11

“You didn’t say you were an Adventurer,” Sagaris said.

San glanced at the woman. “No one asked.”

She snorted and folded her arms. “We wouldn’t have treated you like shit when we first met,” she said.

“That so?”

“You’re dressed like one of the forest fuckers, you’re carrying odd gear, the sword is probably worth more than the fur all these damn trappers are carrying, and you’re neither Tribe or Imperial,” Sagaris said. “If you’re an Adventurer, that’d explain why you’re out this far north. Where do you hail from?”

“Far from here,” San said.

Sagaris sighed. “You’re making this hard,” she said.

“How’s that?”

“I’m trying to extend a bit of friendship your way,” she said.

“Because I’m an Adventurer?” San asked.

“Yeah.”

San nodded. Sagaris frowned at his response. “The hell is that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

“I’m no Adventurer. I’m just a brewer,” San said.

“Yeah, I get that now. You ain’t no Adventurer, you’re an asshole,” Sagaris snapped and stalked off.

“Got a way with people, San,” Pavano said walking up to him. The old man had a spring in his step as he stood beside him.

“I suppose.”

“First the trappers, now the caravan leader.” Pavano tutted under his breath as he looked at the others. The waiting trappers followed where Sagaris had come from, their eyes locking on San and they began glaring at him. “Maybe your campfire isn’t the best place for me to sleep.”

San sighed. “I suppose.”

“Need not worry, lad!” Pavano slapped San on the shoulder, a grin on his face. “I haven’t lived this long without knowing where the shit’s gonna land.” He chuckled and hitched his pack a little higher.

The two stood there, watching as Markona and the other wagoners and guards struggled to move a wagon that had slid off the side of the narrow road. The road was a deeply rutted track in the woods now, little to no maintenance having been done in years. Rain and melting snow had turned the road into a waterway, cutting deeply into it and making some sections barely passable.

“Wagons are too damn heavy,” Pavano stated watching as Markona cursed the men and beasts. “They should unload some of it. Senta only knows why its so damn heavy, in my day we would have stripped the wagon of its cargo, got it back on the road, and have been half way to Midway before dark.”

“You were a wagoner?” San asked.

“Among my many occupations,” the man grinned. “But my greatest occupation was the lover of women.”

San snorted.

“You ever make it South to the Empire, the Priestess of Covanus are gonna be all over you.”

San raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Big man like you, thick and strong, the Covanus cult produce warriors to fight monsters. Their priestess find big strong men to father children with.”

“Weird,” San said.

“You wanna talk weird, son. That’s the Cult of Hesna, Void worshippers. They think their god, Hesna, trapped herself in the Void to battle the horrors there. Crazy fuckers castrate themselves to honor her.” The man shook his head. “The Last Emperor’s son joined that cult. Got his dick chopped off and set off the civil war. Who wants to follow a dickless emperor? One that won’t father any children and who worships at the altar of a void god?”

“He’s the emperor now?” San asked.

“Well, no,” Pavano said. “He was never proclaimed, as he and that damn Cult killed every member of the People’s Voice. Law states that only the People’s Voice can declare who the emperor is. They were leaning toward one of his cousins.”

“What happened to his cousins?” San asked.

“Probably dead,” Pavano shrugged. “It’s hard being of royal blood. Half the time someone’s trying to use you to take power, the other half your kin is trying to kill you to maintain power.”

“And this civil war has been going on for ten years?” San asked.

“Aye, the Last Emperor’s son has hold of the Great Cities and all the trade routes to the Far Kingdoms. He’s got most of the population under his thumb, but most of the legions and governors have raised the flag of rebellion. If they all worked together, they’d have crushed him within a year, but they’re backstabbing, bickering fools. They’re scrapping the bottom of the amphora looking for distant cousins and relatives with a hint of royal blood to be their puppets.”

Without a map or atlas, San could only vaguely imagine the happenings of the Empire. A ten year civil war seemed like an impossibly long time, but history in his own world had wars that lasted just as long or longer.

“How has this effected the Baronies?” San asked.

“The Empire isn’t the only place filled with backstabbing squabbling bastards,” Pavano said. “The eight Barons are all vying for power, they’re constantly raiding and attacking one another. Especially with gold now being found in the western Barony of Sels Sentari. That’s where the White Tower baron is now, he’s raised up his forces in the spring and marched to reinforce the Sentaris against the other Barons, especially Sen Suvanna, who control most of the trade going into the Empire and the richer they become, the more they want.”

“Sounds like there is no peaceful place,” San said.

“Indeed. Even Suvanna is being swarmed with Imperial refugees and plagued with bandits. The western baronies were being hit hard by the Forest Tribes after their Mage Chief died. Refugees, raiding parties lead by pissed off headmen, that’s mostly calmed down now that the High Chief has taken over. But they’re still fighting among themselves too, with the Pretender’s forces still loyal to his corpse.”

“You seem to know a lot,” San said.

“That’s how I’m old and loved, son,” the man grinned. “Keep your ear to the ground and find out everything that’s being spoken of in the dark. It’ll keep you alive and your coin purse full.”

“Are you an Adventurer?” San asked.

“Sweet Senta, no!” the man looked shocked. “Although with my handsome demeanor and woolly like strength, many have mistaken me for one.”

San wondered what kind of world he had been brought to. It seemed unnecessarily violent and brutal. Earth hadn’t been a bastion of peace and equality either, there was war and death going on across the globe that dwarfed the wars here. It just wasn’t so visceral as it felt now, news reports and social media snippets sterilized the news enough that it never entered his daily thoughts.

As he stood there, stinking of woodsmoke, sweat, and nearly two weeks without taking a bath, the world just felt far more real than it had back home. This world was violent, ugly, and dirty, but San had to admit he felt more alive.

Although the presence of literal monsters was off putting. It felt as if any place not occupied by humanity was occupied by something that wanted to kill them. There had been the Flesh Horror, the rippers, the woman in the woods, and the Hanged King’s shades. All preying upon humanity, but also being preyed on by humanity.

The pair silently watched as the guards and wagoners worked. There was a fresh roar of curses and groans as the wagon rolled back and seemed to get stuck deeper into the rut. There was a cruel chuckle from the trappers that Markona and the others overheard and soon the two groups were yelling and posturing to one another.

“Might be here all day,’ Pavano said.

San nodded. “I’m going to collect some firewood,” he said.

“Should be safe. We’re out of the Hanged King’s Forest.”

San took off his pack. “Mind watching this?” he asked.

“Of course.”

***

San made a pile of firewood that he had found, he set down his sling, made from two branches and two lengths of six foot para-cord. He piled the wood within the sling and pulled the two branches together and it wrapped the firewood.

A twig snapped in the silence of the woods, although he could distantly hear the yelling and cursing of the guards and wagoners.

“Wolfram?” San asked.

It had been nearly five days since he had last seen the wolf ram. She had been with him when he met the pale woman and when he had come to outside of Blackened Bridge. Beyond the talk of the three drunks in the bunkhouse, he had not heard of anyone spotting her. He wondered if she had stayed in Tribe lands.

“Who the fuck is that, foreigner,” a voice said.

San frowned as he came face to face with the rude trapper from the first day. His name was Kenton and from what San knew, he had already gotten into fights with the guards and other trappers. He was as surly and mean spirited as he looked.

“Afternoon, gentlemen,” San said, dropping his bundle of wood.

The two figures behind him snickered. “Gentlemen? You hear that Dent? We’re gentlemen,” the blue eyed man said.

“I ain’t gentle. The whores at Midway can attest to that,” Dent replied.

“You’re the reason Willox is gone,” Kenton snarled. “That damn witch fire of yours brought those monsters to us and they took Willox.”

The morning after the shades had tried to lure him away, the caravan was abuzz as one of the trappers had disappeared. The last anyone heard was that he’d gone to take a shit and never returned. There wasn’t much gnashing or wailing about his absence, instead a cold hearted game of dice ensued to see who would take his belongings. No one knew if he had kin or where he was headed, and honestly no one cared. His furs had been taken and the useless pile of supplies lay on the side of the road marking his existence.

San didn’t respond to the accusation. They had come here to fight him, they weren’t going to listen to reason. He stepped back, giving him enough room to draw his sword. The trees weren’t close to hamper his swings and if it came down to it, he could use the revolver.

The men saw his movements and mirrored it, hands going to short swords and daggers. Their faces turned from mocking to grim, readying themselves for the fight.

“I lost a lot of brothers in Sickleland,” Kenton snarled. “I’ll gut you like your kind did to my friends.”

San drew his sword and the action was copied by the others. He wished he had brought along the spear, at least the length would have kept some of them at bay. Calmness settled over him as he watched the men spread out a bit, they would come at him from all sides, he had to prevent that. A tree or two could hamper-

Pain exploded across San’s back. He lurched forward and more pain blossomed as he dropped to his knees. A fourth figure stood behind him, a sneering grin plastered on his face.

How had he gotten behind him?

Of course, they were trappers. They lived in the forests.

Kenton rushed forward and kicked him in the guts. San’s breath exploded out and he nearly vomited. The fourth man began wailing on him with the club and Kenton kept kicking him.

“Fucking foreign bastard!” Kenton screamed. “Kill my brothers will ya!”

“Let us get a taste!” the other two yelled as they rushed and begin stomping down on San. He cried out and protected his head with his arms.

“Get his boots. I want those boots,” someone cried.

“That sword is mine,” Kenton growled.

“Fuck you, I’m the one who took him down!”

San would have laughed if he wasn’t in so much pain. One of the men punched another and soon he was forgotten as they fought over who would take his sword. San grimaced and peered through his arms to see that the fourth man had Kenton against a tree and was punching him. The other two were wrestling in the snow.

A low growl caught San’s attention. He barely had a moment to turn before he saw a shape appear out of nowhere. One moment Wolfram wasn’t there, the next she was. Her horns cracked loudly as she slammed into the fourth man. He cried out, his back arching. She immediately barreled into the two other men.

“Horned wolf!” Kenton cried, his face bloody and swollen He immediately turned and ran, leaving the others behind.

In less than a minute, the four men were gone. They had fled, leaving behind their weapons and a boot. San uncovered his face and lay in the snow, breathing slowly. Pain throbbed along his ribs and back, his head was fine, but his arms also ached. Nothing felt broken, but he was glad greed had distracted them.

Wolfram appeared above him, sniffing him. San automatically reached up and scratched the side of her head.

“Good, girl,” he said and stopped. What was he doing?

She didn’t bite him or finish him off. Instead she leaned into his scratching and then walked off. San blinked and watched her begin sniffing the ground. He looked at his gloved hand and saw it was red with blood.

He gingerly touched himself, wincing with pain but not finding anything bleeding. He let out a sigh of relief and sat up. There was no blood on the snow around where the men had fought, that meant Wolfram hadn’t bitten any of them. The blood wasn’t hers either, she didn’t seemed to be injured in the short fight.

Using a nearby tree, San pulled himself to standing. He grunted and limped after Wolfram’s tracks. She had slipped away again, saving his life for the second time. He noted the drops of blood on the ground, leading deeper into the forest.

A few minutes later he saw where the blood had come from. A man dressed in white cloth and leather lay in the snow. His stomach had been ripped out and one arm had been consumed.

San nearly gagged as he looked down at the torn body. He saw Wolfram’s pawprints all around it, there being no question of who had killed the man. He shivered at the thought of him petting her like she was a friendly dog moments before.

Wolfram might have killed a man, but San realized he was more interested in who the man was. He wasn’t dressed like a hunter or trapper, the clothing was well made and he had gear that was designed to not be seen and to protect against the cold.

A scout of some kind?

The man carried several daggers and a short sword. There was a quiver of arrows at his hip and an unstrung bow on his back. The face was nut brown and creased with a look of surprise and pain.

“What the hell is going on?” Sagaris’ voice demanded.

San straightened up, groaning as he did. He saw that Sagaris, Markona, and some of the guards had found him. They were breathing heavily and armed, evidently running to his rescue at the cry of wolf.

“Looks like a scout,” San said. He gestured to the man and Sagaris’ eyes widen.

“Fucking hell,” Sagaris said. “Kenton said you were summoning horned wolves, not killing some fucking woodsman.”

They all gathered around the body, looking at it. Sagaris nudged it with her boot.

“That ain’t no woodsman,” Markona said. He stepped forward, leaning his rifle against a tree, and bent down. His massive hands easily ripped open the blood stained coat of the man to reveal a necklace.

He snapped the leather cord and peered at it.

“Noxitona mercenary,” Markona said, tossing the necklace to Sagaris.

“Noxitona?” San asked.

“One of the Far Kingdoms,” Sagaris said absently. “There’s only one fuck who’s got Nox mercs.”

“Sen Suvanna,” Markona grumbled.

“What’s going on?” San asked. He leaned against the tree, taking slow breaths.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“You’re right. This is a scout.” Sagaris tossed the necklace onto the ground. “Looks like Sen Suvanna isn’t just fighting in Sentari, they’re prowling around in these woods too.”

“Oh.”

***

San groaned as he dropped the bundle of firewood he had brought back to camp. The wagon had been abandoned for now, as Sagaris and Markona began unloading weapons for the defenses of the caravan.

“That’s not much wood,” Pavano said.

“I was interrupted,” San remarked.

The old man looked to the trappers, the four who had attacked him were under guard. The one without a boot was shivering and had a swollen eye. The other three didn’t look all that great either, their weapons stripped and sitting without coats. Why no coats?

“You that good in a fight? Taking on four Veterans and roughing them up?”

“They had a falling out,” San said.

Pavano laughed. “There is no honor among murderers,” he said.

“Yeah.” San winced, realizing he had come very close to dying again. He figured he should sell the sword or throw it away, everyone knew what it was and this was the second time he had been nearly killed for it.

“You’re lucky that horned wolf had eaten its fill, otherwise you’d be a filling its belly now.”

San grunted in acknowledgement.

“Pretty far south for a horned wolf to be, but not unheard of. The bigger question is: Why would Suvanna be attacking a fur trading caravan?” Pavano wondered out loud. “Sure, the Sol Savanis barony and the Sen Suvanna are fighting one another, but this far north?”

San shrugged. “Economic warfare,” he said.

“What now?”

“Destroy trade in a region and bleed them for money,” San said.

“The trade with the Tribes isn’t that lucrative,” Pavano said. “Could be they’re sowing chaos? Making everyone afraid. A small raiding force can wreck a lot of havoc. It’s what General Innivar did during the Sickleland wars. Caught those Sickle bastards with their dicks out and lopped them off, no offense.” Pavano looked chagrined at his words. Kenton’s claims that he was from Sickleland had been accepted by everyone now, including Pavano.

“I’m not from Sickleland,” San said.

“Oh? Where do you hail from?”

“You. Adventurer,” Markona snapped, interrupting their conversation.

San looked up at the big man as he held a crossbow out to San. “You said you were willing to learn.”

“What’s going to happen to my attackers?” San asked. “Do I press charges? Will they be punished?”

“They didn’t kill you,” Markona said.

“They tried.”

“Then it’s resolved,” the big man grinned.

“Not really. If they attacked me once, they’ll do it again.”

“Then don’t be a fool and walk out of earshot by yourself,” Markona growled. “You have only yourself to blame there.”

“Didn’t I pay for protection?” San asked.

“What are we? Baron constables? Guard watch? We’re traders, kid. They’re trappers. If you want to settle this little tiff you all are having, go back into the woods and be done with it. If you return or they return, then the matter will be settled.

“Plus Sagaris’ got them stripped and weaponless. They’ll stay that way for the night, it’s punishment and as much as we can do. It’s this or outright killing them. One doesn’t make sars by hanging brawlers.”

San sighed, seeing that his concern wasn’t registering with the man. He glanced toward the four men, they were huddled up and shooting glares at him. How long before they tried again? It was five more days until they reached White Tower and there was a lot of time between here and there for accidents to happen.

“Worry not, son. I’ll keep an eye on ya,” Pavano said.

“Anyway, you’re an Adventurer, you should be able to handle them yourself. Sagaris says to arm yourself with the crossbow and be ready to defend the caravan.”

San took the crossbow, it was heavy and bulky, Markona also handed him a bag of bolts. Eight inch long wooden bolts that didn’t weight that much. San saw that there was only twelve in the bag. Pavano also received the same, sighing and looking the weapon over.

Why did he pay twenty sars for protection? He probably would have been far safer traveling alone to White Tower.

“Trash crossbows,” Pavano announced.

“That trash bow will save your life,” Markona said. “You try fighting Nox archers with that spear of yours. It’ll stop a Nox berserker cold.”

Pavano only chuckled. “Come on, son. I’ll teach you how to shoot. Maybe we’ll miss a target and accidentally hit one of your trapper friends.”

“If you shoot ‘em, kill ‘em,” Markona said as he walked away. “Barony law is that if you cripple a man, you pay him what he would have earned for the rest of his life.”

***

The wagon was freed from the rut in the road and San’s four attackers were given their clothing back, but their weapons were held for the time being. They clustered together, casting glances at San as the caravan continued on its way.

It wouldn’t be too long before all the trappers were against him. How would Sagaris deal with that, thirteen armed trappers out for his blood? He guessed she would take the most convenient route, one that would keep her reputation intact and deliver the furs to White Tower on time.

The lie of being an Adventurer was coming home to roost. Everyone figured he could take care of himself if he voluntarily went out to fight monsters. Although, every time he told anyone he was a brewer, no one believed him.

The camp was tense as they settled for the night. Sagaris had guards on patrol, she had the wagons pulled in tight and refused anyone to light a fire that night, instead Dakota fire pits were dug and men huddled around them for warmth.

Once again, San and Pavano sat on the edge of the camp. The wind was picking up and they both shivered as their small underground fire warmed them. It was going to be a long night. San was tempted to take out his tent, but the display of such a thing would raise more questions and paint himself a bigger target. Instead Pavano and he shared an oiled leather tarp provided by Sagaris. No one had tents up tonight either.

The death of a scout would alert the Nox mercenaries that they had been outed. Sagaris claimed they would be hit at a ford called Gannis Drowned Here, it crossed a wide tributary that lead to the Red River, a few hours away from the town of Midway. Everyone knew that an attack was imminent, but they all went about their business as if it wasn’t going to happen.

San didn’t understand the laissez-faire attitude toward their life and everyone else’s lives. Men grumbled about the cold night, cursed one another, gambled, or bitterly ate their cold food. Except for the lack of fires, the camp didn’t seem to be bothered by a potential attack.

“Quit your fussing, son,” Pavano said annoyed. “They’ll either come or they won’t.”

“How can you be so calm about it?” San asked.

“Experience, boy.”

“Shouldn’t there be patrols out there?” San asked as he watched a group of guards gamble.

“They’re caravan guards, not soldiers,” Pavano said. “None of them are gonna go looking for the enemy, especially if they have Nox scouts with them. We know they’re out there, they know we know they’re out there, we just have to make sure we don’t make it easy for them. If they’re mercs, they’ll realize there are easier game out there. No one wants to die, especially mercenaries.”

There was truth in his words, but San still felt anxious and worried. Violence as an everyday occurrence was foreign to him. He could count all the times he’d gotten into fights back on Earth on one hand. Only once had he been in mortal danger, but he had walked away with a badly scarred leg and without his family.

They settled in for the night. It was cold enough that everyone was huddled together, San and Pavano being joined by a wagoners and two guard. They all tried to shove themselves under the tarp and out of the cold.

San awoke suddenly, his eyes widening as he stared up at the overcast sky. The moon was hidden and the world seemed to be darker than normal. He tried to move, but a hand stopped him.

“Easy, boy,” Pavano said. “They’re out there.”

“Who?” San asked, then realized the stupidity of the question. There was only one ‘they’ out there.

“They’re scouting the camp, they have the power, Dark Vision,” Pavano whispered.

“Fucking Nox,” one of the guards whispered back. San realized everyone was awake, not only him and Pavano. The guards were on their stomachs, crossbows out before them, but not touching them. San realized he didn’t know where his crossbow was. He had his sword and revolver, the dagger too, but the hatchet, short sword, and spear were all strapped to his pack, with the crossbow leaning against the pack.

“Dark vision?” San had to ask.

“Nox mercenaries can see in the dark,” one of the guards whispered. “That’s why they’re so sought after. Demand a high price, those fuckers.”

“All of them? How do that do that?” San wondered.

“Mystery of the known world, son,” Pavano remarked. “Powers come randomly, based on the person. But somehow the Noxitona figured out how to give their mercenaries matching powers.”

“Then they’re all Leveled?” San asked.

“Nah,” a guard whispered, “they have the power, but they’re not Leveled.”

“Another mystery of the known world,” Pavano said.

“When Sagaris cries out Senta, you’d best close your eyes,” a guard said.

San could make the connection. Perhaps Dark Vision was like his world’s night vision goggles. Where it boosted the ambient light, enough to see by. That would mean if they made a light bright enough, it would blind them. Hopefully.

The attack began without preamble. One moment San lay on the cold ground, looking at the overcast sky, then next there was a rain of arrows that slammed down within the camp.

Screams erupted and San jerked to a sitting position.

“To arms!” Markona’s voice cried in the night. “To arms!”

San threw himself toward his pack and grabbed the crossbow. He snatched up the bolts and joined the four other men as they rushed toward a wagon. It was their main defense.

“Gerinox forever!” voices screamed in the darkness. “Gerinox forever!”

“Hetvana’s cunt,” a guard muttered. There was a sharp ‘Thwack!”and the man cursed as he accidents discharged his crossbow. He began fumbling with the goats foot lever and stirrup, trying to cock the string back.

The road ran in a southeastern route, but as they huddled in for the night, they had pushed against a thick copse of trees and rocks, protecting their flank. There was dense woodland to their north and a wide open meadow to their east. The rocks and trees were south of them, and the west was more forests.

San and the four men had settled on the western side of the camp, mostly due to San’s unwillingness to be closer to the Trappers who were on the eastern side of the camp.

The voices screaming were coming from the west, directly in front of San’s position.

There was the crash of brush and branches and San could hear the rumbling of feet coming at them. He looked to the west, through the darkness and saw shapes rushing toward them.

“SENTA!” Sagaris screamed.

San remembered the warning and ducked his head, looking toward the ground. He heard the thump of what sound like a cannon, but a second later there was a crackling hiss that filled the air. Men and animals screamed at the sight, the sounds of horses and woollys drowning out men’s screams.

He opened his eyes, he was staring at the wagon wheel his had taken cover behind. But his shadow stood in stark relief against it, the world behind him white with light. A flare of some kind.

“Hit them!” Markona’s voice cried.

San hefted his crossbow and joined Pavano as they reached the edge of the wagon and looked out onto the field before them.

Dark clothed men were cursing and had their hands clamped to their eyes. They were staggering about, shouting and screaming as they were blinded.

Pavano lifted his crossbow and it gave a loud ‘thwack!” and a bolt slammed home into a man’s chest. The man screamed again, then collapsed into he snowy ground. Pavano chuckled and began reloading.

San could only watch as half a dozen matchlock rifles thundered to life followed by over three dozen crossbows. The attackers screamed and men fell thrashing to the ground.

“Night Falls!” a voice boomed.

Suddenly the light provided by the flare vanished. Darkness fell upon the camp, darker than it had been moments before. San could barely see his hand before his face.

“They’ve got a fucking Mage!” someone cried.

“Torches!” Markona’s voice pierced through the darkness and building fear. “Mages die just as easily as men!”

A different sound filled the night, over the yelling and cursing, the screams of the dying, a slight rumbled began. San turned his head, blindly looking out into the night. Something was running toward them.

“Calvary!” Pavano shouted. San startled, not realizing he had been so close to the man. The shout was repeated down the line.

San cursed and dug into his heavy coat. His gloved hands latched on the flashlight he carried on him nowadays. He hadn’t used it much, the batteries couldn’t be recharged and he was saving it for emergencies. This felt like an emergency.

The noise was coming closer, San could almost hear the breathing of some animals, sharp and whistling. He flipped the switch and pointed it down at the incoming troops.

San nearly stumbled back as a deer like creature screamed at him, it was tall, majestic, and had small horns on its head. It reared back, it’s dark eyes glowing yellow as the light hit it.

THAWCK!

A crossbow bolt slammed into the chest of the beast. It cried out and the man riding it jumped off of it. He looked at San and flinched away as the flashlight shone into his face. He cried out, covering this glowing yellow eyes.

“Blind those fuckers!” Pavano screamed. He had snatched up San’s crossbow and fired a second bolt. Catching the man in the arm. He screamed and staggered back.

San took the man’s advice, 800 lumens of condensed light flashed across the night. The Darkness Falls power didn’t seem to effect it and the bright light blinded those that looked into it. San abandoned the crossbow to Pavano and pulled out his revolver. He held the light in his left hand and the gun in the right.

Fires were beginning to ignite as torches were brought to bear to combat the power.

The deer like animals charged the wagons, San didn’t know how many there were, but there was a lot. They leaped over the high stacked loads and gracefully landed among the men.

“Spears up!” Markona was yelling.

Swords began flashing, then the roar of gunpowder weapons. San cast the light toward the attackers, seeing as the riders carried single shot pistols strapped to their bodies. They dropped the guns and pulled their curved swords, slashing down at the guards.

The wagon thudded. San aimed the light upward, to the top of the wagon and saw a deer standing upon it. He saw the glint of a man’s cuirass and a pistol aimed down at him.

San didn’t think, he reacted. He pulled the trigger of the revolver and felt it buck in his hands. The man screamed and dropped like a sack from the top of the wagon. He hit the ground hard, the bullet having punched through his cuirass and burying itself in his chest. His breath was labored and wet, the smell of hot iron in the air.

“San!” Pavano yelled, snapping San out of his staring. He turned to find the man wrestling with another, a dark clothed soldier who was carrying a tomahawk and dagger. The man was screaming and San raised his revolver again and fired.

“Fuck,” Pavano cursed. San shone the light on him and saw blood running down his left arm. “I’ll be fine. Keep fighting.”

San nodded, even though the man couldn’t see him. The squealing of horses caught his attention and San saw more riders plunging into the camp. They dodged the wagons and had swords and pistols at the ready.

They were going to be overrun.

“Kill them all!” a voice cried, not in Imperial. It was a different language. “We get the gold, we’ll be rich!”

Gold?

Thump!

San jerked back as an arrow sprouted in the wooden wagon before him. He cursed, why was he so distracted?

A Nox soldier was pulling back on his bow, aiming for San and his light. San fired again, hit the man in the arm and he spun away crying out. San steadied his aim and shot the man in the chest. He flopped to the ground.

Two men came at him. San fired into the center of mass of the first and he crumpled, clutching his punctured cuirass. The second man smashed into him. He carried a tomahawk and a dagger, the sharp blades reached down to him, drawing a thin line across his cheek.

San cursed and they rolled on the muddy ground. His flashlight and revolver falling away. He gripped the man’s forearms, preventing him from stabbing him.

“Fucking die!” the man was screaming in another language. San bucked underneath him, trying to get him off of the top of him. He cast about looking for a weapon and saw the matchlock pistol of the man he had shot lying near him.

San surged and threw the man off of him. He rolled, grabbed the pistol and raised it. The man cursed and San pulled the firing lever. The gun roared in his hands, a thick cloud of smoke enveloping the weapon. The man screamed as the lead ball took his arm off at the elbow. He stared at it dumbfounded.

That look of horror came to an end as Pavano appeared and stabbed his sword down into the man’s neck and into his chest, puncturing down into his soft insides. The man gargled blood and stared uncomprehendingly at San.

“The fight’s not over, boy!” Pavano shouted.

San blinked, finally noticing the chaos around him. The surge of deer and horses had been stopped, the entire camp was in a mad battle with melee fights happening everywhere. A huge bonfire was burning in the middle of the camp, when had that been built? The sound of gunfire had ceased as all the weapons had been fired, now the only noises were steel against steel and cries of pain.

Pavano picked up an unfired crossbow. San saw that it had belonged to the guard who had misfired it. The guard lay with his chest cleaved open. When had that happened? Just a few minutes ago they had all been huddled under the tarp.

“San!” Pavano shouted and San blinked again, his head clearing.

The battle was raging around Markona and Sagaris. The guards were holding back the black clad troops, San saw the trappers also among the fighters. For the moment, Pavano and he had been overlooked.

San grabbed the second pistol off the dead deer rider. The small match cord still smoked and Pavano was already stripping the man of ammunition. One handedly loading the other pistol. San rushed and picked his flashlight and revolver.

He dumped the casings out and dug into his pocked for more shells.

BOOM!

San clapped his hands over his ears as the sound of thunder blasted through the campsite. The sound didn’t only deafen him, but he felt sick and tired. His eyes suddenly heavy and his body weak.

San turned and saw that the wagon he had been sheltering behind had been overturned. Pavano lay sprawled in the mud, a mini avalanche of bundled furs half burying him. A man; dressed not in black, but red and white, stalked across the mud. His steps were sure and grateful, he moved like he owned the place.

His face was all sharp angles and his eyes glinted yellow in the firelight. He was a Nox. Not a soldier, but… San looked at the robes, a Mage.

The man lifted his hands over his head, the battle was still raging, the massive boom having effected everyone. Sagaris was on her feet, bloody and yelling. Markona was rolling in the mud with another soldier. Most of the attackers and defenders were on the ground, suffering the same fate as San.

The mage had been forgotten in the fighting. Now he made his appearance, ready to strike from behind as everyone was focused on the fight. San pushed himself, forcing limbs that didn’t want to move to reach for the pistol still smoking on the ground. He quietly cursed. He just wanted to sleep, to close his eyes, to rest and never wake up.

His half numbed fingers wrapped around the weapon. The trigger was a lever that extended to the handle. San was careful not to depress it, as the barrel was pointed straight at him.

How far was the range of a matchlock pistol? He had always heard that old matchlocks or arquebuses weren’t very accurate. That would make matchlock pistols worse. He didn’t know where his revolver went, so San lifted the pistol up.

His arm was shaking as he leveled it on the man. The mage’s arms were beginning to crackle with energy and the yellow eyes seemed to flash.

San depressed the firing lever and promptly fell over.

***

Sanjay Elias King

[Brewer] Level 2

- Fermentation I

San snapped his eyes open, energy and power seemed to surge through him. He let out a gasp and saw that it was still dark and the smell of blood, piss, and smoke were still in the air. He sat up, noting that all his aches, pains, and injuries were gone. He felt great.

He had leveled up.

The mage was twitching on the churned ground, the red and white robes rising and falling as the body shuddered. San saw the pooling blood beneath the Mage, as lax hands gripped a grisly wound on his face. The matchlock ball had pierced the Mage through the jaw, but had not exited. The man was dead, but the brain was still coming to terms with it.

San dropped the still smoking matchlock pistol and saw the glint of the revolver in the firelight. He scrambled toward it and began shoving the dropped shells into the weapon. His hands clumsy with cold and nerves.

Once reloaded, he rushed to Pavano. The man was blinking and looked at him confused.

“Pavano!”

“Ah, what the fuck was that?” he demanded.

“Mage.”

“Oh.”

“He’s dead.”

“Good.”

“Are you okay?”

“Leg hurts.” He moved an arm patting his lower extremities. “Still got my balls and dick,” he said.

San had to chuckle.

He helped to pull the man out of the stacks of heavy furs. He sat him against a stack, taking a quick look at him. San picked up the pistol and crossbow he had dropped.

“Use it,” the man said. “My head’s a mess. Can barely even think straight.”

The fighting was still going on, although now it was more or less a slugfest as the two groups weren’t giving up. San snatched up the weapons, shoved his revolver into his pocket, and rushed to help.

A black clad man was pounding someone into the mud, a wild look in his yellow eyes. San kicked him hard in the ribs, enough to throw him off of the man. He raised the crossbow and fired it, the bolt punching the man through the neck. The wild look didn’t fade as he died. San looked down to see a swollen face man, looking at him. It was Kenton.

Another man yelled, charging him. San dropped the crossbow, eliciting a cry of pain from Kenton, and raised the matchlock pistol. The man was barely five feet from him when he fired. The boom rang out across the raging battle and sent the charging man flailing backward, his cuirass caved in and bleeding.

“Your Mage is dead!” San yelled. Yellow glowing eyes looked at him and then glanced behind them. Everyone stared at the dead mage’s corpse.

San pulled out his sword. “The Mage is dead!”

The trappers and guards and wagoners began shouting; they surged forward with renewed vigor, their weapons flashing. The black clad soldiers were shocked by the death of their Mage, now they turned and ran. Bolts from crossbows and thrown weapons followed them into the night as they fled.

“Hetvana’s cunt,” Sagaris said, limping toward San. “Did you kill the mage?”

“I think so.’

Sagaris laughed, slapping him hard on the shoulder. “Mage Killer!” she cried.

“Mage Killer!” the exhausted guards, wagoners, and trappers cried.

San sheathed his sword and looked down at the matchlock pistol in his hand. He looked back to Sagaris who was grinning. The people were cheering, but all San could hear were the sobs of pain and agony as the wounded writhed on the cold muddy ground.