The blade shone beautifully in the Kliogan sun. Fran attacked an imaginary enemy, stabbed him three times, then thrusted him. Much lighter than his scimitar, the new sword made felt like it guided his hand toward the best next strike effortlessly. Should he buy it, though?
“And you say it's Elvish?” Fran asked the shopkeeper.
The man nodded impatiently. He wore a brown leather apron that showed his tanned hairy arms, tattooed in Chinese ideograms with Kliogos’ motto: The thousand and first prefecture. The few Kliogans who traveled inland got the words written by a scribe on a parchment. A few got it tattooed. It helped with the frequent checkpoint stops carried by Prefectural Guards and it was a great icebreaker with other travelers.
'Elves don't live anywhere close, right? How did an Elvish sword end up in your shop?”
“Same way your scimitar did. An adventurer sold it to me. I don’t judge the provenance of my merchandise or ask questions, and neither should you if you intend to last out there,” he said, nodding his head toward the path that led out of the Empire.
The man sold weapons of all kinds that adventurers and traders brought him because they'd draw excessive attention from Imperial authorities. That included anything made by Orc or Elvish smiths, for neither had a place in the amalgam of the thousand prefectures. Elves were too haughty to be ruled by short-lived humans. Orcs were too much fun.
There were no Orc scimitars in the store, though. The man's face had lit up when Fran drew it, and he quickly tried to draw his sincerity back by remarking on a non-existent chip in the blade.
“I'll need a shield, too.”
“Can you use one?”
Fran paused.
“No.”
“Then get a short sword with a good guard for your left hand. Here,” said the seller, grabbing one in a marigold sheath. “It's the best I can do.”
“I went to The Wayward Son for some fun, a few nights ago. Do you know the place?”
“I know it.”
“I met a lot of interesting people, and they all wanted to talk about my scimitar,” sad Fran. He focused his eyes on the moving blade. Maybe that would help his lie. “They all said there aren’t any orcs this close to the border. That there couldn’t be.”
“You point being?”
“That I think we can strike a better deal, you and I. You'll make a handsome profit off this scimitar. Money I couldn't make myself because I don’t know your trade. So why don't you add 200 coins and we both walk away winners?”
Fran anticipated a dry response offering 100 coins instead, but something in the man softened and he just went for the steel box where he kept his money. The silver coins displayed the face of a benevolent man sure to reign with justice in his heart.
Fran's next attempt at trading wasn't this successful. He tried to buy a stallion from the only horse trader in town and all he got for his trouble was a thunderous laughter ringing in his ears. A 100 coins for a donkey, then? The man laughed again, and Fran walked away embarrassed. In real world terms, the only ones he was aware of thanks to his love of History books, he was trying to buy a tank with money from the sale of a rifle. Medieval knights weren't just sworn warriors on a horse, they were also asset owners in a time of barter and widespread poverty. Warhorses were huge investments, and so were armors, which Fran understood he wouldn't be able to buy either.
He kept Bertrán’s advice in mind: Azgadal requires a heavy purse. He decided to buy as little as possible in Kliogos and keep his money for later: A thick blanket, a water canteen originally issued for Imperial scouts, a fire-making kit and food, some bread, cheese, and olives for the road. Everything else would have to wait. Or rather, everything else awaited him. He felt optimistic and full of energy. He had new friends to meet in a new city, the swords of a new but promising adventurer, and had avoided a trap worse than a thousand dungeons: Becoming a lifelong serf to the New Alliance.
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He walked all day and decided to sleep close to the road. The night was chilly and Fran felt thankful for his blanket even though wasn't particularly comfortable, it itched, but that was something he'd have to accept: Comfort was a modern phenomenon. The lack of comfort that had been the norm throughout history was now his to share. His and everybody else’s, unless you were the son of a Mandarin writing poems and drinking wine in a Cheng'An cloud garden.
The morning after, he continued on his way. The forest around him was alive with the chirps of a multitude of birds, the rushed steps of rabbits and the louder noises of unknown animals. Fran stopped on his feet and waited for the latter to disappear before continuing. The vanishing road required closer attention now, it was packed soil and little else. Plants and brush grew all over it, mocking its attempt to divide the forest in the name of commerce and travel.
He didn't meet anyone on the road. All he saw was a multitude of oaks, beeches and trees whose names he ignored. The forest was so dense that Fran couldn't make his way through the trees to find a discreet place to sleep. It couldn't be too late yet, but now he was deep in the forest, the lack of sunlight through the canopy of the trees that lined up the road created its own dusk. Fran gathered a small mountain of leaves and made a decent mattress out of them. Nothing to write home about, but definitely good enough that his back would feel grateful tomorrow. He ate some bread and the best goat cheese he'd ever tasted and closed his eyes.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
By noon of the following day, a violent brightness disturbed the calm of the forest road. Fran smiled in anticipation: He’d finally reached the edge of the forest and a breathtaking vista opened up before his eyes.
A wide valley spread from West to East, covered in knee-high grass, vividly green. Then there were some high hills, ochre and barren. Further to the East, a powerful current guided a river to a semi-circular lake before continuing its way divided into three smaller rivers.
The lake must be at least 2 kilometers wide at its widest point. The East bank led to a somber marsh covered in misshapen trees. The West Bank and its smooth shore gave way to rows of docks, warehouses and tall wooden stave houses with sharp-angled roofs in the medieval Scandinavian fashion. Beyond them stood a vibrant city that made its way to a wall-enclosed area of smaller homes. Hundreds of home fires released grey columns of smoke that vanished in the fresh blue sky.
Among the small, crowded homes at the edge of the mountain slope, a tall ashen cathedral stood out with bas-relief walls, tall narrow windows and spires that impaled the sky as if to make a sacrifice. Beyond them, a mass of rock, matte black as coal, smooth and bright. It rose at a sharp angle forming a mountain a thousand meters taller than the snowed peaks behind. However, the black mountain didn't have a single snowflake on its top. Snow wouldn't touch the blessed mountain that had become the nest of Azgal the black dragon.
Fran scanned the skies for the great beast. Nothing. Perhaps Azgal was resting on the hidden side of the mountain, or perhaps he was flying somewhere so high that his reptile eyes enjoyed the sight of whole continents. Fran knew he'd be flying all day if he were a dragon. He wondered how wonderful flight would feel, but an unwelcome voice stopped his happy thoughts in their tracks.
‘“We’re told you made a big scene. That means you want to be taught a big lesson.”
“Good day, Merkes,” replied Fran. “Did The New Alliance send you to kill me?”
Merkes's white tunic floated in the wind. His relaxed pose offended Fran. Here was a man just going through the motions. So much that he hadn't bothered drawing his sword.
Merkes’s disdainful voice said “Don't worry, we won't kill you.”
Alsu continued the sentence: “But the pain will be enough to make you hide for the rest of your life. Perhaps you’ll run to the imperial countryside and specialize in beekeeping. How are you doing, newbie? Today’s lesson is in folding when you’ve been dealt a bad hand.” Alsu leaned on a brown tree to Fran's left. His hands lay relaxed to his side, holding twin short swords. The expression on his handsome face was cheeky and daring at the same time. The perfect model for a fantasy romance book cover.
“Where's Dalamaru? Perhaps she can be reasoned with. I know she'd rather listen to me than you ugly fucks.”
Merkes grinned, his eyes twitching in white heat rage. Such an easy man to provoke. His feelings for Dalamaru must be stronger than Romeo's for Juliet. Probably a volatile combination of love and hatred.
“Enough with the silly stuff,” said Dalamaru’s voice from behind. She approached slowly, then stopped and pointed her staff at Fran. “In life, there are mistakes you can't run from.”
“Hell, yeah,” said Alsu.
Fran knew fighting the group would be worse than futile, it would be a mistake. They all shared the certainty that this fight was a foregone conclusion. It was time to turn that assumption right on its head.
“The Death Jewel isn't worth the trouble,” said Fran. “I told the old man I wouldn't give it to you, back in Madrid, but now I'm ready to negotiate.”
“Whatever you're talking about isn't worth as much as you think,” replied Merkes. “We've been told to beat you up and that's it. Nobody mentioned any jewels.”
“It’s worth a hundred thousand coins to the dragon cultists. That's what the old man said, and that hyper energized bunny of a girl too. Admit it, Merkes, you have orders to retrieve it and keep it a secret from these two. Or just from Alsu? The Inner Ring knows you couldn't keep a secret from the lady of your heart's desire. Even the Madrilenes know it.”
“Not going to wooooork,” sang Alsu in a bored tone.
Fran turned to face him but kept his feet still. They pointed to the one escape route that his three attackers had left open. Straight into the forest. Just run, run, run, ignoring anything that comes your way.
“All I'm saying is you can let me go. Look, I'm not joking.” Fran slowly held up the bag with the bread and cheese. “The jewel. Have it, Alsu,” he said. He moved his arm back for a throw then accelerated it abruptly. The pouch flew straight towards Dalamaru's grey and orange body. Everyone's head turned to her in panicked instinct while Fran leaped in the opposite direction. A second could make the difference between victory and defeat, so he sprinted towards the forest, making his legs run faster than they could have ever imagined. Branches and leaves slapped his face, offended by this petulant human that invaded their dominion. Thorny branches left a red caress in his cheek. Deep roots tried to force him on his knees to bring out some humility. He kept on running.
Confused screams reached his ears. An angry yell ordering Alsu to run after the fugitive. Greed, offering to stay behind and check his bag. Vibrant syllables chanting in an impossible language, followed by a thin lightwave and the sound of death hitting a tree. Dalamaru had missed her shot.
Fran kept on running, ever following the path of least resistance. The forest had small clear areas here and there, and he let those guide him. Shouted threats continued to chase him, demands for a new magic missile. “Where is he, where?” shouted Dalamaru.
Fran’s brain switched from survival mode to planning mode. To run wouldn't be enough, and making a stand would be a recipe for disaster. Fighting three seasoned veterans was too much. He didn't have a death wish.
Except it doesn’t have to be three versus one.
The escapee turned sharply and ran a hundred meters, then crouched. Silence. Good. Fran drew his new sword quietly as he caught his breath and sprinted again. He ran in the direction he'd come from, but from a different angle and with the determination of a soldier rushing into the enemy lines. After a minute, he heard a whiny voice in the distance. Soon, he glimpsed a red patch against the emerald and bronze of the forest. This time, surprise was on his side.
Fran's body smashed into a distracted Alsu, and so did his blade. The rogue dropped the open bag, his face twisted in shock. Breadcrumbs and cheese flew everywhere, and a cry of agony echoed among the trees as Alsu's body fell to the ground. Red on red, his leg had become a spring of blood. The cut ran side to side, almost bone deep. The man’s screams rang in Fran's ears. He took his bloody sword to Alsu's helpless body and cut his shirt, revealing two hidden pouches. He grabbed them. Then, he locked eyes with the fallen rogue. “Your life is in my hands, Alsu, but I’m giving it back to you in exchange for this money and for one more thing: If you ever see me again, pretend that you never did.”
Fran sped into the forest again, this time in the opposite direction from which Dalamaru and Merkes must be either looking for him or rushing back to their fallen comrade. Alsu’s voice shrieked through the forest, stunning Fran. He thought Alsu would scream for anybody to stop the blood. Instead, an anguished dissonant screech filled the air. “My moneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey. Get me my jewels and my moneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey.”
Fran ran toward the city with a smile on his face. There would be a day when he’d have to deal with the New Alliance once and for all, but not yet. A task like that required he becomes a lot more powerful, and he had a feeling that Azgadal was just the right place for that.