Chapter 67

Cameron

Fira (May) 22, 611 Imperial Era

The Red Scythe - Army Size: 459

As a ranger, I was in charge of the hunt, bringing fresh meat back to the Chattel cooks for the Eldrin Masters to dine upon in the grand Commander’s tent, where they feasted on wild game, cheese, fruit, and rare vintages, all while listening to the musical stylings of one wannabe rapper. They ate lavishly, while the rest of the men subsisted on crackers, porridge, and shredded salted pork.

Knowing how to hunt means understanding what the hunted must feel: that constant alertness, where every snap of a twig or rustle of leaves signals danger. To be prey is to live in a state of unrelenting vigilance, where every shadow hides a potential threat. Yet, for all their strength, the Eldrins here lacked that instinct—the readiness to survive a hunt—having always been the predators, accustomed to preying on the weak.

We set out early on the first day of camp, just a day after receiving those cursed Binding Collars. Food and drink were secured, the men were restless, and the Eldrins were eager to reap. As we marched toward the Wenvale Pass—skirting the main highway between Havenreach and Kronfeldt, where patrols were on high alert—strange signs began to appear. Yet, the Eldrin ignored them, lacking the instincts of the hunted, blind to subtle warnings that only those who’ve been prey could recognize.

The first sign was a persistent cough among the men. It started as soft throat clearings, but by nightfall, a low chorus of coughs echoed through the camp, growing steadily like drizzle turning into a storm. Alongside this, several men had gone missing, with their captains reporting them as deserters. Such was the honor among outlaws that no one questioned their absence; desertion was simply acknowledged as part of this sordid business.

Only after a bout of food poisoning sent six men to their cots early did the camp start to believe this raid was cursed. Later that night, around the campfire, an eloquent boar regaled the men with a chilling tale of former farmers and slain mercenaries who had risen as ghosts to torment their killers.

Like children unsettled by a scary bedtime story, the men slept restlessly that night, each keeping one eye open, wary of the ghosts they imagined lurking around every corner. The unease clung to them, lingering well into the next morning.

Day two of the march to Thornhill seemed smooth enough for the Red Scythe, but already, the sick were piling up. Fatigued men, hacking up their lungs, filled the wagons designated for the wounded. Their symptoms bore a striking resemblance to a flu-like illness I knew back home, but I dismissed the notion that I could have been the source. A year had passed since I’d been stranded in the Veiled Realms. This must have been Super’s doing—arriving just months prior, he could have unknowingly carried the disease. Either that or the severity suggested something entirely new.

Throughout the camp, it was clear who suffered most: the grunts, Beastkin. The Eldrins, however, remained unaffected, shielded by enchanted gear or benefiting from elixirs and potions that purged any ailment. The Chattel, prized property were also spared as their Master saw to their care. Unsurprisingly, they shared none of these remedies with the common Beastkin troops—there was only so much to go around, and a single battle hadn't even been fought yet.

The march had taken an unexpected turn, though we should have known better. It is the march, not the battle, that kills the majority of soldiers. Bad supply lines, poor weather, dysentery—these are expected. But a plague? No one foresaw that.

By some fortune, I’d avoided the illness so far, or at least was asymptomatic. I wasn’t overly concerned about catching it myself since my Masters could simply heal me with an expensive potion. But the flu’s rapid spread and severity of its symptoms gave me pause that it was anything like COVID-19 or the common flu from back home.

Several men, either too sick or on the brink of death, had already been left behind. The flu had been bad enough back home, but this was far more virulent and severe. While Covid primarily claimed the elderly and those with pre-existing conditions, this illness was indiscriminate in its attack. Whispers circulated among the command that more soldiers would be abandoned if the situation didn’t improve.

At this pace, Thornhill was still a month away—far longer than the nine days Marshall Hadrelian had anticipated. We were supposed to resupply at the halfway point, near the ruins of Whisper Farm, which we had sacked not long ago. Our stores were expected to last until then—at least, that’s what we hoped.

I had been scouting for fresh game for Hadrelian when I heard the cry. A soldier—Yhark-Gark, a frogman—called for aid. Several scouts and soldiers rushed to his side, including Catus, one of the Eldrin officers. He rode forward on a brilliant white stallion, clad in supple leather armor and red-painted iron shoulder guards. His crossbow was drawn, loaded, and ready. Catus looked like a sleek fox, with his short, fiery hair and eyes that flickered with a dull orange.

At the edge of the pond, two of our foragers lay slain. One was a gnoll with straw-colored fur, his face melted away as if by acid—a sight that turned my stomach. The other had been stabbed repeatedly, blood still seeping from his neck into the mud.

A sudden cry pierced the air—an enormous dark blue corvid, as large as an eagle, wheeled above us. The soldiers murmured among themselves, fear seeping into their voices. A boarman who had somehow avoided the illness that plagued the beastkin bellowed in terror, "It heralds death!"

Catus, his sharp gaze fixed on the bird, swiftly drew a card from his hand. With a flick of his wrist, he activated its power, raising his crossbow to take aim. But before he could line up the shot, the bird plunged into the trees, as swiftly as a meteor.

"Damn bird," the Eldrin spat a Drakon curse under his breath, frustration evident. He turned to the rest of us, his tone commanding. "Get back to the line, all of you! Now!"

As the soldiers resumed their march, a sudden sense washed over me, the instinct of a Ranger—I was being watched. It was as if I had become the target, caught in the crosshairs of some unseen predator. I paused, an unsettling part of me almost hoping the stalker would end my life, but the collar around my neck compelled me to defend myself.

I activated my legendary skill, Skogvander, summoning a card to transform my soul-bound bow. Its limbs snapped together, reshaping into a long sword. The threat was close—I could feel it. I couldn’t hear the rustle of a single leaf or catch their scent, but the weight of unseen eyes bore down on me, weighing me. Then, as suddenly as the threat had come, it vanished—like feeling the jaws of a tiger around my head, only for it to release me without a bite.

I exhaled, realizing I had been holding my breath, and made my way back to the group.

Even with my Tracking skills, I couldn’t pinpoint where the Stalker had gone. I knew they were there, lurking in the shadows, but I couldn’t detect a single footprint or a broken twig. One moment, they were right next to me, and the next, they were gone. They were everywhere and nowhere at once.

By the end of the day, more bodies piled up. Two boar men, a frogmen, a rat, and another gnoll were found, each with mysterious puncture wounds and body parts blown apart by some unknown magic. It had gotten so bad that Drudus, Catus, and Zenon were sent to hunt down this elusive foe. Drudus and Hadrelian had set up wards around the camp to try to smoke the stalker out.

In the camp, they had started calling the person the Stalker of the Azure Plains—or simply, the Stalker. Hadrelian had offered a bounty of 10 Firsts or 10 Gold Marks to anyone who could shoot down the blue corvid seen every time a series of killings occurred.

Around the Chattel campfire, we exchanged rumors about the mysterious figure. So far, the Stalker hadn’t killed any of the Chattel, only soldiers who had wandered too far, scouring the surrounding valley and forest for food. I didn’t mention that I had been one of those soldiers who foraged alone for Hadrelian, but so far, the stalker had spared me. I couldn’t help but wonder why.

Despite the rasping coughs and panicked whispers of the soldiers, I somehow managed to find sleep. But my rest was short-lived. I was awakened by the sound of war horns and bells—an attack was imminent.

It was the dead of night, but I could see flames in the distance. Soldiers scrambled, gathering buckets of dirt and water to stamp out the fire. The night watch had been slaughtered, five men all with wounds in their bodies torn away by bladed weapons or magic. Drudus and Hadrelian were there immediately, summoning magic to quell the flames. A thick mist had been summoned, blanketing the fire and drenching the men who came to throw their buckets into the raging blaze.

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“I SEE THE BIRD!” someone shouted.

Men scrambled for crossbows, aiming to take down the creature. But just as it appeared, it dove into the night, vanishing before they could load their weapons.

The collar around my neck urged me to protect my masters, and soon, I found myself helping to put out the fires with the rest of the men.

By the time the flames were extinguished, five of our wagons—carrying bolts, wine, and food—were reduced to ash. The others might have been salvaged, but the wagons carrying the sick had been ruined. As if to add insult to injury, the smoke from the fires caused the night to echo with harsh coughing.

Not a single battle had been fought, and yet the Red Scythe’s numbers were dwindling, picked off by an unseen force.

I was summoned to the commander’s camp in the morning, exhausted like every other soldier whose sleep had been interrupted by the task of fighting flames and putting the camp back together.

Inside the camp, Drudus and Hadrelian were talking with Super, who lay on furs and silk pillows, casually eating grapes.

“Yo, I’m telling you, cuz. It’s the Chinese flu,” Super said, making a dramatic coughing gesture. “It’s from my planet.”

Hadrelian nodded along, clearly understanding despite the odd phrasing, likely thanks to his Polyglot skills.

“Look who it is,” Super said, grinning and pointing at me as I entered the tent. “I bet this Chinaman infected us all with it. He’s a rat, Haddy. You can’t trust 'em, bet.”

“Trust has nothing to do with it,” Hadrelian replied in accented English, his voice unsettling in its familiarity. “The Ranger is Tethered. He must obey.”

“You summoned me?” I asked, forced to mask my frustration.

“Yes, you are to ride with my brother for a mission,” Hadrelian said calmly, his hands clasped in front of him.

“May I know the reason?” I asked. “To better serve you.”

“We suspect a high-level rogue is stalking us. Or perhaps several,” Hadrelian explained, sipping his tea. “We think it might be mercenaries trying to weaken us. We’ll set a trap to flush them out.”

“So the rumors are true,” I muttered. “Why not scry them with one of your abilities?” I glanced at both Drudus and Hadrelian, powerful mages who could normally deal with any covert agent or scout on sight.

“We’ve tried, but they’re too slippery. The stalker comes and goes like the wind, vanishing as quickly as they appear. Whoever they are, they’re careful and have powerful cloaking abilities—and they seem to have an uncanny sense for stragglers and the camp’s position,” Drudus said, his jaw clenched.

“You’ll lie in wait. Your long-range abilities will help spot them. Do what you do best, Cameron. Wait and hunt.”

Let the Stalker destroy us all. Please, let them do it.

“I will do as you command, Master,” I said reluctantly.

“Your primary goal is to protect my brother,” Hadrelian added with a smile. “I have no doubt he will come out victorious, but keep him safe, Cameron.”

I nodded, though the doubt lingered. If a high mage was worried about this stalker, what could a Ranger like me possibly do to protect them? I couldn’t shake the feeling of being out of my depth. Still, I followed Drudus, and we both saddled up together on one of the highly prized White Highland Stallions—gentle creatures owned and bred by the nobility of Auriel, cared for by their prized Animal Keeper Chattel. Strong, beautiful, marble-like beasts, clever and quick to adapt to any rider.

The plan was simple. We’d send a lone group—sacrificial lambs—to fetch water from an open pond. Vulnerable, alone, tempting. We suspected the stalker lurked in the dense forest to the south, launching attacks with ruthless precision. To counter this, Drudus protected the southern approach with wards and laid spells to mark the assailant the moment they moved in for the kill.

Our “lambs” were a rat, a boar, and a frog—fresh recruits from Kronfeldt, each considered expendable. The boar was stammering, terrified at the thought of facing the stalker. But when Catus drew his sword, the sharp hiss of metal silenced any protests. One look at Catus’s eyes and the boar swallowed his fear, obeying in grim silence.

The trio moved toward the warded watering hole with hesitant steps, their backs straight but their nerves clearly frayed. From the north, we watched from our hilltop vantage. Catus, Zenon, and Drudus sat atop their white steeds, ready to give chase. I rode beside Drudus, gripping the back of his saddle as his horse pawed at the ground. Catus and I kept our eyes on the sky, searching for the telltale flash of the bluebird—the shape-shifted form of the Stalker the camp had whispered about. But the sky remained empty.

"Got him," Drudus muttered, his voice a low rumble as he pointed to a patch of bushes where a glint of metal revealed a hidden figure. The weapon was aimed at the unsuspecting lambs, who were dunking their barrels into the water, now exposed.

Without hesitation, Drudus drew a card from his deck and whispered an incantation. Blue chains of magic flared to life, wrapping the brush and trees like a net, trapping the Stalker. Another card followed, sending a concussive missile streaking through the air. It exploded with force but no intent to kill—just to stun. We needed him alive. Some questions needed answers.

As soon as the magic struck, Zenon and Catus spurred their horses forward, charging down the northern hills toward the plains and the brush where their prey lay trapped. Drudus’s horse followed, with me riding behind him to hold it back from the lone riders ahead.

Catus leveled his crossbow at the figure, waiting as the smoke began to clear. There our target stood, mud-caked and motionless. The bronze uniform of the Red Scythe was half-buried beneath dark grime. The boarman, bound to a tree trunk, had his mouth stuffed with leaves. His arms were stretched out and tied, and the crossbow strapped to his wrists, aimed forward, hung limp in his dead grasp. Another set of glowing chains of light shimmered around him, binding the dead boar to a magical prison.

Suddenly, from the forest’s edge from high above, a green orb of sickly ooze shot past me and struck Catus's horse. The beast whinnied in agony as it collapsed, dissolving under the vile ichor that spread over its skull. In moments, it died, leaving Catus sprawled, covered in dust and the horse’s blood, fury burning in his eyes.

Zenon immediately pressed forward toward the source of the projectile, expertly weaving between the trees. Suddenly, his horse was tripped by a rope anchored to a tree trunk and tied to a throwing knife. In an instant, two firebombs exploded with the shattering sound of breaking glass, engulfing both him and his horse in flames. The fire roared as horse and rider screamed in agony, thrashing and rolling desperately in a futile attempt to extinguish the blaze consuming them.

Drudus and I trailed behind and dismounted. Upon seeing the carnage, Drudus reacted instantly, summoning one of his skill cards to retaliate. Before he could act, a beam of red energy scorched through the air, striking between him and the hidden attacker. The force hammered Drudus backward, his enchanted iron chestplate sizzling as it absorbed the brunt of the attack. Even so, the blast left him winded, gasping for breath, and likely bruising his ribs beneath the armor.

As Drudus staggered, I drew my bow, activating Sniper’s Shot, and aimed for the Stalker’s legs. With my Ranger-enhanced vision, I caught sight of a tall, lean figure dressed in leather, a hood covering a cat's face. They leaped from a tree branch and broke into a sprint, a long black cloak trailing behind them like a shadow billowing across the forestscape. My arrow flew true, weaving past branches and leaves to strike the back of their calf. My intention was to cripple, not kill. A distant grunt confirmed the hit, and I considered following up with another shot. But my priority wasn’t to eliminate the Stalker—it was to protect Drudus.

Seeing Drudus in pain, I leaped from my horse and rummaged through the saddlebags for a healing potion. Without hesitation, I pressed it to his lips, though his face twisted in agony, his hands clutching his chest, which was likely bruised or broken.

Meanwhile, Catus wasted no time. Covered in dust, blood streaking his face, he sprang to his feet, rage driving him forward. He deflected black iron missiles hurled from the trees with his buckler, then fired a bolt from his crossbow into the forest. The sharp clang of metal meeting metal echoed back as if the stalker had easily deflected the shot. In the distance with my long sight, I saw a shadowy rider disappearing into the trees, mounted on a black steed that moved like a phantom through the forest.

“You’ll pay, Stalker,” Catus growled, venom in his voice. “My familiar cost me a fortune. Don’t think you won’t pay.”

The potion began working, softening Drudus’s pained grimace. I stripped away his ruined chestplate, tossing it aside, and handed him a roll of bandages from the saddlebags. The healing was slow but effective. By the time the soldiers arrived to help, Zenon and his horse had turned to charcoal. The rest of us retreated toward the main camp.

Orders swept through the camp—no one was to wander alone. Catus, Varon, and I were soon sent to forage for supplies, but the strain weighed heavily on the men. More and more fell to the coughing sickness that spread like wildfire. Soon, our wagons were loaded with the ill and dying. As the number of able-bodied men dwindled, fewer ventured out to hunt or gather water. Our supplies were stretched thin, and morale shattered. If we didn’t reach the sacked farm soon, more desertions would follow.

Then, as if to twist the knife deeper, the Stalker struck again that night. Fires erupted throughout the camp, engulfing four more wagons. Somehow, despite rearranging our wagons, the Stalker had pinpointed our food stores and wine casks yet again. Our much-needed rest after the long day’s march was shattered once again, having to put out the fires that jumped from one wagon to the rest.

I wore the Binding Collar, bound to protect Hadrelian and Eldrins, my masters. But a part of me—no, a part of all the tethered slaves in camp—secretly hoped the Stalker would bring down the Red Scythe. We didn't want another farm, another group of humans harvested and enslaved.

Before long, the humans in the camp were whispering their own name for this mysterious figure: The Magebane.