Chapter 6
Within half an hour, Northcry had disappeared among the Stoney Mountains, and Oliver came to the edge of Burrow Lake. The lake was fed from several mountain water streams that joined together. A long and winding river trailing away from the lake would take Oliver straight to Westvale. He stopped briefly to slash the cool water on his face.
It wasn’t uncommon for Oliver to leave the city walls, he often hunted in the woods nearby. Burrow Lake was also a common fishing spot. This time, however, even the water felt different. It was freeing, exciting. It ran down his neck, washing away the anxiety of such a grand adventure just waiting to happen.
When he finished, Oliver continued his walk. His eyes traced the tips of the mountains peeking over the trees. The Stoney mountains ran from the Southeastern edge of Aidenbre, all along the coast, and finally past Westvale. Oliver was grateful he’d have them as a constant guiding landmark. Many souls lost their way within the Thicket, mostly those who couldn’t keep their heads straight.
The walk to Westvale would take several hours, so Oliver decided to practice his magic on the way to pass the time. Oliver reached down and picked up a flat stone a little larger than a gold Denz coin. He concentrated, focusing the magic in his body towards his fingertips and into the stone. Two sunset orange rings of magic wrapped around his hands as the stone began to twitch in his grasp.
When Oliver let go of the stone, the magic rings disappeared, and the stone began to float on its own. With just a simple thought, Oliver could make the stone move around the air and spin as it circled him. As he continued his way to Westvale, Oliver gathered a total of eight stones and kept them afloat for a few hours before he felt his energy wane. Oliver was able to stack them, arrange them in shapes, and even collide them together so hard they broke apart. Oliver’s breathing grew deliberate and beads of sweat formed on his brow.
Oliver waited until he couldn’t support the stones any longer, then one-by-one they dropped until Oliver cut off the enchantment entirely. While his mentor, Wizard Fen, could summon bolts of lightning and fly, Oliver’s talents lied with enchanting. He could affect objects, like rocks and even his bow and clothing. There were a few spells Oliver could pull off outside of enchantments, but for the time being, he had much to learn.
As the sun began its descent in the afternoon sky, Oliver reached a hilltop from which he could make out the small cabins of Westvale. Taking a moment to catch his breath, Oliver examined the village.
Westvale held around five hundred people, mostly carpenters, farmers, and hunters. It started as a large post for producing lumber and food for Northcry’s mines. Now, it was a developed settlement and a close trading partner with Northcry, who provided the village protection, stone, and metals. There was a traveling marketplace, too, where travelers and hunters from all over sold their goods. It was the perfect stop early on in a journey.
Oliver made his way down towards the log wall, down to a gate guarded by two Northcry soldiers. Oliver recognized their faces from the barracks grounds, where he trained with Sir Henry. With a wave the guards, in turn, recognized him.
“Good afternoon, young Oliver!” The first guard called out as Oliver came close.
“Good afternoon,” replied Oliver, “It’ll be Sir Guardian when I return!”
“Is it that time already?” The second guard asked with a smile, “I’ll look forward to it!”
The two let Oliver pass and as he walked into the town, Oliver felt a surge of pride. He’d be the same as his parents, soon enough. It’d been fifteen years since he started training. Even as a child, he studied the history of his country, Aidenbre, until he was strong enough to hold a bow. Now he was a practiced magician, an accomplished archer, and he could even hold his own with a blade – though swordplay was easily his least skill.
Oliver found an inn close by and stepped inside. He was welcomed with the rich scent of stew and a few grizzled stares from a table of middle-aged hunters. Oliver gave them a polite nod and the four hunters resumed their meal.
The ground floor of the inn was a dining hall with several small round tables and a bar counter where an elderly man stood polishing a plate. He gestured to a stool by the bar and Oliver gladly took a seat.
“Staying the night, young man?” The elderly man asked with a slow drawl.
“Just stopping for a rest,” Oliver replied, “I’ll have a stew and something hot to drink.”
The elderly man nodded, “Six bronze Denz, then.”
Oliver fished through a pouch under his jacket and pulled out a silver coin, “I’ve only got the silver.”
The elderly man took the coin and replaced it with four bronze coins, then turned and disappeared in the kitchen. Oliver pocketed the coins and double-checked his purse. Through odd jobs and selling trophies from his hunting trips, Oliver had managed to save a fair sum. Most of it was tucked away in his room, back in the castle. There was no sense in bringing it along, after all. For the trip, Oliver gave himself four gold Denz and five silver. Plenty more than was necessary, but Oliver never had the chance to spend his coin, and he knew there’d be a few merchant stalls in Westvale.
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The elderly man returned with a wooden bowl full of thick potato and beef stew, with some carrots and herbs mixed in as well. Making his way to the fireplace, where an earthenware pot hung above the flames, the elderly man filled a stone cup. When he set it out in front of Oliver, the heavenly scent of apple cider filled Oliver’s nose.
“Enjoy,” the elderly man said before turning to put away clean dishes.
“Thank you,” Oliver warmed his hands with the cup before digging into his soup.
The meat was heavily seasoned and a poor cut, but Oliver got it down. He knew he’d been spoiled, living at the castle. Under normal circumstances, Oliver would have been simply treated as an apprentice, a position no higher than a regular soldier. However, his parents’ former status as Guardians gave him certain privileges. Once, on a trip with Sir Henry as a young boy, Oliver complained bitterly that a leek stew tasted more like plant water.
Unlike the other patrons, who gasped in shock, Sir Henry calmly looked at the server and said, “Thank you for the meal, this will keep me going all day.”
Oliver was embarrassed. He apologized to the server and ate his soup without another word. Sir Henry never brought it up, but from then on, he looked at Oliver expectantly whenever food was served. Oliver would have to show gratitude for the meal before he could eat.
As Oliver ate his stew, he overheard the hunters talking.
“I heard the game down South is slim,” said the hunter with bronze hair.
“Reckon it’s Brent? I hear they’ve been having a hard time feedin’ their soldiers,” a slimmer man with a lopsided beard said.
“That’s what they’re saying,” the bronze-haired hunter agreed, “they’ve been growing like rabbits.”
“Who’s been feedin’ them, then?”
An older, graying hunter spoke up, “Betcha it’s them Imperials.”
“The Great Empire? Don’t tell me they’re getting’ cozy,” the slimmer hunter said before taking a long drink out of his mug.
The older hunter chuckled, “Practically married.”
Oliver turned to get a better listen, but then the door to the inn slammed open. Two staggering figures barged into the inn. The first one spat into the corner and walked over to take a seat on the other end of the bar. The second man followed, leaving the door open. One of the hunters at the table stood up and pushed it closed.
The first man, who reeked of mud and cow pies, called out to the elderly man, “Oi! Bring us drinks and something to eat, old man!”
The loud man was dressed in layers of ragged scarves and jackets. The smell of manure, mud, and decaying wood hung around him. He dropped a backpack he was wearing and it clattered to the ground. The tips of various tools, like hatchets and pickaxes, stuck out the top. The second man was much shorter than the first, but he was built like a rock. He picked his nose contentedly, then wiped it along the face of his leather coat. He smelled just as bad.
“Old man!” The loud one yelled again like the innkeeper didn’t hear the first time, “fix us a couple of stews and something hot to drink.”
The elderly man nodded politely with so much as a word before he disappeared into the kitchen. He returned with two bowls of stew, which he set before the two rowdy men before reaching for a metal pitcher. It smelled of sweet grapes and alcohol. Table wine, Oliver recognized. He was plenty old enough to drink, but his mentors only let him drink at night and on holidays, so he could sleep soundly and celebrate.
Oliver wrinkled his nose, he hardly drank, however, as the smell always bothered him. Over the years he spent in the forest, he’d developed keen senses. It also helped he could empower them with his magic.
Oliver lifted his cider closer to his face, trying to smother the smell of alcohol with apples and cinnamon. It worked, for the most part, but as Oliver brought it closer, he couldn’t help but continue drinking, and the drink was soon gone. The warm cinnamon and sweet apples were squelched by sour body odors and pungent wine.
Setting down his cup Oliver felt his blood pump and pulse through his temple. It was too much. He couldn’t even smell the rest of his stew. What did these men do all day? Bury bodies? Oliver couldn’t stand it any longer, he already missed the castle. There, at least, people bathed every week!
Unable to withstand the two men’s presence any longer, Oliver thanked the elderly innkeeper for the meal and pushed away from the counter. Lifting his backpack and bow, Oliver cast aside the two men from his mind and started towards the door.
“Eh, old man! This stew tastes like crap!”
Oliver paused in front of the door.
“Sir,” The innkeeper croaked, “You’ve already finished it, haven’t you?”
“Call it charity,” The taller man sneered, “The pigs don’t gotta eat this slop now, right?”
The words ran in Oliver’s ear like a bell in an endless tunnel. Before he knew it, he’d dropped his pack and bow and started back towards the two men.
“So,” The taller man continued, “What do you think you’re gonna do about this?”
Before the innkeeper could respond, Oliver’s arm wrapped around the taller man’s kneck and the man was pulled to the ground. Oliver brushed his fingers across the man’s coat and two rings of orange runes blossomed above his hand. The man’s clothes grew heavy as lead, holding him in place. The shorter man shouted in protest, but Oliver’s sharp bronze eyes turned towards him like blades.
“W-we don’t want no t-trouble…” The shorter man stammered, looking at Oliver with doleful, pleading eyes before they turned sinister. In a flash, the shorter man drew a dagger and lept towards Oliver.
Oliver’s weakest skill was his swordsmanship, but as an archer, he’d at least trained in defending himself against blades. Those years of training flashed in Oliver’s mind as he gracefully stepped to the side, caught the shorter man’s wrist with his left hand, numbed his grip with a jolt of magic, and pushed the man off-balance with his right. The man was on the ground in seconds, with Oliver twisting his arm painfully as two of the other hunters grappled the taller man and the other two came to assist Oliver.
From an exposed tattoo on the pair’s arms, it was found out they belonged to a group of mercenary bandits. The hunters carried the two off to the guards while Oliver apologized to the innkeeper.
“It was a reckless thing,” the innkeeper scolded, “taking matters into your own hands like that.”
Oliver didn’t answer, but the innkeeper expected he wouldn’t. The elderly man shook his head, “Still, I appreciate you protecting my honor like that. But it’s more important to protect your own, first, before you go around protecting everyone else’s! Otherwise, you have no credibility, no right, to do so!”
The innkeeper’s words flowed through Oliver’s mind as he left the inn. The edge of the Thicket was a short journey away. He’d stop at the marketplace first since it was on the way. He rarely had the opportunity to go, so this was his best chance.
Still, Oliver thought to himself, what point was there in being a Guardian, if he couldn’t intervene at times like that? Wasn’t that what was expected of him?