What a person believes caused their loss tells you what they are.
What a person believes caused their success tells you who they are.
— Excerpt from Meditations, by the Red Emperor
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Yolven proved to be a great conversation partner as they traveled along the road, trading stories with Molam about the places they'd been and comparing their favorite delicacies. To Molam's surprise, Galven's caravan covered a great distance even while encumbered with their goods. When the second night fell, the group expertly encircled the caravans and built a small fire in the middle while others prepared the food. In the morning, it took little effort for the merchants to gather their things and put the caravan back on the road.
"So," Molam became curious of the clanging noises occasionally jingling from within Yolven's wagon. "What do you sell?"
Yolven set aside the reins and reached into his wagon, then pulled out a gleaming helmet. "Wrought iron. Recently perfected in Zaem."
Molam frowned as he accepted the helmet and inspected it. "I thought alchemists were banned from ironworks."
Yolven snorted. "That's Techoria, following the old rules written by Flangel the Wise. Zaem was founded because some alchemists believe they should be free to pursue their own alchemic way."
Molam returned the helmet to the merchant, who stowed it away. "Flangel the Wise has carried that Title for more than three centuries. Don't you agree with his reasoning for banning ironworks?"
"The stated reason is that it would accelerate the use of alchemy in war but Zaem points out that Flangel the Wise's own greatest creation is the SunFlower. And what is it made of?" Yolven shrugged. "Well, no one knows, as Flangel the Wise has never revealed it, but it gleams alright."
Molam shifted his mare, avoiding a hole in the ground and pointing it out to Yolven. The merchant moved his horse to the side and navigated his wagon around the hole.
They cleared it before Molam said, "The SunFlower is Techoria's method for defending itself."
Yolven gave Molam a look, then pointed to the short sword at Molam's side. "No matter how you look at them, things that we use to defend ourselves are also weapons, my friend."
"That helmet of yours is only a good weapon if one vigorously uses their head."
The merchant guffawed and Molam smiled. "That's a good one. You're right. Not everything used for defense can become a weapon. Here," Yolven reached back into his wagon and pulled out a dull armguard before tossing it to Molam. "Take this, I don't know how well a messenger fights but I'm sure that you would prefer to not use that sword."
Molam stared at the armguard. "I can't pay for this."
"Keep it. They're normally sold in pairs but that's the odd one out, and I'm not returning to Exabell anytime soon, so treat it as my thanks for telling me your stories about Hjornheim and your time with Mursa Khan's caravan. Merchants buy and sell information all the time, and you've given this old man some thoughts about what else I should bring to the Northern Tribes if I ever make my way there again." After a moment, Yolven added slyly, "You did mention that you visited the Fallen Star Pavilion in the past?"
"I'll talk about my time with them tonight," Molam promised, tightening the armguard on his left arm while guiding his horse with his knees. "But let me tell you, scholars want very little. Besides more books, more scrolls, more ink, and more brushes."
"Oh everybody wants, young man. Sometimes you simply need to show them something they didn't even know they wanted. Like the stories of your travels."
***
On the evening of the fourth day, they broke camp at the edge of the Slumbering Forest. Dusk settled in and Molam joined the group bent about the Forest's edge to pick up kindling for their nightly campfire.
They did not enter the Forest itself, and as night fell the trees also sank into silence. Only the solitary hooting of an owl echoed through the distance, and Molam helped the merchants set aside kindling near the starting embers to dry. Some of the women aided the men in distributing dried food, but the caravan's cook stirred at a metal pot above a smaller fire while surrounded by several children.
The pensive watching as the group went about their duties almost relaxed Molam when the spirit's voice echoed in his head.
The group is being watched.
Molam looked up in time to see one of the auramasters gallop past him towards Galven. Moments later, Galven's voice rang throughout the group.
"On your guard! Bandits! Get the wagons into a circle!"
Molam appreciated that the merchants themselves did not panic as they wrangled their horses and wagons according to Galven's orders. Molam gave Yolven a brief nod as they passed each other. The man's weathered wrinkles seemed to etch deeper into his face in the gathering darkness, giving him a grim look as the merchant maneuvered his wagon into the forming circle with the others.
Unsheathing his short sword and securing his armguard, Molam hesitated before he pulled out the feather and tucked it into the armguard, wrapping it neatly around his wrist. He then glanced towards the auramasters to look at where they focused their attention. The auramasters had arrayed themselves into a formation facing the Forest. Three of them — two men and the woman — occupied the space between the caravan and the Forest, the two men sitting atop their horses. The woman was off to the side at the edge of the circle, her spear held at the ready. The final man leapt off his horse to stand atop the roof of a wagon, a bow nocked and ready.
All of them gazed intently into the Forest itself. Unlike its daytime verdant self, the Slumbering Forest gave off a foreboding silence in the darkness of the night. He avoided looking at it too intently, the memory of the spirit's warning echoing through his head. Only the sound of the horses neighing punctuated the silence as it seemed the entire group dared not breathe. Moments passed and the wind rustled through the trees in the night, and by the time Molam realized that he felt no wind against his skin the first bodies thumped dully against the ground.
The torches and flames scarcely lit up the shadows leaping through the darkness and the earlier silence gave way to muffled shouting. A low rumbling shook through the encampment and something large sailed through the air, a messy tangle of legs that neighed and whinnied in pain upon landing.
Above.
Molam brought his arm above him and the blade bounced off his armguard, the impact sending his arm numb.
The assailant flipped in the air and landed atop a nearby wagon, the dagger gleaming a burnished red in the light of the campfire. Molam steeled his numb arm to the side, bringing up his sword arm in a guarding stance.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
"An auramaster?" he questioned under his breath, wincing as his horse shifted to the side without warning, banging the armguard against a knee and sending pinpricks up his arm. He struggled to bring the nervous mare under control. She was trained to be a fast horse, not a warhorse.
Weaker than the hired help. But still enough for all three to overwhelm you.
"All three—?" His horse reared onto its hind legs as the ground beneath them erupted, a black-clad figure leaping out of the hole and the swinging dagger narrowly missing Molam's neck as his horse pranced backwards several paces. Losing his balance, Molam rolled backwards and broke his fall with the riding mat, the impact knocking the breath out of his lungs. Somewhere during his fall he had lost grip of his sword. Scrambling back onto his feet, Molam took a defensive stance with his armguard raised, sparing a glance to survey the situation.
Chaos reigned within the perimeter of wagons. Flickering shadows danced from the gaps left between the wagons. Molam had little time to confirm which of Galven's merchants were still alive when the assailants on the wagons leapt at him again. The distance and speed of their approach surprised him, causing his heart to leap into his throat as he fell backwards. Metal flashed in the darkness and Molam could only stare at impending death when a spear impaled both assailants in midair, knocking them askew.
The female bodyguard walked into his vision, glancing at him on the ground as she grasped at her spear and tore it from the two bodies.
"Thank you," Molam gasped as he rolled onto his feet. "I never –"
The spear shot forward and grazed Molam's ear, stopping him mid-sentence. A choking sound came from behind him, and Molam whirled around to see the third assailant grasping at the spear lodged in their throat.
"I see Sanctuary doesn't appoint messengers based on battle prowess," the woman pulled her spear back, using a leg to kick the body off the spear. "To think you'd have trouble with this level of riffraff. Were you picked based on your ability to talk?"
A pillar of flame shot up into the air from the middle of the encircled wagons, crashing downwards and condensing into thick threads of fire that snaked throughout the area, snagging bodies clad in black clothes. The flames themselves outlined one of the men, standing in front of the campfire as he bent them to his will, setting only their black-clad attackers on fire. The man with the bow fired arrow after arrow at bodies that ran about on fire, and the third man was nowhere to be seen.
"You can tell these UnSeen are limited to basic physical reinforcement if they can't even prevent Lukas' flames."
"Shouldn't you…help them?" Molam dusted himself off, looking for his sword.
"No help is necessary." The woman shrugged as she stepped with him. "What are you doing?"
"Looking for my dropped sword." Molam bent down, looking for a glimmer of light reflecting off the ground in the hopes that it would be his blade. "It seemed a lot more hopeless in the beginning."
"Only because their plan made excellent use of their numbers and opportunity." The woman stamped the butt of her spear against the ground twice, then walked off to the side and came back with his short sword, handing it to him pommel first. Molam accepted the sword without taking his eyes off her, but the woman glanced back towards the encampment and took in the scene of her companions cleaning up the assailants. "But after the initial surprise, well..." she grinned, white teeth glimmering in the dark. "Rats can only do so much against wolves."
"Thank you. For the sword. And for saving me earlier. Both." Molam blew the dirt off the handle and wiped his hand on his jerkin. A gloved hand extended into his vision.
"Name's Puhraya." She introduced herself. "A bodyguard specializing in the Spear position, but I'd assume even a child is smart enough to recognize that." She tilted her chin towards the arm holding her spear.
"Molam." He found her handshake strong and restrictive, evidence of years of training with the spear. "And to think I thought you were…" Molam paused, searching for the right phrase as Puhraya turned her gaze on him. He settled for the next best. "Difficult to approach."
"Oh, don't mistake this for being friendly." She twirled her spear with a flourish. "Galven pays good money but that," she pointed to his riding mat on the ground, its dull creamy color highlighted against the darkness. "I've always wanted to wear Sanctuary's symbol on my back. I might not have been chosen to serve as a Priestess, but if you could put in a word with the Whale of ZhiXia, I can consider our tabs even."
Molam couldn't help but admire her naked honesty. "I'll see what I can do."
"Mmmhm." Puhraya pulled back her spear and gestured for the two of them to move. "Now, let's regroup with the others. Galven's going to be a pain if –"
Molam glimpsed her eyes widen just as she looked up above them, her spear shaft blocking the blow but knocking her off her feet. The wind rushed past them and the woman somersaulted in midair, pushing herself away from the ground with a hand and landing on her feet with the spear at the ready. Dropping down into a crouch, Molam scanned the night sky and saw nothing of what had attacked.
An owl. And more.
"What?" Molam fumbled with his grip on his sword, unable to process the speed at which everything was changing. "What owl? What more? Why can't you tell me before –"
A rumbling roar deafened the night, echoing through the wagons and Molam flinched in response with his hands over his ears and his eyes closed. He felt, rather than heard, several heavy objects crash into the ground about him, the tremors jolting at his entire body. Dust smothered his face and he coughed, hearing it the way he heard the spirit speak in his head rather than with his ears.
Get up, boy. The spirit's voice echoed in the background of his own choking gasps.
Molam's voice sounded muffled in his own head and the ringing in his ears continued unabated. "Are you going to help?"
Warmth flooded his body, then intensified into a searing heat that caused his skin to itch. The feeling disappeared almost just as swiftly and with a start, Molam realized his ears were no longer ringing.
"Finally," Molam murmured, pushing himself up to his feet again for what must have been the third time. He glanced at the destruction strewn about him and swallowed the rest of his words, taking a defensive stance again. It was one thing to be fully healed. It was another to think that he could contribute to the defense of Galven's caravan. Given the level of destruction, his mind immediately considered the worst.
"Is there a Domain?" he demanded, no longer willing to wait for the spirit to decide when it wanted to volunteer information.
None established.
But the owl and the roar from earlier filled his mind with possibilities. Yolven had mentioned an anima, one that was effectively being called a Titled One. Molam struggled to sort his thoughts as he ran back to the wagons to survey the situation.
Most of the wagons were aflame, and the circle had been broken through. The telltale sign of scattered boxes and splintered wood told Molam exactly what caused the thudding from earlier. But his eyes were drawn towards the giant beast that fought with the three auramasters in the center of the circle.
The four-legged beast stood taller than the wagons, a bodyguard's figure clamped tightly around a muzzle full of gnashing teeth. Black fur streaked with gold flecks covered its entire body and long neck, and the twin wings beat back the flames that flew in the air as heavy paws batted away any of the other two auramasters' attempts to engage it. A bifurcated tail whipped about as the beast tried to dislocate the one keeping its jaws shut, glowing dark-blue eyes flashing full of anger and rage.
Ah, a pixiu. Quite a specimen of its kind too. Comparable to the Prince's own.
Unlike the spirit, Molam did not have the leisure to appreciate the pixiu's terrifying beauty as it reared upon its hind legs, wings flapping and paws beating away at the determined auramasters. The beating wings spread the embers from the campfire towards Molam's direction and he covered his face instinctively, the rolling embers pelting into his flameproof clothes. Unwilling to risk staying in the firefight, he dashed away from the commotion in search of safety.
Go no further. Stop!
He ground to a halt at the edge of the Forest, and the very next moment something thumped into the earth in front of his feet. The blade gleamed a dull red in reflection of the wagons on fire behind him, and Molam looked towards the Forest where it had been thrown from.
Shadows stood at the edge, hidden within the darkness, but it wasn't them that had caused the spirit to bark a warning into his mind. No, Molam looked up and saw the figure that stood atop a thick tree limb at the edge of the Forest. The person wore simple clothes in a similar fashion to the shadowy assailants from earlier, though Molam's attention was fixated upon the glowing dark-blue eyes that bore down upon him.
"That's an interesting color."
The voice, unmistakably male, floated down to Molam and his blood ran cold. The weight of that person's gaze hung over his head and Molam had the impression of a restrictive noose tightening around his neck with each forced intake of breath. Though he could not see it, the heavy pressure demanding he fall down to his knees reminded him of all the times he had been allowed in the presence of the other dragons when they visited RainBringer in the Castle.
Molam fought the urge to breathe in and instead exhaled out, allowing the air to escape from his lungs until his body took in breath on instinct. The desire to live momentarily overpowered the heavy aura hanging over him and he found the will to speak.
"You must be the one they call GloomSire."