Tossing his sack over a fallen tree and clambering over himself, Brugo Bloodmane sighed as he dropped to the soft earth. Slinging his pack back over his shoulder, he paused for a moment and scanned the landscape. Ahead, Andrysfal stretched across the continent toward the Eadoin Ocean. Behind him, across the Ogen Sea , the Sarizian Empire.
Not long ago, Brugo made his home in Sariza’s capital city, Tchetnol. But now, he was a nomad, a political refugee. He only hoped that by the time the soldiers came knocking on his door and realized he was gone, he would be far enough away to escape their clutches.
Peering through the trees, Brugo could hardly be sure he was headed in the right direction. However, his friends in Yaal had assured him that as long as he moved toward the east, he would find the great river that carried cargo up to Andrysfal’s heartland. Once he got there, he could find himself a ship for hire and ride the rest of the way with relative ease. At least as long as nobody recognized him.
Trudging through the tangled brush, he pulled his axe from his belt, swinging it easily back and forth to clear a path. Up ahead, he spotted a break in the trees. As he stepped out from beneath the branches, he could see a little hamlet set into the countryside. All was quiet, delicate tendrils of smoke rising from chimneys as families settled in for their evening meal.
A tiny squeak came from the pocket of his leather apron and he peered down. A moment later, the tiny pink nose of a rat emerged, followed by two tiny paws scrabbling for purchase on the worn leather. With a snort, Brugo reached down into the pocket and withdrew Mabel, lifting her to his shoulder where she liked to perch.
“You smelled food, did ya?”
Mabel gave another little squeal, twitching her whiskers at him.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get fed. There’s plenty of food in the sack, and my axe is sharp as ever, little one.”
She stared at him with dark, beady eyes and he scratched her under the chin before shaking his head and rummaging in the pack for a strip of jerky.
“Here. Will that hold ye over until supper time?”
She was too busy gnawing at the meat to respond.
There was a shout from one of the houses and the front door swung open, a group of boys emerging into the evening light. They called after one another, laughing and running, and soon more children emerged from nearby houses. Brugo watched for some time, curious about their antics, before he turned away and slipped back between the trees.
He’d only just left the Sarizian Empire three days past. He wasn’t nearly far enough inland to risk being seen yet. Out here, he’d stand out like a sore thumb in the little hamlet. He was nearly twice the size of any human man, and his fierce battle axe tended to leave an impression on all who laid eyes upon it. That, and the short tusks that jutted from his lower jaw.
He was assured that once he reached Yaal, he would blend right in with the capital city’s multicultural population, and he could only hope his friends were right. Otherwise, he’d never be safe in Andrysfal either.
For now, he was content to skirt every settlement he came across until he was far enough inland to be sure that he wasn’t being followed. Then, he could gather some information, meet up with his friends, and find a way to help the rest of his crew back in Sariza. Maybe someday he’d even manage to sneak back in and reclaim his place as the head of the butcher’s guild, Sariza’s most prominent organization.
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It was precisely this that had sent him into exile. As it happened, Sariza’s emperor, Artax, had grown tired of the guild’s demands and was determined to disband them. The butchers, on the other hand, were quite content to continue holding up food stores and depriving the emperor of his favorite meal. Finally, things had escalated to the point where the emperor himself declared a bounty on Brugo’s head for leading the guild astray and ran him out of the kingdom.
Now, lost in the woods of Andrysfal’s dense southern woodlands, Brugo hoped that his final act as leader of the guild would serve as retribution.
Moving silently, Brugo circumnavigated the hamlet and found himself on the other side, faced with more of the same dense foliage and a rapidly approaching sunset. He took a moment to check the direction of the sun while he still could, and then set his direction due east and carried on with determination.
He marched until it was too dark to see the limbs and stumps in his path, and then he cleared a little space amongst leaf litter and built a small fire. Mostly, he did this for Mabel. His tough, leathery skin could handle more than a little cold. But the rat enjoyed basking in the warmth of a campfire and it did help to ward off any beasts that might come sniffing around during the night.
Reaching into the pack, he retrieved the rest of the jerky strip for Mabel and a larger chunk of meat for himself. He skewered it on his knife and held it close to the coals, warming it just enough to form a light brown crust on the outside before tearing off a chunk with his teeth.
“Now that’s the last you’re gettin’ tonight. We have to save some for the rest of our journey, and I don’t want ya getting fat.”
Mabel gave him a squeak of protest, lashing her tail about her as she finished her meal. Then, she curled into a little ball atop a stone near the fire and went to sleep.
Settling in, he lay back on his pack, crossing his legs at the ankles and letting his axe rest easily across his lap. He hummed an old Sarizian song to himself as he waited for sleep to take him.
The sound of a branch breaking in the darkness woke Brugo in an instant. He remained still, tightening his grip on his axe haft and cracking one eye open just enough to peer around the camp. Nothing seemed to move but a light breeze rattled the leaves. He breathed shallowly, listening, and then the sound came again. Something was moving toward him. Or more likely, someone.
With deliberate slowness, Brugo reached out the toe of his boot and nudged the rock that Mabel rested upon. She startled awake, giving him a glare before her ears turned forward and she scanned the forest, freezing as she zeroed in on the direction of the sound.
Brugo pulled his way to his feet, crouching low beside the fire and preparing for a fight. But a moment later, a man stumbled out from between the trees, teetered precariously at the edge of the clearing, and then fell forward onto his face among the leaves with a dull thud.
Giving Mabel a curious look, Brugo crept forward, prodding the man with the long haft of his axe before bending over him and rolling him onto his back.
The man’s eyes were watery and he was missing all but one tooth in the front, his skin pale and sunken. And he reeked of cheap liquor and piss.
Brugo grimaced, taking two large steps back from the man and waving a hand in front of his face to clear the stench of the man’s breath.
“Who’re you?” the man mumbled from the ground, apparently unable to sit up or even lift his arm more than a few inches as he stared up at Brugo.
“Just a traveler,” Brugo answered quietly. “Why don’t you get some sleep? It looks like you could use it.”
“Aye, the mistress’ll come find me in the mornin’,” the man agreed, making a kind of choking sound before turning his head to spit off to one side. And then his eyes fell closed and he began snoring.
Alarmed, and no longer the least bit tired, Brugo held out his hand for Mabel and she jumped up. He placed her gently back into the pouch of his apron, hoisted his sack, and kicked some dirt over the last of their little fire.
“Best be away from here before the sun rises. I’d hate to know what kind of mistress comes looking for a man like that,” Brugo mumbled to himself with a shudder.