul of slain brigands — spoils of their vigilante escapades, having deliberately targeted unlawful parties on their way to the province’s capital.

  At least, that is the label that Selriph gave to his activities. There was no righteous pretence that could coat this; it was plain pragmatism.

  After all, no one would question the disappearance of these warts in the empire. Their gear and coin converted into funds for Selriph, his trusty horse, and dire wolf companion.

  Selriph hung the gold pouch among the other four he had collected over his three-week trek since he first arrived on the other side of the mountain pass.

  Then he gestured to Emmett, pointing towards the bloodied merchant cart.

  “Come on, friend, in you go again.”

  Emmett sat down, as if in disagreement with the notion that he’d idly sit in the back of the cart again.

  This mutt…

  “Fine, you can walk alongside us. We’ll make camp in a couple of hours when dusk hits—more than enough time for us to put some distance from here.” Selriph gestured to the bloodied marks throughout the well-worn path—a result of the kerfuffle they had baited their prey to.

  Its tongue emerged, and its tail gave a couple of short wags.

  Did he actually understand that?

  Selriph placed his foot in the stirrup. The horse’s neck and flank muscles eased almost instantly beneath the saddle, seemingly in approval, bearing the weight of its trusted rider.

  Then Selriph’s hands waved intricate gestures, a translucent blue wisp of arcane energy wafted coiling around his person and the dire wolf. Where the arcane energy touched skin, a visible ripple would pass through as new skin and fur painted over the old, original form.

  Crimson replaced black hair, and the fur, once matted and grey, became a golden yellow. The sharp angles of Selriph’s face gave way to soft, feminine contours—almost in stark resemblance to a face that he had encountered in his journey across the mountains. In parallel, the dire wolf’s own fierce mien melted, transforming its stoic, almost stern expression into something more domesticated and friendly.

  By the end of the spell, the former resembled the crimson-haired damsel in distress, and the latter was in the form of a golden Caulcor Hound—oversized, but domesticated.

  She then gathered Nightwind’s reins, the steed beginning a slow trot, pulling their old merchant cart—the instrument of their ruse they had found lying overturned on the side of the road days prior.

  And so, the unassuming merchant girl, horse and oversized dog moved northwards, a scene framed by the sun beginning its descent towards the grey spire mountain range in the far west over the Great Lake.

  Away from the scene of the massacre.

  Towards Solvelis, the eastern city of the empire. A centre of commerce, worship, and civilisation.

  And hopefully containing the final pieces of information and resources needed for Selriph to make his trek across the border—unnoticed, unpursued, unscathed.