I joined Aka Manahi.

It took three hits to his head to make Giliad think again.

I joined Aka Manahi, Giliad.

Then one more to remember.

What had the old man thought to spout such nonsense? Fine, he’d been dying. That can make a man say many things. And yet, Aka Manahi … these weren’t words one used without consequences. There was weight to them. Terrible things had been done in their name. Aka Manahi, an organization of the purest evil…

“Garhala…” the bandit groaned, half of his face covered by thick mud. They survived the ‘descend’ only because the heavy rain turned the slope into a soft slide. Twigs and snapped branches were mixed with all kinds of leaves and mud. Harvey lifted one hand, it was still swollen. The other one was buried in the mud as half of the bandit’s torso and legs. That rain had good timing. It stopped raining at some point but surely another hour or two and they’d drown. Speaking of them … where was the innkeeper?

Giliad rose and felt how robust the hold on his feet was. We’re sucked in. He looked about, but the mudslide covered everything for a mile to the right and at least a hundred feet to the left. Another fifty feet of the mudslide separated them from the line of the trees ahead. Behind him was a slope, which looked dangerously steep in the higher parts. I hope, I didn’t kill him. But as his eyes swept the area once more, he was no longer so sure.

“Garhala … mercy.”

Giliad tsked.

“That god of yours won’t help you here.”

The bandits shivered as if someone threw a bucket of cold water on his head. He glanced at Giliad, an echo of panic in the bandit’s eyes. It retreated, albeit slowly.

“Help me!”

Giliad glanced at the bandit’s hand. Not many diseases affected Royalbloods. And even so, if the thing the bandit had contracted was dangerous, it’d kill him by now.

“Help me,” the bandit repeated, this time his voice sounded weaker. As if… Giliad jumped out of the mud. It tried to keep him in place but Royalblood’s legs were strong enough to break a tree in half. He rolled, making sure to stay afloat. As he reached the bandit, he considered a course of action. Pulling the commoner from this was impossible. He’d tear off his arm.

“Help…”

Two options presented themselves. Giliad could dig the bandit up. The rain stopped and the mudslide was drying up, it might just work … no, it wouldn’t. The bandit’s ailments were too far gone. It might be a question of his survival. So, Giliad did what he’d hoped to avoid. He submerged his hands in the half-settled mud, locking them underneath the bandit’s armpits. He pulled, hoping to not tear the bandit’s legs off. It could happen.

It didn’t fortunately.

Still, the strain on the joints, muscles, and bones must’ve been enormous. The bandit’s scream rang in Giliad’s ears for a few seconds, then blissful silence returned. Near the trees, the mud was wetter and he needed to carry the unconscious bandit on his shoulder. Eventually, he waded out of the natural trap. He settled the other man on a patch of friendly-looking moss and immediately started to pull away wrist-thick, gray mud leeches. He knew a little about them only because doctor Charcot had been obsessed with these things.

And because they were tasty.

He got four off the bandit’s legs. His own body was unaffected. It looked like his skin was too thick for the mud leeches to get through. The bandit’s chest was slowly moving up and down. He lived. Giliad sat down next to him, thinking of Zuma and watching mud leeches go purple. Their swollen, foot-long, and ringed bodies started to crack, spilling yellow, acrid smelling liquid. Giliad winced. He wouldn’t be able to think about them as food anymore. He once more checked on the bandit, curiously, the swelling retreated. It’s time to find Zuma. Giliad took a lungful of air and bellowed, causing a plethora of birds to take off with an offended screech.

“INNKEEPER!!”

It was a mighty cry. It didn’t manage to stir the bandit’s eye though. Chances he could reach Zuma were thin. He stared at the cliffside, this massive wall of rocks, and his body shivered as a particular memory hit him harder than the tri-horned rhino. He shook it off, remembering about Zuma.

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“Stay here, bandit,” he said and jumped into the mud. It welcomed him with greedy arms, wishing to immobilize him forever. Disappointedly, Giliad waded through it, leaving a trail that didn’t close like a festering wound. The mud was drying faster as the sky cleared a little. Most of it was still obscured by clouds, but they were thinner, some even hinted at the true color of the sky beyond. Giliad hated the open, cloudless sky. It ruled over the Fourth Region allowing the sun to dry and wilt anything not smart enough to hide.

Zuma couldn’t be too far away. He must … Giliad stopped. Two hundred feet from where he and the bandit landed, Giliad found a slight cut in the surface of the mud. Someone went this way. It led to the trees. There at last he saw dirty imprints of many feet on the forest’s bedding. Three mud leeches writhed in the grass. The other two were skewered to the ground with thin but sturdy twigs. Why did they pull out the innkeeper but left me and the bandit? Two hundred feet isn’t that far. Unless they saw me stirring awake. In that case, they must be close.

He almost rushed ahead. I cannot leave that annoying bandit. He bought me food. Giliad remembered, it’d been good food. Indecision grasped him, then a deeper conviction struck him, hard enough to pull him out of this moral paralysis. He’d promised himself to never leave an innocent in need.

And how does it work out for you, boy? That damned drunkard again. Kauri City had been mayhem, with the Imperial City Guards breathing on Giliad’s neck, a local gang running rampant, and the poorest of poor sheltering him.

And how does it work out for you, boy?

It didn’t, Giliad answered, angry at himself. He’d always been forced to stand aside and watch, not strong enough. Only if I could escape to the end of the world.

Then what?

He turned away. The bandit wasn’t innocent by a long stretch, perhaps, leaving him was exactly what the man deserved. But Giliad wasn’t one to decide it. He returned to the spot where he’d left him.

It was empty.

“Bandit?” What was his name again? Halway? Hulwey? Hol—

“Giliad!”

And that was his voice. It came from this way. Giliad turned toward the south. They’d never been there. The cliff behind Giliad ran for over a hundred miles, composing a natural barrier for the folks from Cape Town and surroundings. Not that many of them have left their village anyway. Sul and his hunters usually traveled across the river into the eastern untamed expanse or sometimes to the southwest.

This place here was unknown. Farther to the south lay a coast. It was the extent of Giliad knowledge. He stepped into the mystery without hesitation. The bandit didn’t yell again, most likely gagged or knocked out. He didn’t like how they split his companions. He couldn’t be sure of the direction they were taking Zuma. One at a time. He focused on his surroundings, though he possessed no scouting abilities, and to call him a hunter would be farfetched. Giliad didn’t mind this. He didn’t aspire to understand the forest.

Trees blurred on both sides, his reflex and coordination heightened. He moved forward only by instinct. He covered hundreds of yards in mere seconds. Animals had no time to react, some didn’t notice him until they were far behind him. Royalbloods were a force to be reckoned with. When had been the last time Giliad had allowed himself so much freedom? A moment like this awoke dangerous thoughts and deadly desires. He almost forgot his goal, letting himself to be.

Snap!

Traps closed, finding nothing but heavy air. Giliad came to stop, which didn’t go according to plan. He smashed against a tree, cracking it. Strangely modulated voices filled the space around. Many wild tribals possessed a similar way of communicating. Exactly what I needed. To encounter a tribe was to deal with a massive headache. Tribes rarely spoke the language of the Aael Empire and usually tried to eat you.

Giliad pushed himself out of the broken tree, his steps soft. A drizzle appeared out of thin air, nothing close to rain. He closed his eyes to get a better picture of where the voices were coming from. They vanished, leaving silence … and something … else. His eyes snapped open a moment later, in time to duck down, avoiding a rock thrown at him. A tribesman’s expression cracked as he fully grasped his situation. You’re screwed, little man. It didn’t give the man justice. Yes, he was much shorter than Giliad, but who wasn’t? He shared attributes common in most tribesmen: well-cut physique, short dreadlocks, white tattoos depicting unnamed symbols, and a multitude of thin bones and even smaller sticks, piercing his body in strange places. Some could say a tribe from a glance, Giliad wasn’t one of them. To him, they were all the same.

Giliad exploded forward. Devouring the minuscule distance between, in a blink of an eye but as came face to face with the tribesman, the drizzle shifted, turning into a savage downpour. His surroundings conceded before the mighty rain. It surprised him and he lost the track of the wildling. What is this? This rain doesn’t feel normal. He cut through it, and to his astonishment, the rest of the area was barely in an embrace of a pitful drizzle. The strangeness didn’t end there. The cocoon of a heavy rain faded away. The tribesman was nowhere to be seen.

Alchemy? Don’t tell me these wildings got their hands on such potent alchemy. Giliad had scarce dealings with alchemy but the empire rightfully has banned it. Alchemy was dangerous.

Zuma’s and bandit’s lives were suddenly in grave peril. He could deal with a tribe. But a tribe using alchemy?

Modulated voices returned, coming from farther to the south. Did he hear the bandit’s call? This unnatural drizzle made the sounds confused and twisted.

This is a trap. Giliad realized. He had no doubts anymore. They were luring him deeper into this uncharted world. So be it.

He took off toward the south.