Chapter 1
A thick layer of snow layered over top of the forgotten ruins of the once prosperous village. The shells of the Tattered wooden houses stood out in the sea of white like buoys. The slow reclamation of the town by nature had begun with thick bushes and small saplings covering what was once the main road. On the path traveled a solitary man clutching his woolen poncho as tightly as he could. His thick fur boots waded through the shin high snow, barely keeping the cold from his feet. His eyes wore dark circles, and his face was scruffy with dark brown fluff from the long journey. Despite the biting cold he continued down the path toward the edge of the ruins where a large cliff stood, covered in icicles. He glanced around the empty husks of what were once buildings nostalgically. Knowing the secret path through the forest made getting to the top of the cliff a lot easier and almost safe as far as rock climbing was concerned. At a steady pace, he made his way up the steep climb until he was able to get to the top. He rolled onto the snow, exhausted from the effort. The top of the cliff was dotted with trees and bushes which would grow the best fruit in the spring. But he was here for a specific tree, a large pine tree at the edge of the cliff. Under the tree there was a solitary gravestone covered in a thick layer of snow.
The man pulled himself out of him shaped imprint he had made and shuffled over to the grave. With a delicate hand, he brushed snow from the worn stone. “Here lies Darlene and Travan Fletcher. May the Goddess show them mercy.” Was inscribed across the front of the stone. He knelt in the snow for a moment, taking in the sights of the countryside around him from the cliff. He could see the sparkling river amidst the surrounding forest, still running despite the cold a little way from the village. Letting out a sigh, he placed a numb hand on the stone. “I’m home Mom, Dad.” He whispered solemnly. From under his poncho, he pulled out a rusty silver locket and placed it on top of the stone. “I brought him back.” A wave of weariness filled his body. He’d been traveling for days without rest. He was about to stand when he heard something from behind him. There was no need to turn to know that he was surrounded.
From what he could tell there were three of them, spread apart so that he couldn’t get away. Glancing behind him he could see that they were colour coordinated in white hooded cloaks and armed.
“Heron Fletcher, I presume? The Magus needs a word. Unfortunately for you, he requested a silent audience” said a particularly smug man in the middle as he twiddled his curled mustache. His accent was southern and elegant. A noble looking for adventure. “Don’t feel too bad my good man. This is merely what happens when you make yourself a target of the Fleetward brothers.” He mused. The two on the flanks slid swords from their scabbards. The smug one in the middle flipped off his hood revealing a manicured blond goatee and a devilish smile. “As gentlemen, we shall save you the trouble of getting up. This will be as painless as your first hangover.” He continued, producing a shiny revolver from his coat. The glass chamber along the barrel gave it away as American made. The two on the flanks gave a dull chuckle. It had been so long since he’d seen people, and the first ones he saw were here to kill him.
Typical.
“Do gentlemen usually attack unarmed mourners?” Heron responded dryly. The men gave another dull laugh. They started their approach with the smug one leading the pack. He must be the leader. Heron bided his time, waiting for him to get close. The snow crunched just behind him. A gust of wind as the man aimed the gun to his head. He heard the man pull back the hammer and adjust his aim. He’d delt with guns enough to know there was always an opening just before the gun went off. He heard the click of the trigger. The signature whine of the firing coil heating up pierced the air signifying his moment. He spun from his kneeling position and swept the man’s legs out from under him as a blast of blue light flashed past his head. With ruthless efficiency, he pulled out his dagger and jabbed the man’s carotid artery. The man gurgled in shock until his eyes went blank. The surrounding snow turned a scarlet hue as it spilled from the man’s neck.
“Who taught you to use a gun? You don’t have to get so close.” He wrenched the blade from the corpse and pried the gun from the hand. The three of them stared at their dead leader in a stunned stupor. One even started shaking. He locked eyes with the most cowardly of the three. The man’s shaking only grew worse until he could no longer hold his sword steady. It only took one spin of the revolver for the man to rethink his life choices and make a break for it. He scrambled down the mountain as fast as he could, shortly followed by the other one. Once he was sure they were gone Heron breathed a sigh of relief. He was alone once again.
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He wiped the blood from his dagger on the dead man’s cloak and began to rummage through his pockets. Just a disappointingly light bag of coins and a sheet of paper bearing his face with an exorbitantly large number beneath it. “Wanted dead for heresy against the Magus and theft of property from the Court of the Blue. Heron Fletcher. All belongings must be returned to the court for payment.” Heron had to scoff at the ridiculous rendition of his features, there was no way his nose was that big. Was it? He let the thought drift away with the paper on the wind. Now it was time to get rid of the body itself. With great effort, he made his tired body to roll the stiff off the cliff. The bandits had left a few camping chairs and some trash behind the tree which he had little trouble kicking over the edge. A little snow over the blood stain and it was like the fight had never happened. The grave still sat under the tree, peaceful with a serene backdrop. Another smile came to him. It was time to leave. The sun had begun to set behind the distant hills past the forest. He attached the dead man’s gun to his belt and started down the side of the mountain.
The bandit’s set up at the top had been too small to sustain them for the amount of time they would have had to wait. They wouldn’t have known when he would arrive and there was no way those idiots had managed to track him. He’d seen bandits like them before. Bored noble buys the best weapons he can afford and goes out for an adventure. They were overly dramatic and were usually found dead in a year. To think he would head all the way to the Americans for one measly laser pistol. Logic and experience led to there being a camp in the forest.
With sunset come and gone he would need a place to sleep for the night Sure enough, there were a couple empty tents by a winding river further into the forest. From the looks of things, they had been there for a while. Loose wrapping paper was strewn around a burnt-out fire pit, and they had hung their clothes up on a line to dry. He made his way over to the clothes, looking for anything with less holes than his current rags. A fine pear of leather boots had caught his eye when a deep growl stopped him in his tracks. A little way from the camp were a pair of piercing eyes in the approaching gloom. His hand traced down his belt, a slight twinge of panic running down his spine when he couldn’t find his usual companion at his hip. The change in weaponry would take a while to get used to. From the other side of his belt, he chucked one of his last fire starters onto the pit illuminating the camp in orange light and grasped his new companion.
His eyes met the gaze of a Valden hound which stood about two feet taller than him. It had been tied to a nearby tree with a thick chain. Its thick grey and white fur was matted and grimy. A large metal muzzle had been placed around it’s head sized jaw. He’d heard of these hounds being used in the north of Graythan for particularly dangerous hunts. They were notoriously hard to tame but loyal if you could manage it. These particular owners seemed to have tried to skip the taming part and were just using it as a scary looking pack mule which he could only assume was some kind of odd show of force. He let out a sigh. The growl got louder, seemingly shaking the air around him. The tree creaked as the dog began lunging at him, each bark made him feel like he might lose is hearing. When it had tired itself out a bit, he slid his revolver from its holster and blew the off the harness clip holding the animal to the tree. The heavy implement fell to the snow with a crunch. Ignoring the hound’s surprise, he flipped the gun back into the holster and sat by the fire.
The hound continued to stare at the man who’d freed him, standing completely still on the outskirts of the fire. The sudden gunshot had shocked it enough to stop its growling and the man had backed off. Sores from the muzzle stung in the cold, winter air. Pangs of hunger echoed in its stomach, and it began to sniff at the air. The man seemed to be too dangerous a hunt for its weakened state. Besides, he smelled like old, wet fabric and gunpowder. The meat sizzling over the fire was a different story. With all the caution it could muster, it prowled closer to the fire. The man did not so much as lift a finger. When it was satisfied the man wasn’t a threat at the moment, it moved in fast. It snatched a cooked bird from the spit and retreated to the outskirts of the fire. It tore into the meat with relish. It hadn’t received anything but bones and scrap for at least a year. It took a small break to glance back at the man. Still no movement. When it had finished it moved in for another morsel. This time it made less of an effort to go unheard and settled a little closer to the fire. When it had eaten its fill a wave of weariness passed over its body. Its eyes began to droop and the strength left its muscles. As it fell into a deep sleep, it felt as if months of tension were let go from its body.
Heron watched the beast’s chest rise and fall in the fire light. The ferociousness growls and gashes of teeth had been replaced by a small, sleepy, puppy. He loved dogs and this one was just slightly larger than others. Dogs, like other animals, were always honest with their feelings and it put him at ease. Even when they were angry, you at least knew where you stood with them. He finished the last of the cooked birds and wrapped himself in a blanket he’d found close to the fire. There would be enough time to think about things tomorrow. The warmth of the fire soothed his mind into a restless sleep.