Chapter Fifty-Nine: Caged Ramblings

  The golden gleam in the sky streaked overhead, cutting into the rising tide of dark blue on the horizon. The forest surrounding the worn path grew sparser and sparser. The horse’s hooves clattered along the well-trodden stone-paved path, mixed with the soft creak of the cart’s wooden wheels behind them—a sign of their proximity to civilisation. Beyond the treeline, Selriph could just about make out the features of a walled city on his easterly trek.

  The City of Solvelis, the capital of the Agurdia province, is their next pit-stop.

  He turned to Emmett, who had a cheerful, almost loping gait next to the youth mounted on the Black Gulper Steed.

  “I know you are an eager friend, but we’d best make camp at the edge of the woods; there is nothing but plains till the city—and it is still at least half a day out.” Selriph’s voice had a feminine tone, matching the crimson-haired elf’s likeness, which he had continued to don.

  Contrary to the expectant motion of the dire wolf’s ears dropping—a sign of disappointment and having to camp one more night in the wilderness—the ears perked up.

  And it wasn’t from the confusion brought about by Selriph’s vocalised remark that matched his, or rather, her appearance.

  In the same second, Selriph felt whatever the extremely sensitive hearing of a dire wolf picked up. Something from beyond the treeline to his right.

  A magical, arcane signature. Distant, extremely faint, but unmistakable.

  This… in the middle of an Eldeitian Province…?

  Selriph pressed his weight into the saddle as Nightwind slowed to a stop, her head tilting backwards and her ears twitching, possibly hearing whatever disturbance the wolf was hearing—if it was even reacting to the same thing. Selriph’s eyes darted to the treeline—nothing visible under the thinning canopies of amber leaves.

  Is it just my imagination? Perhaps it’s better if we just keep—

  As if sensing and in direct opposition to the youth’s internal thoughts, Emmett began a slow, cautious crawl into the tree line, his eyes darting back and forth, then twice, as if beckoning his human ward to follow his command.

  Selriph’s eyes shot up in exasperated resignation—he knew there was no way he could exercise command over the dire wolf in this situation. Instead, he dismounted the horse, guiding it to a nearby branch and tying its reins to it.

  Not that Selriph had any notion that Nightwind would run away, she exhibited a quiet loyalty that he more than appreciated.

  No, this was precautionary, for he knew from experience that the horse could be spooked, which was a real possibility given they were investigating something magical in the woods, against his better judgment.

  By the time Selriph had finished securing the horse, Emmett had disappeared into the shadowed veil of the forest, Selriph in a graceful slink, panther-like, closing the distance between him and his canine companion.

  As he caught up with the wolf, who was gliding through the undergrowth like a maritime creature through the ocean, he not only felt the increase in static of the magical energy, still faint, but very much sticking out from the ambience of the life energy of the forest.

  Selriph weaved intricate gestures as he found himself a mere blade length behind Emmett, now in lockstep with him. From his hands, mystical energy flowed, creating a subtle blue, almost invisible film; fine threads of it extended and spread like creeping roots under their shoes. In the same movements, his appearance returned to what he had naturally been endowed with—the face of the runaway mage.

  The sound of their investigative trekking faded into silence as they got closer to the source.

  After another minute or so, Emmett paused, looking past the treeline into a small clearing.

  At the same moment, Selriph could finally hear what the wolf had heard, or rather, what it sensed; it was impossible that even its bestial hearing could detect the activity from that great a distance.

  Selriph ducked, his body now joining the dire wolf at the same height—obscured in the underbrush. Through the amber-leaved vegetation, he could make out two carts—not unlike the one Nightwind had in tow.

  Merchants? Are they carrying some sort of magical artefact…?

  Then the words of annoyed reprimand came from the armour-clad figures around the carts. One figure in leather armour, one in chainmail, and the last in plate armour—their features indistinguishable as they faced away from Selriph’s curious eyes. The assortment of humanoids was reminiscent of the group Selriph had slaughtered a few days ago, alongside his dependable animal friend that crouched near him.

  A band of mercenaries…? No… perhaps it is just a merchant who hired protection… best to leave them well enough alone…

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Selriph, his curiosity now quenched, was about to depart when the rising commotion held him spellbound.

  “She has been yappin since we left the foking city!” the figure with the plated armour bellowed, fully audible to the two unseen eavesdroppers that were out of sight.

  “Yeah, and her eyes are glowing all funny, twitching like mad. You said dat you’d have it under control.”

  Eyes? Glowing? What are they on about…?

  From beyond the cart, a robed figure emerged, hood down. With a deep black beard and a face that showed no signs of aging, he was just a few years from middle age.

  “Calm yourselves; it’s all incoherent mumblings. Perhaps you could discipline your mind and ignore it.” The robed figure waved dismissively at the contents of the cart.

  “The deal was that you’d shut her the hell up, isn’t that why you are here? Or can you only light our campfire?” The figure in the plated armour stepped towards the robed figure, fist clenched, chest puffed out.

  “Exactly, with her glowing all weird and making all that racket, how were we supposed to make camp in peace? We have at least a month till we get to the capital,” the leather-armoured figure said, his voice edged with annoyance.

  As if on cue, Selriph heard the mumbles mixed with the clinking of something metallic—something that resembled chains.

  “You shouldn’t have complaints; the church will pay you handsomely. All you have to do is deliver her, and we will assume responsibility.”

  “Yer responsibility is to shut her trap—you said that those bracelet-things would control her magical whatnots?” as the plated figure gestured to the cart.

  “So tell me, why is she glowing even more and her mouth yappin’ more than yesterday?! You said your holy arts would deal with that!” he slammed his palm at the cart.

  Holy Arts?

  Selriph’s mind flashed to the flames conjured by those who practised the ‘holy arts’, conjuring flames in ceremony in the templar chapel.

  Selriph focused on the robed figure’s features; there, inscribed on his cheek, seemed to be an insignia. He could still make it out from far away: two circles on top of each other, lines extending from the circumference, and a skull in the centre.

  A ‘holy mage’ blessed with divine grace and allowed to wield magic in Eldeitia, wore a crest and was completely dedicated to the church.

  He then heard a sound: soft, pained whimpers that sounded feminine, originating from the merchant’s cart—or, to be more accurate, the moving prison that held the outlaws’ humanoid spoils.

  Selriph found himself spurred into action, now having identified more than ample reason to enact sweet death on not only a ‘holy’ servant of the light but also the outlaws they have associated themselves with.

  Selriph’s hands tightened around his estoc as a veil of shadow draped over them—melding him with the growing gloom of the woods as he began his approach to the hypocritical alliance of holiness and sellswords.

  ***

  The robed figure, postured with an air of authority, gestured with his palms toward the armoured person, subtly signalled for them to back away by moving his hands in a calming motion.

  “I cannot provide an answer as to why the holy bindings have no effect on her—we understand very little about those endowed with the Sadria’s Eyes.”

  “Sounds like splittin’ our share with ya is a mistake then—what good are you if you cannot even do your one job right?!” The mercenary’s hand placed over his greatsword.

  The crest on the robed figure’s cheek glowed, and his fingers emitted golden energy that struck the hilt of the greatsword. A rapid tug caused the sword to leave its scabbard; the expectant metallic clatter softened on the forest floor.

  “Do not threaten me again—I have tolerated you and your compatriots’ brutish antics only because of your reputation and the proof of your ability by abducting the girl and escaping the city without riling the guard.” With a flick of his fingers, the holy magical energy dissipated.

  “But do not test me—if I can stand your presence, you can endure the caged ramblings—she is no full-fledged seer; her words offer no meaning.”

  The leather-clad figure raised an objection. “She ran her mouth about my mother, said she’d—”

  The mercenary recoiled in terror at the sight of the sigil’s renewed glow.

  The figure bearing chainmail walked up, his hand placed in a diplomatic pat on the plated figure.

  “Look, Edom, why don’t we just muzzle her, lest that stops her runnin’ her mouth.”

  The answer came instead from the holy mage. “That is ill-advised—her divine powers are already racing out of control; attempting to shackle her by these crude means will add to her distress; her bindings are barely holding as is.” The holy figure placed his hand firmly up in warning.

  “Just allow her to exhaust herself, like yesterday, and she will succumb to sleep. After all, she’s mortal, the same as we are,” the robed figure said solemnly.

  As if endeavouring to provide a massive rebuttal to the holy mage’s statement, a voice—deep, rich, and otherworldly — emanated from the cart.

  “Mortal… Ha… your doom draws near…” the voice came, croaky, almost elderly.

  The four figures turned towards their source.

  “Life ends by the blade…. The shadow…. From the woods,” as the ominous, almost hag-like slurry of words echoed through the clearing.

  “There she goes again… now she is trying to tell us a ghost story.” The leather-armoured figure waved dismissively.

  The holy mage, head tilted in curiosity. “No … this…” His words trailed off as he paced around to the cart, his footsteps heavy, ponderous.

  “A dance whirl of silver and death! A soul of despair, vengeance, and retribution. A beast of carnage! Ohhhh blood, so much Bloood…!”

  The figure, clad in chainmail, rested his fingers on his brows. “By my arse, now she is acting like she is possessed by some demon,” before he turned around. “C’mon, Edom, maybe we should set our bedrolls way over there, otherwise we’d never—”

  His foot bumped into something—possibly a huge pinecone.

  Then a masculine scream came, ringing through the woods.

  It came not from the captive, who was still in the middle of his trance.

  It came from him registering the sight, or rather, the thing that had just come to a rolling stop under the feet of where Edom stood.

  Rather than a pinecone, the object was made of bone and wrapped in skin, having rolled to the feet of the body, which it was previously connected.

  His eyes traced up to the former comrade, a free torrent of blood escaping like a free font of crimson ichor where his head used to be.

  A shadow-shrouded figure, an elegant, thin sword covered in red in hand, with a scraggly grey beast close behind, waiting to leap upon the flesh before them.

  The precise flurry of steel erupted through the clearing, mixed with the crunch of bone, the pained death cries echoed into the whispering howl of the woods — an accompaniment to the discordant symphony of sounds that was all too familiar to the one enacting death on these unfortunate souls.

  “The phantoms of death have come!” The female captive’s trance-induced words echoed ominously in the clearing.