Chapter 76

James

Day 64 of First Landing

The Red Scythe - Army Size: 367

"Hey, you!” someone shouted as I stood with my trousers down, leaning up against a tree, mid-relief. “No one’s to wander off alone! Captain’s orders. You want to get butchered by the Stalker, you knobhead?”

I turned, still finishing up, to see Sergeant Hailon of the Red Scythe glaring at me. He was an old, grizzled gnoll, with one ear missing and a machete slung casually over his shoulder. His good eye followed me as I expelled the last of my bladder. Zipping up with as much dignity as I could manage, I gave him a nod and trudged back to camp, clutching the book Orion had left for me tight against my chest as if it might keep me safe.

Yesterday, while the main camp slept, Orion had shattered our reinforcements to the four winds. By morning, the news spread like a plague—coin for the soldiers was gone, and the food with it, was all up in flames.

Morale? Rock bottom. You want to break an army? Don't pay 'em, don't feed 'em. The camp was ripe for mutiny, and the weather wasn’t helping. Clouds smothered the sky, and the relentless rain made the march feel like we were dragging our feet through quicksand.

We split into groups of thirty; I ended up with Catus’ lot, hunting for anything edible in this forsaken wilderness. It seemed like someone had driven off every creature bigger than a squirrel. We scraped by on birds with more bone than meat, and the occasional rodent unlucky enough to cross our path.

Moving west toward the river, the main camp stumbled across what was left of our reinforcements. Bodies littered the ground, wagons, and tents reduced to burnt-out skeletons, and the forest surrounding them blackened and dead.

“The Stalker…” a frog-faced soldier croaked, his voice thick with fear.

Never one to miss a chance, I piped up, “Think he’s watching us right now? Bet he’s got this whole place laid with traps!”

It was like lighting a fuse. Panic spread through the men faster than wildfire.

“I’m not getting paid enough for this!” someone grumbled. “We were supposed to be rounding up Chattel, not fighting a demon!”

“The Stalker poisoned the casks! More people are falling sick!”

“We’ve got no food! The water’s tainted! We’re doomed!”

More men joined the chorus of panic, their fear jumping from one man to the next. A single man can be reasoned with. But a mob? That’s a beast of its own.

"QUIET!" roared Varon, the hulking Eldrin wielding a greatsword plated in thick armor. "The next word about the Stalker, and I'll personally tear out the man's tongue."

The silence that followed was suffocating, each man swallowing his fear rather than risk Varon’s wrath. His threats were never hollow.

Then Hadrelian, ever the smooth talker, stepped forward with his diplomat's smile. “Brothers,” he said with a voice like honey, “let’s not let this setback turn us from our goal. After the next reaping, I promise each man a First from my coffers.”

The promise of coin usually worked to settle nerves, but today? It barely touched the unease rippling through the ranks. Promised gold means little when you're half-certain you won’t live long enough to spend it. The Stalker had everyone looking over their shoulder.

We left the burnt camp behind and pushed on toward the Yendel River. It was meant to take us south to Thornhill, but right then, it felt like we were being herded toward our graves.

When we reached the river, I recognized the trail from my last trip to Kronfeldt. We were only a few days from the outskirts of Thornhill, but even that felt like a distant dream. The river gave a brief respite, and the foragers could finally try their luck with fishing.

Except, when we got there, we found four crimson bears gorging themselves on fish at the riverbank. Fat and sluggish, they barely noticed us. The Red Scythe rallied, seeing a chance for some real food, and set upon the bears with magic, arrows, and a thirst for meat. The bears hardly fought back, too stuffed and lazy to care.

Rather than waste time fishing, the men opted for roasted bear meat. But I wasn’t about to trust anything cooked up by foragers, not with Orion’s warnings still fresh in my mind. So, I stuck to my dried meat, hardtack, and waterskin, steering clear of the offered wine.

As expected, the bear meat turned out to be tainted. Hours later, men were doubled over in pain, retching and coughing their guts out. When they checked the riverbank again, they found a pile of dead fish—poisoned, just like the bears.

The camp grew more tense as night fell, with a third of the men on watch at all times, rotating in shifts. No one wanted to be caught off guard, not with the Stalker looming in every shadow.

While the others tried to sleep, I took the chance to examine the book Orion had given me. It was old, leather-bound, with no title on the front. The pages were yellowed with age, and inside the cover, a small blurb had been recently scribbled in some kind of Latin script, distinct from the rest of the text.

The book was written in Drakon, or at least in a primitive form of it. Thanks to days of spying on the Eldrins, and my knack for languages, I could muddle through it. Drakon was a distant cousin to Eldertongue, with hints of Lokan thrown in. Not too hard to pick up if you’d read the Latin script and understand the language—or had the Golden Tongue skill like mine.

The scribbled note translated roughly to: "This is a gift, Hadrelian. In return, I hope you bring me to the trials.” The word "trials" was simply a substitute word I hadn’t uncovered yet. It could mean a lot of things in Drakon—place of battle, place of trial, arena of trial.

The first thing I learned when I started poking around the camp was this: the cooks always had the best insight on the Eldrins. My best lead came from an older collared human I’d struck up a cautious friendship with—mid-forties, grey streaks in his light brown hair and beard, hands steady as he worked the stove. One of the personal cooks for the Eldrin high command, of all things. Not someone you’d think would have time to chat, but there we were.

“Za-rin-ka?” I asked him one evening, keeping my tone as neutral as I could manage.

“Means blizzard,” he replied, barely glancing up from his work. “Zarin means storms, ka means snow.” His voice was flat, his expression deader than a doornail—the look of someone who’s been collared long enough to have the fight drained right out of them. One of the "Chattel," as the Eldrin so delicately put it.

“Right. Thanks.” I gave a nod, trying not to come across as overeager.

That got me a reaction, at least. His brow furrowed just a touch, and his eyes flicked to mine, curious but wary, like he couldn’t quite believe someone had bothered to thank him.

“You’ve taken quite the interest in Drakon, boar,” a voice interrupted from behind me, the words in Lokan. The accent was familiar—Orion and Sophie had that same lilt when they spoke the foreign tongue.

As I finished up, I turned to find Hadrelian’s pet Ranger standing there, looking me over like I was a particularly suspect bit of meat. Mid-twenties, charcoal-black hair, and light brown eyes that seemed to miss nothing. Cameron, they called him. An odd name for a bloke like him, which wasn’t the only odd thing about him.

Cameron was a walking contradiction. Fair-skinned and angular-nosed, sure, but his almond-shaped eyes and dark hair screamed some Asian ancestry. And then there was the name—Cameron, of all things. Modern, American, and as out of place in this world as I was. The kicker? The man spoke flawless English, with the dialect you’d expect from someone raised in Southern California. It was enough to make me itch with curiosity, but how could I even start that conversation without revealing too much about myself?

He might have been collared and a servant to Hadrelian, but the way he carried himself—confident, always watching—made it clear he wasn’t your average worker Chattel. And yet, I knew one wrong word to him could end with me wearing one of those blasted collars, too.

I gave him a small bow, more out of caution than respect. It didn’t help—his suspicion only deepened.

“My friend here was filling me in on the camp’s goings-on,” I said, gesturing to the cook, who quickly jumped in to explain.

“He was asking about the Chattel’s health,” the cook said in heavily accented Lokan.

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“Were you?” Cameron asked, toneless.

“And? Do the Chattel suffer from the same coughing sickness plaguing the Beastkin?” I asked.

The cook shook his head. “No. Fortunately, my Master gave me an elixir as soon as I started getting sick.”

Cameron’s eyes narrowed as he turned his focus back to me. “Interesting. You don’t seem to be sick either.”

It took every ounce of willpower I had not to react. On earth, my law firm had ensured I was fully vaccinated. Besides, I’d already had COVID a few months before boarding the plane—or at least, I thought I had. Not that I could say any of that. Explaining why I seemed immune to a disease sweeping through the camp wasn’t a conversation I was willing to have—especially not with him.

"You know how it is. I must have whatever immunity you lot have," I said, laughing a little too hard to hide the knot of unease in my gut.

Cameron’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. "We lot? The Eldrin dose us with potions to protect their valuable property. That doesn’t explain why you’ve been spared."

I forced a grin. "I’m a boar, aren’t I? Rolling in the muck, eating God knows what? Builds up a solid resistance to most things."

His gaze didn’t waver. "Why are you so interested in us, anyway?"

I hesitated, but only for a moment. "I’ll level with you," I said, lowering my voice like we were co-conspirators. "There’s a rumour going round that the Stalker’s one of you Chattel. They call him the Magebane, don’t they? The Chattel Messiah, destined to set you all free. I figured if I treat the Chattel well, maybe the Stalker’ll leave me alone."

That seemed to take the edge off him, his brow easing ever so slightly. Nothing like good old-fashioned self-interest to make sense of a man.

"The Magebane," Cameron muttered, shaking his head. "He’s nothing but a fairy tale. The Emperor’s high priests cooked him up to keep the slaves filled with hope. Dangle the possibility of freedom in front of a man long enough. They’ll keep walking."

"He’s real," the cook said, stirring his pot with a fervour that made the stew ripple violently. "I’ve seen him. He stands like a man and is the bane of the Eldrin. He’ll free us from our chains."

"I’ve seen him too," Cameron countered, his tone biting. "Has the face of a cat rather than a man. And for someone called Magebane, he didn’t do much to disrupt the Eldrin’s spells. He fights more like a rogue than the scorn of magic. The Captains reckon it’s the old Lion of Ironclad, back to avenge his fallen company. I’m not convinced. One thing is for sure, he’s no Messiah. He can bleed."

"The Magebane can take many shapes," the cook said, his voice rising like a preacher’s. "Who else could strike at the Eldrin like he has?"

Cameron rubbed his face, weary and unconvinced. "If he’s so powerful, why are the collars still working?"

"He’s testing us," the cook insisted, nodding as if to convince himself. "We’ve got to prove we’re worthy. Then he’ll take us to Sanctuary."

Cameron’s expression softened on the cook, almost pitying. He didn’t have the heart to dash the old man’s hope.

I leaned in closer, keeping my voice low. "If the Magebane frees you, I need to know you won’t turn on me."

"Only the Masters can break these collars," Cameron said flatly.

"That’s not true," the cook snapped. "The Magebane can do it. It’s in the legends."

Cameron exhaled and shook his head.

"Let’s say he does," I pressed. "Let’s say he frees you. What happens then?"

The cook smiled, his eyes gleaming. "That means we’ve reached Sanctuary. I’ll be running for the gates as fast as these old legs can carry me."

Cameron gave a grim chuckle. "I’ll kill as many Eldrin as I can before they catch me and slap a new collar on."

"Fair enough," I muttered, glancing around to make sure no one else was listening. "Look, when we reach this… Thornhill village, I’ve heard they won’t shoot anyone without a weapon—especially Chattel. If it all goes sideways, I’m dropping my sword and putting my hands up. You’d better vouch for me."

"You think we’ll lose?" Cameron asked, raising an eyebrow. "Hadrelian and Drudus could wipe Thornhill off the map if they wanted to, with just a few draws of the card. They’re armies on their own."

I shrugged, trying to sound casual. "I’m just covering my bases. Playing it smart. If that Stalker shows up, though… well, I’m not sticking around to find out what he wants."

"The Magebane will save us," the cook said, his voice full of certainty. "Thornhill is Sanctuary. I can feel it."

Cameron said nothing, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes.

Bidding farewell to the two collared humans and shaking off the weight of Cameron's gaze, I returned to my post to get some rest.

At daybreak, I would break away from camp to read the book Orion had given me. It was a welcome distraction, a puzzle filled with mystery.

Settling into my secluded spot near the river, leaning against a tree, I opened the book carefully. My breath hitched as my fingers traced the faint script on the first page. The cants were written like poetry, each word carrying the chill of winter. Soft and tentative, I murmured them aloud, the cadence conjuring images of frost-laden forests and blizzards sweeping across barren fields. It wasn’t just words—it was music: the rhythm of falling snow, the hiss of ice cracking underfoot.

The air grew colder with each phrase. My breath became visible, and tiny puffs of mist vanished into the night. Goosebumps prickled across my arms as though the cold was seeping into me from the very words I spoke.

The book wasn’t a tome of dry instruction. It felt alive, more like a collection of songs and verses celebrating winter’s beauty and its raw, unrelenting power.

Then it happened—that strange, unmistakable sensation. A tingling deep in my chest, as if a door had opened inside of me that led to a million different pathways. Paths of ice, paths of fire, paths of earth, paths of light and darkness. I looked down at my palms, expecting them to be empty, but instead, a card shimmered into existence.

The words on its surface glowed faintly in the dim light:

Path of the Elementalist - 1

Harness the raw power of the elements, summoning them from the void to obey your command.

Icebolt - 1

Launch a piercing bolt of ice at your target.

Cooldown: 120 seconds

I held it gingerly, marvelling at the intricate design etched into the card. Snowflakes spiralled around the edges, while a shard of blue light seemed to pulse at its centre.

I snapped the book shut, the rush of discovery making my hands tremble. But curiosity wouldn’t let me leave it there. With a quick breath, I flipped it open again, found the cant, and recited it firmly.

The air shifted, crackling with energy. A glimmer appeared in my hand—a card: Icebolt. The words burned bright against the shimmering blue surface. Before I could think too much about it, I grabbed it. Frost coursed through my fingertips as the card dissolved into a long arrow of glowing blue light, shimmering with jagged edges of ice.

I hurled it towards the river. The bolt zipped through the air with a high-pitched whistle, trailing frost in its wake. When it struck the water, the impact spread like a ripple frozen in time. Ice blossomed across the surface, jagged and glistening, stretching outward until it stilled the current.

For a moment, I just stared. Warmth returned, and the river reclaimed its flow, breaking the ice into shards that drifted downstream like fragile, glittering wreckage.

My pulse raced. Did that really just happen? Was I... a wizard? A sorcerer? No, that didn’t feel right. Magic was extremely rare for humans. One in a million. A human mage was extremely rare. Could I really be one of those?

The thought was both thrilling and terrifying. Then, a chilling yet intriguing possibility occurred to me.

Could I be… the Chosen One?!

No, best not to get ahead of myself. I clenched my fists, the lingering cold biting at my skin. A human mage. Possibly the only one in this world. If I grew stronger, honed this power... well, maybe then... I could stand toe-to-toe with the Eldrin mages.

But I had to keep this to myself. For now, at least. No one could know. Not yet.

After breakfast, we were back in the march. Three more men had been found dead overnight, which brought our numbers down to just over 350. Of those, maybe 270 were actual soldiers and recruits. The rest were the usual camp followers—Chattel slaves, cooks, labourers, the unlucky ones pressed into service because they had nowhere else to go. To make matters worse, we had to march in the rain. Again.

Hadrelian, seeing the morale in the gutter and the men’s faces grim, raised his staff and cast a beacon over the entire column. The spell took the form of a miniature sun, its golden light piercing the drizzle and warming us from the inside out. It was like stepping out of a dark room into sunlight, and you could feel the shift in the air. Shoulders straightened, feet moved faster. Spirits lifted, and the men began to sing, voices rising with the beat of the march.

Closer now. Closer with every step. The knot in my stomach tightened as the landscape grew familiar—sickeningly familiar. I knew this place. Every hill, every bend in the river. Thornhill. Home. And the barbarians at its gates.

By nightfall, we’d made camp just half a day’s march from the village. The scouts had gone ahead, their reports murmured between the officers that Thornhill had impressive walls and a moat. Lanterns were doused early, and the fires were kept low. The tension was palpable; the men subdued, even with Hadrelian’s light still lingering in the sky. Throughout the night, a Carpenter Chattel and workers felled trees to prepare ladders, portable bridges, and—one thing I had to warn Orion about, but he’d been silent for a day, possibly already back in Thornhill—a small raft-like rowboat.

Tomorrow, Thornhill would be under siege. My village. My friends. My responsibility. And here I was, stuck among the enemy, armed with magic I didn’t understand and a plan I hadn’t yet figured out.