The maple trees along the Sunset Road had turned fiery, and the leaves were rustling amidst the gentle breezes from the Twilight Sea, joined by the light twittering of red warblers, as if welcoming travellers from afar to the Flaming End of western Carth.
As the caravan full of grain headed westward, the limestone walls of the port city of Duskview, the westernmost tip of Carth, loomed on the horizon, and the flag of a golden trade ship on dark blue flew proudly in the air.
The sight was no stranger to Wilmaer Grey, who had spent the past year in Duskview. Mr Boothman, the owner of the caravan, had hired him and another sellsword a fortnight ago. Their job was simple — escort the caravan to the farms in Daelhalreach and back to Duskview.
The civil war in the North had been waging since Queen Kayla’s accession to the northern throne half a year ago. It, along with several small plagues, had sent thousands of refugees to the Midlands and the South. With few honest opportunities to earn a living, many turned to robbery and banditry.
“That’s why you never put a woman on the throne. Those stupid foreign bastards,” Mr Boothman once complained during their journey. That remark did not sit well with Wilmaer, who was born and raised in the northern realm. But he kept his thoughts to himself.
The young sellsword was, however, not very fond of his homeland after all. It was a cruel place to grow up, where he was raised and taught how to fight with a sword by his grandfather, who used to serve as the watchmaster of Valdorvin, a little town north of the famous Normarkan city of Eastport. And the way the townsfolk treated his family was harsher than the ever-roaring gales and blizzards. Thinking of that, he changed his mind – he did hate that place.
Like a typical northerner of Nivatran blood, Wilmaer stood nearly six feet tall. He inherited a pair of bright grey eyes from his mother, who inherited them from her father and his father before him. Born pale-skinned, he had spent months trying to tan himself in the sun, just to look less out of place among the sun-tanned people of Flaming End. But the Age of Ice was nearing, and the sun no longer burnt with the strength it held in the Age of Sun. It was, however, fortunate for him to be of dark hair. The locals hated blonds and gingers and redheads, though he did not know why.
Speaking of being out of place, the other — and more experienced — sellsword, Beorson of Ariamar, was a man of uncannily massive size. He stood about seven feet tall; his brawny arms were as thick as Wilmaer’s thighs. 6Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhsctOy0TG7
Wilmaer’s grip on his sword lightened as he saw a column of a dozen watchmen striding along the Sunset Road, guarding the area between the city gate and the inn a couple of miles away.
The watchmen in azure quilted gambesons and grey cloaks were armed with iron-tipped spears, and for some, short swords and round shields. The bars of their round nasal helms cast shadows on their faces.
The serjeant of the watchmen stopped the caravan and walked to Mr Boothman at the front.
“Haven’t seen you for a while, Boothman,” said the serjeant who seemed to know Mr Boothman well. “What do you have this time?”
“Mostly wheat for the city’s provision, and some fruits too. Soon, it will be the Age of Ice,” replied Mr Boothman. “If we don’t stock enough of them, we’ll have to feed ourselves with snow cucumbers.”
“Gods be damned.” The serjeant let out a contemptuous chuckle.
Snow cucumbers were nice, Wilmaer thought, and, once again, kept it to himself.
As they exchanged banter, the serjeant ambled over to one of the wagons and lifted back the cloth covering the bushels. He helped himself to an apple, as though he owned the goods. Then, he cast a quick eyeing at Wilmaer and Beorson before letting the caravan resume its journey.
Mr Boothman seemed to be a familiar face to the watchmen at the city gate, too, so the inspection did not take long.
Once they were admitted into the city, two pairs of watchmen escorted the caravan into the streets.
Beorson moved like a walking fortress amidst the jostling crowd. Thanks to his intimidating appearance, the caravan made its way forward easily.
Wilmaer stayed at the rear of the caravan and rested his hand on the grip of his sword, glaring at his surroundings to warn off those men of dishonest intentions.
Yet, Wilmaer was minding the wrong people — a group of children as young as ten suddenly squeezed out of the bustling streets, and dashed to the wagon at the back.
The tiny and swift children sneaked through under Wilmaer’s arm with ease, and climbed up the wagon, toppling several barrels of fruits, taking as much as they could carry, and running away.
“You whelps!” Beorson grunted at the fleeing thieves and turned to Wilmaer. “Are you blind?”
Wilmaer lunged past the wagon and chased after the children into circuitous alleyways. The children might be agile, but could not outrun the vigorous sellsword.
He followed a pair of boys into a narrow close which ended abruptly. The boys ran their eyes over the place in a futile attempt to escape. Hardly could the younger boy hold his tears when he turned around and realised there was no way out.
“Mister, please. We’ll give them back,” the elder boy pleaded, stepping in front of the younger one.
The boys were each clad in coarse linen tunics, sewn together with scraps. The air in this seaside city was growing colder, yet they still ran barefoot. It seemed pitiless to Wilmaer to hand them over to the city watch.
“Sod it,” muttered Wilmaer under his breath, as he left the boys alone.
Mr Boothman looked cross when he saw Wilmaer returning to the caravan empty-handed. Once the food had been accounted for at the city granary by the inner walls, Mr Boothman tossed a small pouch of coins to Wilmaer.
Wilmaer opened the pouch and counted – there were only twelve silver coins.
“Oi! That’s not even half of what we’ve agreed upon!” Wilmaer protested.
“You lost me a barrel of valuable fruits. That’s a fair deduction, you imbecile Niva pig,” spat Mr Boothman.
“What did you just say?” Wilmaer could not help raising his voice and drawing his sword.
“Are you mad, boy? Trying to spill blood in front of the city watch?” uttered the granary master.
The sellsword scanned the watchmen around, all of whom had drawn their swords. He gritted his teeth at the churlish merchant and sheathed his sword, leaving the granary with the twelve silver coins.
After two long weeks of work, Wilmaer always looked forward to a simple meal at Lorven’s Tavern near the town square, although there was a taproom in the inn where he usually stayed. The taproom was quite a popular gathering spot for the sailors from the docks, and they reeked of a mingled tang of brine, sweat, and tar that clung to them like a second skin. In stark contrast, Lorven’s Tavern was cleaner and smelt nicer, and in Wilmaer’s opinion, they offered the best apple pies in the city.
And of course, Dana worked there.
Wilmaer made his way through the twisting streets to the town square. After a few turns, he pushed open the door of Lorven’s Tavern and immediately spotted the neat, auburn hair bun and its owner threading her way deftly in the rowdy crowd. He always liked the young serving maid, someone close to his own age, and, like him, an outcast in this sprawling city. After the quarrel with Mr Boothman, Wilmaer was in a sullen mood, but he felt better when he saw her.
Yet this time, Dana did not seem very happy to see Wilmaer. She said with a frowning face, “there is some girl looking for you.”
“A girl?” The sellsword was far from home, and he could hardly have a clue who she might be.
Dana gestured toward a hooded figure sitting in a corner of the tavern, quietly sipping a cup of juice, and then left the bewildered sellsword to make sense of the situation.
Wilmaer walked over to the booth. He unfastened his belt and set the scabbard beside him before sitting down across from the girl, who raised her head and looked at him.
The girl was covered in a fine woollen cloak, dyed deep green. Under the hood could the sellsword peer at a pair of clear emerald eyes and a few strands of light brown hair. When she lifted the hood, he could see her velvety, fair-skinned face that spoke of a life far from fields or sun.
“I heard you’re looking for me?” asked the sellsword.
“I was told you’re a Nivatran from Normark,” answered the girl. She appeared to be a few years younger than the sellsword. And she spoke with a melodic accent of which the sellsword had never heard.
“I presume you speak Serethian?” The young girl continued.
The sellsword grew wary of the girl’s reply. He spent another moment measuring the girl, and spotted a wooden staff with a sky-blue gem on the top — she must be a sorceress.
Wilmaer did not know much about the mysterious arts of sorcery, or what they called magic. It was said that children at a young age were sent to the Tower of Magic across the Carthian Channel to learn sorcery, an art that is believed to be what remained of the ancient elvan civilisation.
The girl caught the flicker of realisation in the sellsword’s eyes.
“I’m Rissa, a mage student at the Tower of Magic.” The girl introduced herself. “I’m seeking an escort who speaks Serethian to assist me on my journey.”
Rissa, Wilmaer suspected, was not her real name. Perhaps it was short for Marissa or Clarissa. He could not be sure, but it unsettled him that she had to hide it.
“Wilmaer,” replied the sellsword. “And yes. I speak some Serethian.”
Serethian was an ancient language spoken mostly in Serethia and northern Normark.
“Splendid!” A smile grew on Rissa’s face as she heard the answer.
“Hold on a moment, Miss Rissa,” Wilmaer interrupted the excited girl. “I haven’t agreed on anything. Can you explain what you’re trying to do?”
“Rissa will suffice,” replied Rissa. “Very well, Mr Swordsman. I am entrusted with several tasks, one of which is visiting the island of Serethia. It’s in the heart of the Great Crescent Bay .”
“Thereafter, I will have to share my findings with my master. Once that is done, I shall know my next task. You will assist me in this investigation.”
“Investigation? On what?” asked Wilmaer.
“Oh, merely some arcane affairs. It is somewhat complicated. I would not bore you with it,” replied Rissa, “it won’t take more than a trimester, I would say, and you will return home before the Ice of Age comes.”
Wilmaer did not like her tone, and his patience was thinning. For a moment, he considered leaving the booth altogether until he heard her offer.
“A hundred crowns.”
Wilmaer blinked and could not believe what she promised — a hundred gold coins. That was more than what he could make in four, perhaps even five years. It almost sounded like a joke until he met Rissa’s determined gaze.
The Age of Ice was nearing, and the sellsword would definitely need the money. He could settle somewhere near the city wall, take his grandparents there and start a new life.
Neither spoke for a long while. One weighed his thoughts, and the other waited for an answer.
“I agree to be of your service,” the sellsword finally said. “But we will have to seal a contract at the guild on the next morn.”
Usually, the sellsword would not trouble himself with contracts at the guild, but a hundred crowns was an awfully large sum. By the good names of the Nivatran Gods and the Lecnorian Gods, never had he seen such wealth.
“That is a fair arrangement,” Rissa said and nodded. “I shall see you at the sellsword guild by the morning bell. I believe that’s when the guild begins its work of the day.”
The mage student left a silver coin with the tavern keeper and left the place.
Wilmaer did not know what to make of this contract, but his stomach was already rumbling. He had to eat.
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