A river span, and barred the way
A heavy toll: but who will pay?
The air was cool and still in the canyon, the sun having just dipped its head behind the high peaks of the Barlakks. The stone of the bridge still radiated the day's heat, however, and the waterfall to the north was full and musical. Merinriver Break had been swept clear of all bodies and debris, though no travellers yet attempted to cross.
Save one exasperated, bearded man on a red horse.
“This is an emergency!” Grisket growled angrily.
The Watch had, to his immense indignation, resumed their toll blockade. There were five of them, wearing pristine cobalt cloaks and steel armour so highly polished that Grisket could see his fuming expression in it. Two of them stood to either side of him with crossed halberds, barring the way. A third stood in the centre, just behind the weapons, managing to look both bored and smug at the same time.
“The toll is one gruble,” he drawled. “Same for everyone. No exceptions.”
“This is ridiculous!” Grisket almost shouted. “No Outland folk can pay such an absurd fee!”
“Indeed?” The Watchman smirked.
Grisket felt like leaping off his horse and lopping all of their heads off. So that was what they were really about! They were trying to segregate the regions, to stop the movement of people they deemed undesirable into the Coastlands. It was only a matter of time, then, before they set up a toll at Skywater as well, at the southern end of the Barlakks, effectively sealing off the Coastlands to all but the elite.
“The Sirinese merchants have no problem with our toll,” the Watchman went on, loftily.
“You mean they grudgingly cough up because they have no choice and they can afford it?” Grisket snapped back.
The Watchman simply smiled at him.
“This isn't your jurisdiction!” Grisket insisted. “You've no right to be here!”
“It is now,” the Watchman replied imperiously. “By royal decree.”
“Bollocks!”
“You are welcome to take it up with Her Highness the Princess. Assuming you can manage to find an alternative route to Crystaltina, of course.”
“As Commander of the Freeroamers,” Grisket said, ignoring his snide remark, “I have authority over the Outlands. Including this bridge!”
“Oh?” the Watchman said, raising an eyebrow in mock surprise. “Commander of the Freeroamers, indeed? Let me see your badge.”
Grisket glared at him. Dammit! He had given his badge away to Middry, as acting Commander.
“I was forced to pass it on to someone else,” he admitted. “The township of Forthwhite had to flee, on account of a great black monster sitting on top of it! As I said: this is an emergency situation! And you are blocking a vital escape route!”
“That is not our problem...”
“There are bloody Dragons on the loose, man! And worse! Or are your heads so far stuck up your own arses that you didn't notice?!”
The Watchman glared at him, his expression turning dark. “We are aware of what happened at Sunsee, and are taking measures to protect our citizens...”
Grisket snorted loudly. “Of course you are! And are the Watch also taking 'measures' to stop a band of murderous, rogue soldiers in black armour? The Darorian Army has gone to hell! And your Watch Commander was running around like a scared chicken the last time I saw him! What do you suppose you're gonna do against Dragons? Or a black Gods-know-what that'll likely rip your souls out? Or a kid with a Winter curse who is destroying everything in his path?” Grisket's eyes narrowed. “You're here because you're damned cowards!”
The Watchman's face was flushed with fury. “We are here to maintain order and control!” he replied through gritted teeth. “We cannot allow the roads to become overwhelmed with chaos! We have enough problems already with that damned vagabond camp at the crossroads! Full of criminals and opportunists! Half of them are Outlanders posing as desperate folk, seeking assistance!”
“We have lost towns as well!” Grisket retorted. “Those are genuine refugees! Where the Gods do you expect them to go?”
“Anywhere,” the Watchman replied viciously, “but the King's land!”
They glared at each other.
“The toll,” the Watchman sneered after a moment, “is one gold gruble. Either pay it, or be escorted to the other end of the bridge.”
“Or over it,” one of the other guards commented.
Grisket gripped his reins so hard that they cut painfully into his skin. Damned elitist bastards. He half hoped a Dragon would come swooping over the peaks at that very moment and roast them all.
The Watchmen holding the halberds regarded him with hostility. He wasn't going to be able to reason with them, and he couldn't take them on by force. There were five of them, well armoured, and he was crippled, not to mention was escorting a badly injured companion.
Bitterly, Grisket turned Foxxin away, directing him over to the parapet a short distance away. There he dismounted, awkwardly, and limped painfully over to the edge of the bridge and sat down.
He had ridden hard, and both he and his horse were exhausted. To his dismay, he realised that he had no choice but to backtrack and circle the Barlakks, adding a couple of weeks at least to his already lengthy journey. He could rejoin his folks in Skywater, and hope there was a skilled enough healer there. It was a large town, but the best healers generally went to work at the infirmary in Sunsee, or one of the bigger cities. Failing that, he could try for Crystaltina; but the Royal City, if it wasn't decimated, was likely locked down in all the madness. He'd heard no word of the King, either, and Grisket suspected that he was dead…
He shook his head, removing his hat and setting it in his lap. There was too much going on. At every turn, he encountered another disaster. He couldn't even protect those closest to him…
He cast a despairing glance at the cart. Cairan's condition wasn't good. He had been unconscious for a long time. There was simply no way to get adequate help for him in the circumstances.
Grisket blinked back tears. It was Aari all over again. He had lost so many people already.
As if to add further insult, a painfully appetising smell wafted over to him. Grisket looked up. There was a newly-built wooden guard house at the western end of the bridge. The Watch had set a cookfire up in front of it and were lounging around it, talking and laughing amongst themselves, save the two halberd-wielding guards, who retained their positions on the bridge.
Gritting his teeth, Grisket pushed himself up with an effort and rummaged in one of his saddlebags, but found only some dry biscuits. He sat back down, heavily, and chewed on them gloomily, trying to ignore the ache in his stomach.
He was still nibbling, staring down morosely at the crumbs on the cobblestones, when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps tapping on the stone.
He glanced up, and the hand holding his biscuit lowered.
There were two of them, and they looked like nobles who were down on their luck. They wore fine but overly decorative, old-fashioned clothing, which was rather filthy. Grisket wondered if they'd been robbed and left to fend for themselves on the road. By their weary look, it seemed they'd been travelling for some while, yet were watchful, as though prepared to defend themselves if they were accosted again.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
They were quite good-looking, though it was difficult to determine their ages. There was a family resemblance in the facial features, but otherwise, the two of them looked nothing alike. The one with shoulder-length black hair and a sullen expression was dressed in a black, gold-embroidered waistcoat, gold silken shirt, and a black cloak. Even his high black boots were decorated with a golden design.
The other was slightly taller, attired in blue and white, with a sleeveless robe, open at the front, over a waistcoat and white shirt. An exceptionally beautiful sword was slung over his dirt-stained, sky-blue cloak. His hair was very long and brilliant white; loose strands at the front, falling in a braid at his back.
Something about the men stirred a memory, but Grisket couldn't place them.
Grisket grunted. “This'll be interestin'” he muttered under his breath. If they'd been robbed, they wouldn't have two javens to spare between them.
On the other hand, if they were nobles, the Watch would probably fawn at their feet…
The white-haired one turned his gaze on Grisket as he passed, and the Freeroamer was momentarily breathless, as though punched in the gut, with the intensity of those blue eyes. But then the man's attention was drawn by the Watch at the head of the bridge.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen!” the Watch leader greeted, with significantly more politeness than he had spared for Grisket.
The halberd-wielding guards lowered their weapons somewhat sheepishly in front of the two nobles.
“There is a toll for use of this pass,” the Watchman explained. “The fee is one gruble each.”
The white-haired man patted all of his pockets and then sighed and sagged. “Curses. We haven't any–”
Beside him, the black-haired man snapped his fingers. Purple sparks danced over them with a crackling sound.
All three of the Watchman took startled steps backwards, clanking in their armour.
“You will allow us through,” the black-haired man ordered smoothly. “Now.”
The lead Watchman went instantly pale. His mouth opened and closed in bewildered horror. “I… we… you...” he stammered.
The black-haired man thrust his arm out. There was a bright, purple-white flash, and the Watchman flew twenty feet backwards, landing with a puff of dirt and a loud clatter on the road.
The other two guards blocking the way dropped their halberds on the cobblestones and fled.
The two Watchmen by the hut stared at the scene in open-mouthed disbelief, before dropping their cups of tea, scrambling off their stools and following their comrades into the pass.
On the road, the shaken, but alive, Watch leader pushed himself up and almost tripped over himself in his haste to get away.
The black-haired man shook his magic away as though extinguishing a match, and smirked. “That is how it is done,” he declared.
Sighing, his white-haired companion rubbed his forehead. “Must you be so...” he waved an elegant hand, “tactless? There are other ways of dealing with people, you know.” He frowned, folding his arms. “This is hardly doing our reputation any–”
“You!”
Grisket was on his feet, sword drawn, glaring furiously at the black-haired sorcerer.
The two nobles turned.
“You murdered my family!”
Grisket wasn't sure what he intended to do. He was shaking with rage. He recognised that man, now. The black clothing: the lightning. He would never forget the crackling explosion that had torn apart his family's wagon; the flying splinters of wood, the bodies of his wife and sons being thrown onto the road, amongst all of their possessions. The scorched scent in the air; the horror. The army of Griks that came after…
The sorcerer regarded him coolly. “I have killed many people,” he replied. “Am I supposed to remember–”
“Sixteen years ago!” Grisket spat. “On the road to Ness! You trampled them into the dirt!” He could feel blood pounding in his head. “Not to mention left the entire town obliterated behind you!”
Remarkably, the sorcerer's expression flickered. He cast a nervous glance at his companion. “Oh,” he said carefully. “That.”
“That?! You destroyed my life, you bastard! I loved my wife and sons, and you took their lives away without a thought! Simply because they were in your way!”
The sorcerer kept eyeing his companion. Grisket looked aside at the white-haired man to see that he was staring intently at the other. Apparently, this was news to him.
“Yes, well...” the black-haired man replied uncomfortably. “That was… a mistake...”
“A mistake!” Grisket's teeth were clenched, his knuckles white on the handle of his sword. He limped forward a couple more steps…
“I wouldn't do that, if I were you,” a quiet voice said from beside him.
Grisket paused.
“If you attack my brother,” the man went on softly, “you will find yourself quickly over the parapet. And then I shall be obliged to climb down there to check if any life remains in your charred and smouldering body. And if it does, I shall be forced to heal you.”
Grisket turned slowly to look at him.
The white-haired man held him shackled in place with that impossibly blue gaze. “And that is an awful lot of hassle for all of us, wouldn't you agree?” He gestured at Grisket's weapon. “So I would suggest you put your sword away.”
Grisket continued to stare at him.
The white-haired man's expression changed, turning sad. “I am deeply sorry for the loss of your family,” he said. “As sorcerers, my brother and I have both made terrible mistakes. Worse mistakes than any person has a right to. All hatred towards us, and magic in general, is justified.” He closed his eyes. “Please believe me when I tell you that we regret them. We may be long-lived, but we are misguided and mortal like any other Human.”
Grisket tried to hold on to his fury, but felt it rapidly ebbing away. He didn't want it to, because it revealed cold, dark despair in its place.
Opening his eyes, the white-haired man offered Grisket his hand. “I am Requar,” he said. “This is my brother–”
“Lord Arzath,” the other interjected sullenly.
Grisket said nothing, and did not take the hand. Nor did he lower his sword.
Requar sighed, and turned away. Then he seemed to notice the dray cart. Cairan's tail was hanging out of the slats at the back of it.
The sorcerer strode over to it.
Grisket started after him at once and winced, forgetting his leg. “Stay away from there!” he said in alarm. “Don't touch him!”
Requar ignored him, staring down into the cart. To Grisket's horror, he reached over his shoulder and unsheathed his magnificent sword.
“NO!” he cried, trying to hobble faster. “Gods, no!!”
A powerful force shoved him, and Grisket's chin slammed into the cobblestones. His sword clattered away to the side of the bridge. Warm blood bloomed into his mouth. Terrified, he looked up to see the black-clad sorcerer glaring down at him.
“He is a healer, you fool!”
Shaking, Grisket pushed himself to his knees. Lord Requar stood over the cart, holding his Sword against Cairan's body. Blue light flared down the blade, leaving Grisket's vision dazzled.
He could do nothing but watch.
Some time later, perhaps half an hour, the light dwindled and Requar moved back. Presently, there came a scrabbling sound from the cart, and quite suddenly, Cairan leapt out of it like a startled wild horse, dancing backwards, hooves ringing on the cobblestones. Foxxin skittered nervously at the sudden movement, eyeing the Centaur.
Cairan looked at them all in astonishment.
“Commander!” he said. “What is going on?”
Grisket shook his head, feeling hopelessly bewildered. “Damned if I know!” he replied.
A pair of fine, blue and silver boots entered his vision, and the tip of a shining blade, and Requar crouched on one knee in front of him. “You are injured as well,” the sorcerer observed. “Will you allow me to help you?”
Grisket regarded him, then finally sagged with resignation. “Bah,” he muttered. “Fine.”
He allowed himself to be helped over to the parapet, and sat there while Requar attended to his leg. The blade was at first cold against his skin, but turned pleasantly warm as the magic flooded through it.
Arzath stalked away in a huff, tossing the guards' weapons irritably over the side of the bridge with his magic and muttering darkly to himself.
Cairan kept his distance, watching, but came forward a few minutes later as Requar finished working.
Tentatively, Grisket tested his weight on his leg, and found it to be completely healed.
He was at a loss for words.
Cairan reached a hand down to Requar in greeting. “Alon, Lord Requar! We meet again!”
Requar took his hand, smiling. “So we do!”
Grisket eyed them both in surprise. “You two've met already?”
“We have, Commander,” Cairan confirmed. “At the Guard House. This man apprehended Nightwalker for us.”
Grisket rubbed his beard. “Dogwyn mentioned something about that.” He looked at Requar. “You're lookin' for Ferrian?”
The sorcerer pushed himself wearily to his feet with his Sword. “I am,” he said.
“Huh.” Grisket put his hands on his hips. “Join the damned club.”
Cairan turned to Requar, clasped the sorcerer's forearms in his strong hands, and bowed deeply. “You have saved my life, Lord Requar. This is a great debt. I owe you much.”
Grisket watched him. Centaurs were passionate creatures, but Grisket shared his opinion. Feeling ashamed of his earlier behaviour, he offered the sorcerer a hand. “Aye,” he said. “You have my sincere thanks as well. And my apologies.”
Cairan released Requar, who took Grisket's hand, nodding. There was a glimmer in his eyes, as though he was touched at their reactions. “Of course,” he said, then shook his head. “But I do wish that people would stop insisting they owe me things...”
“We owe you our lives,” Grisket said seriously, and shook his own head. “I had you all wrong...”
Requar smiled a little. “Most people do.” He nodded at Grisket. “You are Commander of the Freeroamers, I take it?”
“Aye,” Grisket replied, then frowned. “Till recently, anyway...”
With a deep breath, he decided to explain everything from the beginning, from the day he had rescued Ferrian from the Bladeshifter prison. Requar listened quietly, his expression gradually turning into a frown of concern. When Grisket reached the part about the black, wraith-like monster that had attacked the Dragon at Forthwhite, Requar took a step backwards so abruptly that Grisket paused mid-sentence.
He felt his blood run cold at the look on the sorcerer's face.
It was one of absolute horror.
“Gods!” Requar gasped. “A Dragon-wraith! How could such a thing even...” He shook his head, shocked. Then he spun away, running his hand through his hair, and gazed out over the canyon, clearly highly disturbed.
Grisket and Cairan exchanged worried glances.
Requar took a deep breath. “There is clearly far more going on than I realised,” he said. When he turned back to them, his expression was haunted. “Ferrian is the least of our problems!” Then he walked off to talk to his brother, who had discovered a pot of stew over the fire and was helping himself to it.
The Freeroamers watched him go, feeling unnerved.
If a sorcerer is afraid, Grisket thought grimly, we're in trouble.