Chapter 71

James

Day 58 of First Landing

The Red Scythe - Army Size: 452

The smugglers finally came through; bins with sixty silver collars clanked onto the dock, alongside crates of weapons and barrels of watered wine and rations: salt pork and ship’s biscuit. The white-sailed brig, looking every bit the innocent trader’s vessel, bobbed in the bay as men swarmed over it, none too different from the lot that’d stormed Thornhill’s shores. Boars, ratmen, frogmen, gnolls—the usual ragtag mix out of the pirate isles and Beastkin of the Azure Reach.

Once they'd offloaded everything, the soldiers and camp followers loaded it all into wagons strapped to a long line of stubborn mules.

Hadrelian’s lot weren’t taking any chances, either. The collars went straight to the commander’s carriage, guarded by wolves and humming with circular blue wards along the edges of the commander’s camp tent.

Someone had tipped them off that prying eyes were about, though they’d yet to find me lurking on the edges. In times like these, I wished I’d unlocked that blasted Wiretap skill. But without my Chameleon’s Mask, I’d be under the spell of those blasted collars.

Still, there were other ways to pull in whispers. Camp gossip was fertile ground, trickling down from the top through the ranks. Drusselian, one of our scouts, hadn’t returned; rumour was, he’d fallen to a mercenary ambush. Zenon, however, the other scout, had managed to slip through, map in hand, and we were finally setting our route.

To the south, rocky cliffs and hills cut off any straightforward path along the coast toward Thornhill. The North highway was out of the question too—Havenreach mercenaries were crawling all over it. So the path to Thornhill would run through Wenvale Pass. We’d stop off at some pillaged farm along the way, stock up on rations and manpower, and then march east through the rest of the pass to the Yendel River, which the Thornhill folk called Turtle River, then cut south to strike the village.

From what I could wring out of a few older hands in the Red Scythe, we’d hit the river in about nine days. So, ten days from now, Thornhill would be staring down an army of five hundred or so against a paltry fifty on their side. Our odds, Thornhill’s odds, were stacked against the village’s favour.

There were maybe a hundred proper soldiers among them, grizzled veterans head-to-toe in bronze armour, ready to flatten anyone in their path. And then, looming in the back of my mind, were the high-classes: the seven strongest we had. Make that six if Drusselian didn’t return. Among them, were two high mages who could level entire battalions with a flick of the wrist. It didn’t exactly fill me with confidence.

I hoisted a bin of wooden spoons and rusty knives onto a wagon. The rat-faced fellow I’d survived initiation with was working alongside me. But my eyes kept flicking to the sky, searching for that telltale flash of blue. Waiting for JD, my loyal feathered spy, to turn up with any word.

Later, after supper, a fiddler dragged his bow, and we all clustered around the fire. Talk was light, full of rumour and speculation.

“I hear the haul’s big this time—fifty Chattel,” said a gruff gnoll, scratching at his mange. “You know what that means? A First Mint for each of us when the job’s done.”

“Dealer’s balls, with this many men here, we’ll be lucky if they cough up a Second,” grumbled a rat-faced fellow beside me.

“Eldrins don’t skimp on pay,” the gnoll said, wiping the corner of his mouth. “Not with this many Chattel on the line.”

A lull in the conversation let me get a word in. “Not worried we might… lose?”

The campfire crowd burst out laughing, hearty and incredulous.

“Nah, it’s just Chattel, isn’t it? Nothing but fodder. And there’s not a soul out there to stand against the Eldrins. The Ironclad Company’s finished; everyone knows that. Nothing in Southern Crown but trogs and bears.”

“What if the Chattel fight back?” I pressed.

The gnoll gave me a look like I’d just suggested the sun might rise upside down. “Chattel? Fight back? Not against the Eldrins, they can’t. Not against Void Magic. All we’ve got to do is round ‘em up.”

“Don’t Chattel have mages? Or warriors?” I asked, glancing around. I could’ve sworn I’d seen a few decent fighters among the villagers of Thornhill. But from the way this lot talked, it was like we were dealing with toddlers.

“Rare as hens’ teeth. Chattel mages,” muttered the rat. “One in a million chance of ever being born a mage, them Chattel. Chattel work the fields, dig in the mines, pound the iron. They’re not warriors, not against Eldrins. Only ones who can stand against Eldrins are the Halfrins like the Phoenix Queen and her cadre, maybe the Dragonfire Clan or the Faerin. But Chattel? No chance.”

A chill ran through me. Where I came from, humans made a bloody art of fighting. We’d conquered with steel and guns, and eventually with commerce and science. But here, with the collar around our necks, magic pressing down like an iron fist… How the hell could we ever claw our way up?

I left the fire in a sour mood, muttering something about nature’s call.

Standing by a tree, mid-relief, I caught the flutter of wings above me. I hurriedly did up my trousers and grabbed a torch, lifting it to see a faint shape perched on a branch—dark blue feathers, bright eyes. JD. He didn’t call out, just lifted into the air, gliding further into the trees, urging me to follow. I glanced back at the camp, the fires still bright and flickering, a scattered line of torches casting pools of light. But ahead lay blackness.

With a steadying breath, I moved after him.

My torch sputtered, its light dwindling to almost nothing, casting only a faint glow about a meter ahead. Shadows pressed in tightly around me. Then, just beyond the camp’s reach, a figure emerged from the trees, perched at some height, eyes glowing with an inhuman yellow behind his cat’s mask. Beneath him stood a massive, nearly invisible beast, its fur blending into the twilight. Its antlers in the moonlight stretched wide like a jagged crown, each branch twisted and ancient, resembling the gnarled roots of a long-buried tree.

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“There’s more than I expected. Four hundred of them?” the figure dismounted and removed his mask, his voice putting me at ease with its familiarity.

“Nearly five hundred, if I had to guess,” I muttered.

He fell silent, thoughtful, and then asked, “Who’s leading them? What does he look like?”

“You won’t reach him. Reddish-orange hair, long pointy ears, a high mage. He’s planted deep in the middle of camp, ringed with wards and guards. You’d be mad to try,” I warned.

“I ran into one of those Eldrins—a scout.”

“You killed him?” I blurted, stunned. “That’d be Drusselian. He’s… well, I can’t say exactly how strong, but not on the level of Hadrelian, Drudus, or Varon, that’s for certain. Still…”

I filled Orion in on their marching plans, their path to Thornhill, their planned stop for resupply, the supply lines—everything I’d picked up so far.

“There’s something else.” I lowered my voice. “Remember Super Nine?”

His brow furrowed in confusion. “What? Super Nine? Sounds like a soft drink.”

“No, no. It's his name. That guy with the tattoos and colorful dreads, always hanging around the village helping Herman.”

“Oh, him…” Orion’s expression shifted to one of recognition. “What about him?”

“I spotted him in Hadrelian’s tent. He was spilling everything he knew about Thornhill, our people, even some of the classes. He’s giving them intel, Orion.”

“What? Are you serious?! Why would he do that?”

“He’s got a collar on, so maybe they’re forcing him, but…” I shook my head. “The thing is, he sounded almost… eager. They don’t appear to be compelling him. He might be doing it willingly.”

“I heard some whispers before we left… something about a thief causing trouble, someone being thrown out of the village. Didn’t pay it much mind at the time. I should have…” He cursed under his breath. “Dammit!”

Orion’s anger flared up like a match catching, so fierce he choked on it. He let out a fit of coughing that rattled his frame, and I took a step back, partly in caution, partly in disgust.

“There’s something else you need to know,” I said. “There are at least fifteen human slaves with us. You’ve got to make sure they’re not hurt when Thornhill’s hit. None of them are here by choice.”

“I’ll see what I can do. But if they get in my way, I’ll have no choice.” He paused, eyes darkening. “And there’s something you should know, too. I’ve set up an anti-magic EMP artefact at Thornhill. When it goes off, your glamour will fail. You’ll be on your own. Not only that, but the collars? They’ll deactivate. Tell all the slaves to throw down their weapons. I doubt the defenders will shoot unarmed people.”

I felt a cold sweat pricking at me. “You’re serious? My disguise will drop? Oh, that’s just wonderful. If they realise I’m human, a Chattel, they’ll kill me on the spot.”

“And one more thing…” Orion’s voice was dangerously quiet, his words dripping with murderous intent. “Find a way to get this… Super guy to the outskirts of the camp. I need to have a little chat with him.”

I grimaced. “That’ll be tricky. He’s turned into Hadrelian’s court jester. He’s constantly around them, rapping and freestyling. Hadrelian seems to have a thing for… hip hop.”

“Really? Does he have bars?”

I sighed, trying not to roll my eyes. “Not even close. He just steals lines from real artists. Kendrick, Drizzy. The usual.”

“Drizzy?” he snorted, laughing between coughs.

Ignoring the heat rising in my cheeks from that little slip, I pushed on. “Thing is, he’s been telling them about our world—technology, guns, heavens, even social media. But he barely understands basic science, so they think it’s all magic.”

“Then he can’t be left alive,” Orion said flatly. “Do your best to get him alone.”

I took a steadying breath. “What’ll you be doing?”

“Guerilla warfare,” he said, voice hard as iron. “And I’ll be in touch. JD will be in contact with you.”

Orion reached back and pulled out several damp, fur-and-flax rags. When he handed them to me, I nearly gagged, recoiling even through my gloves—the thought of another man’s bodily fluids soaking camp cloth was revolting. I could only imagine what he’d been doing with them.

“Place these in their water supply or around the cots and sleeping areas, especially where people gather. They’re infected with COVID,” he rasped, his voice dry.

“I’ll see what I can do…” I replied, nerves already strung high. Now, I was about to commit biological warfare.

“Take care of yourself, Jim,” he said, preparing to part ways. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a potion, and downed half its contents.

I let out a long sigh and slumped, feeling like a noose had just slipped around my neck, tightening with every second.

“Orion, can’t I just come with you? Once I’ve dropped these rags off? I’m not fit for this work. Every day I wake up with cold sweat thinking they’ll find out I’m a human or spy and find a knife in my back or a torture room.” I pleaded.

“I need a spy on the inside to track their movements. Don’t you Brits love James Bond?”

“That’s a bloody fictional character.”

A silence filled between us as he let out a deep sigh.

“We have a responsibility, Jim. If I could take your place, I would, but you have your skills, and I have mine. We don’t get to choose the cards we’re dealt, only the hand we play.” Orion said, reaching over to pat me on the shoulder.

Orion glanced over, an unusual tenderness in his voice. “I’m… sorry, by the way.”

“For what?” I asked, brow furrowing.

“When you first got here… I was a massive asshole to you,” he managed between coughs. “Thought you were just some womanizing rich dude. But everything you’re doing—it takes a lot of courage, Jim. I… misjudged you.”

Hearing it out of his mouth felt surreal, like being approached and nuzzled by a stray feral cat, and I held onto the warmth of it, feeling a strange surprise.

"Oi, sod off, yeah?” I shot back, grinning. “Don’t talk like one of us is about to die. I’ll see you back at Thornhill. We’ll knock back a pint over these bastards’ skulls, alright?"

He snorted, a brief flicker of a smile cracking through that face. In that instance, I realized that he was so young. Far too young. He should be out touring campuses instead of doing… such grim work. I felt a twinge of pity for him then. Lad, you’re too young to be doing this. Then he hauled himself back onto his elk, rummaging around in his satchel before tossing me a sack. I fumbled it, nearly dropped it—classic—but managed to keep it off the ground.

“What’s this for?” I asked, hefting up the food in the hemp bags he brought me.

“Try to stay away from wine casks and whatever food they serve. Eat this instead.”

I nodded, understanding the implication, feeling famished and biting into the bar of meat and dried fruit. It tasted like fruit-flavoured jerky.

“Grateful for the meal,” I said,

“Grateful for the company,” Orion replied, turning and disappearing into the gloom.