Chapter 63

James

Day 47, Day 7 on the Road

Kronfeldt

How did I get dragged into this? I was a simple translator-turned-farmer, and now here I am, playing double agent in a ring of slavers.

At that moment, I was nursing a drink at the Hog’s Hollow, chatting with an otter about joining Hadrelian’s men. They were desperate enough to take on fresh faces; their numbers had dwindled, and gangs prowled the docks, looking for recruits—men hard enough to pillage, loot, and hold their own. Disguised as a boarman to fit the look of a battle-hardened rogue, I gripped my cutlass as they marched the twenty of us to their hideout: a nondescript shed with an iron latch in the industrial district, where the air stank from the rendering plants.

As I climbed down a slick ladder, two guards waited below—a gnoll and a boarman in bronze armor, spears at the ready. They stood watch by an iron-barred door that opened to stone tunnels winding into the hideout. Alcoves lined the walls, holding sleeping rolls, some occupied by gang members snoring away. A gnoll led us through the labyrinth. His fur was grey, streaked with black, and his hair styled into a faux hawk.

Gang members lounging in the hideout turned to watch our procession, some tossing discarded bones or half-eaten fruit at us, others catcalling. “Good luck at the tryouts, new blood!” one jeered.

“Tryouts?” I muttered to our guide, trying to mask my unease.

“Aye, tryouts,” he smirked. “You think they’d take just any scrapper off the docks?”

We soon reached a winding passage that descended deeper into the town’s underbelly. The air was damp and heavy, pressing down as we entered a broad, circular chamber, its ceiling shrouded in mist and dripping with moisture. At the centre was a pit, four metres deep, with a stone pipe jutting a metre high, capped by a rusted grate where water trickled down.

Before I could protest, we were shoved forward, tumbling down into the pit. I landed on my feet, the impact was jarring but manageable. Around us, Red Scythe members leaned over the edge, shouting and placing bets on who would survive.

“Welcome to the illustrious company of the Red Scythe,” came a voice from the far side of the pit. A man with dark orange hair like dawn’s first light and eerie, amber eyes introduced himself as Ovidus, Third Captain of the Red Scythe. He spoke Lokan with an accent that softened its usual harsh edge.

The betting quieted as Ovidus drew a glowing blue card from his palm. He tapped it, and wisps of light coalesced atop the pit’s walls, forming four black panthers with glowing blue eyes and fangs glinting like embers. Their guttural growls echoed through the chamber.

“Endure until the spell fades, and you shall prove yourselves worthy,” Ovidus declared, raising his hands. “Endure! Endure! Endure!”

Heart pounding, I lunged forward, ducking and weaving through the other huddled recruits. The stragglers would be picked off first—that was just how predators worked. Blending into the pack was a survival trick, something every prey knew in its bones. And with my sorry excuse for combat skills, I was every bit the prey.

Three frog sailors stepped forward, hefting their clubs and pitchforks to face the panthers. But the moment those feline shadows closed in, the sailors’ courage shattered. They scattered, bodies flung wide like billiard balls breaking from a fresh strike. They didn’t get far. Men clambered up to the ledge only to find themselves short. The panthers leapt, claws wrapping around their legs, jaws snapping around necks.

I edged toward the raised sewer pipe in the centre, keeping low, my eyes darting from one feral blur to the next. I hopped onto the grate, gripping my cutlass so tightly my fingers ached. My trembling knees gave out, dropping me onto the metal grate as I stared into the dark waters below. Chaos roared around me—the frantic clash of weapons and desperate yells mingling with the growls of the panthers. Three more recruits scrambled onto the grate beside me, and we huddled, forming a shaky ring, each of us watching a different angle. There was strength in numbers. If only I could find the voice to shout for us to group up.

Bloody hell, why hadn’t I spent more time in the practice dungeon? I should’ve at least hit Path of the Sword Level 1 by now.

The panthers went for those left exposed, tearing into anyone who hadn’t reached the grate. Two frogmen were down, blood pooling beneath them, but one panther snarled and staggered as a trio of gnolls slashed at it with machetes and daggers. Beside me, a ratman with a crossbow aimed, squeezing the trigger at a panther already busy mauling a fallen frog.

Then one of the beasts locked its gleaming yellow eyes on me, nostrils flaring like it could smell the fear in my sweat. It began circling, low and deadly, a hunter toying with its meal. I raised my cutlass high, trying to look bigger, meaner—though my knees were near giving out. All around, the pit was a mess of shouts and screams, metal clanging, bones snapping. The sound of slaughter.

Only the gnoll trio put up any proper fight, flanking any panther that dared leave its back exposed while trying to swipe at the men camping at the top of the sewer pipe. The gnolls moved like a three-headed serpent, closing in on a separated panther. When the panther lunged our way, the trio swooped in, hacking and snarling, driving it back in a flash of fur and blood. Eight of us were still standing, and with only two cats left, a faint, fragile flicker of hope kindled.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

The panther still stalking me pounced, muscles flexing to launch forward. I swung my cutlass wildly, the blade whistling through the air as we clashed. The circle around me tightened, bolts zipped from the ratman’s crossbow, and swords flashed. Outmatched, the panther finally fell, though my arms ached from the struggle.

Still no sign of the Path of the Sword card unlocking. Where was that blasted ability when I needed it?

With my stalker dead, only one panther remained. It was cornered and desperate, arching its back, fur bristling, tail snapping like a live wire. Sensing its end, the eight of us closed in, steps cautious but closing tight. One grizzled gnoll got too bold, lunging forward—and took a savage swipe across his side, stumbling back with a grunt, clutching his wound.

The ratman seized the chance, firing a bolt that drove into the panther’s eye. But that only fueled its fury. Vengeful and seizing the opportunity of the distracted cat, the gnolls hacked and slashed, carving the beast down until it lay still on the blood-soaked floor. Above, claps echoed from Ovidus, though murmurs from those watching suggested too many of us had survived.

“It seems we have a talented lot here for so many of you to pass the test,” Ovidus announced. “The Divine Path has led you here. The Emperor smiles on you, as does the Void. Let us welcome our new brothers!”

A cheer rose up, shouts of “The Emperor is Just! All Roads Lead to the Divine Path!” filling the chamber.

Well, looks like I’ve gone and joined a bloody cult this time, haven’t I?

Our “brothers” pulled us from the pit, and the celebration began, with casks of moonshine and watered wine flowing. For the mission’s sake, I had to partake of the drink, though I kept it light. Some recruits even got Red Scythe tattoos to mark their initiation. A rough meal of cheese and tack was passed around, and I pocketed some cheese for later.

Keep your wits about you, James. People are counting on you. And for heaven’s sake, don’t get pissed on the job.

To punctuate the seriousness of my situation, I noticed two human men, likely late twenties, with Northern European features, shuffling along a nearby tunnel. Collared and subservient, they delivered food to Ovidus, seated in front of the bronze-plated gnoll recruiter with the faux hawk at a high table within the underground hideout.

Feigning a drunken stagger, I edged closer and plopped down on a bench just outside their room to eavesdrop. My Espionage skill card hummed inside me, sharpening my senses as if by magic. I could suddenly pick up their hushed conversation, my raucous surroundings fading into a hazy mist that let me blend into the background like a fly on the wall.

“We need at least twenty more men if we're to set out,” Ovidus said, dabbing his mouth with a silk napkin. “Drudus has messaged me—our next target is large. He wants at least 400 men for the raid.”

“Good help’s scarce, milord,” the gnoll grumbled. “Three of my men killed each other last week over a drunken spat and Tjok-Lok’s nowhere to be found. We sent a team to Hadrelian only two months ago.”

“We lost half of them in a skirmish against the Ironclad Company.” Ovidus’ mouth twisted into a grim smile. “But we avenged them, rest assured. We’ll need more than soldiers, though; blacksmiths, diggers, fletchers—the like.”

“When are we marching?” the gnoll asked, scratching the scruff of his neck.

"They’re still awaiting a shipment of fresh collars. Drudus tells me we’ll march to rendezvous with Hadrelian’s main force in twenty days, and from there, head southwest. There’s a farm in that direction that may prove… promising." Ovidus spoke lazily, spearing another hunk of meat. Meanwhile, I watched a collared human fetch more wine and cheese from the stores.

Southwest? Oh, that’s not good. That’s really not good at all.

“I’ll round up some workers,” the gnoll offered. “Might be wise to ease up on the initiation, though. Send in only two cats this time.”

“We need latrine diggers and cooks, not just soldiers. Our first group of fifty will set off tomorrow, while I remain in Kronfeldt to recruit more men,” Ovidus declared, his tone sharp and imperious. “With the Ironclad Company nursing its wounds, the Duke in his current state, and the Queen’s mind occupied elsewhere, we mustn’t let this opportunity slip through our fingers, Grimwall.”

I downed the swill they called drink, feeling it hit my stomach like a bag of bricks. Before anyone noticed, I staggered off and found the pits, where I finally rid myself of the dreadful concoction. But I didn’t have long to recover—Ovidus and Grimwall were already herding us down another dark, damp tunnel that twisted under the city like the belly of a beast.

We surfaced at a hatch leading to a warehouse, where others were loading up wagons with crates and barrels. They’d pegged us as teamsters, then. Brilliant.

As the others sweated over crates, I slipped outside, claiming I had to relieve myself. A drizzle began, soaking the boar fur I wore as a disguise. I made my way behind a tree, doing what needed to be done, when I noticed a dark shape circling above in the grey clouds—a bird, dark blue and unmistakably familiar.

I edged away from the warehouse and waved my hands like a madman to signal him down. The bird dipped low and perched on the same tree, its sharp eyes watching me keenly. I glanced around to be sure no one was watching—just me, the bird, and somewhere beyond the clearing, the North Gate, and the iron mines.

I pulled a scrap of parchment from my coat and scribbled my message.

“Raid@Thornhill.

In 20/30 days

Maybe 400/500 men

Warehouse@ N.Ind dist”

On the back, I scribbled:

“Don’t try it.

Leader strong.

Many crossbows/wolves.”

After strapping the note securely to JD’s leg, I held out the stinking cheese I’d pocketed earlier. JD eyed me with a mix of annoyance and resignation before snatching it up and gulping it down. With one last sidelong glance, he took flight, vanishing into the clouds. As I watched the bird disappear, I could only hope the message would help Orion figure out exactly how a village of a few wooden huts could defend itself against an army of 500.