“Curse the rain! Curse this miserable mud! And curse the man who sold me these boots!”

Another thunder cloud rumbled in the distance, seeming to respond to Marek’s discontent. Mags echoed the rumble with a growl of her own. “Quit it. You’ll only curse us if you keep that up. At least you have the staff. It’s not much, but it helps take the edge off the fatigue.”

Marek refused the positivity. He trudged on, boots laden with muck. The road was hard-packed as one might expect of a route so often used. A thick layer of dust coated its surface, however, which had turned to a viscous slime. Everyone’s footing was suspect, and Marek had fallen twice already that morning.

The day had begun with a thorough drenching. Sheets of rain had soaked them even where they’d taken shelter under a copse of trees. Marek had been twice as irritated, because although his Mana Core had recovered from a night of sleep, he could practice Imbue like he’d grown accustomed to. He’d wanted nothing more than to grind away at his craft until he leveled up again. He’d reached Level 11 on his third day after enchanting Mags’ cloak to resist water like his own, and had then had the foolish notion to keep his base stats even, at least until they reached a respectable range. So instead of investing in Constitution or Strength, both of which would have helped him presently, he’d raised his Dexterity to 8. With little else to do, they’d huddled together and shivered in the early morning until the downpour let up.

Marek and Mags had taken advantage of the reprieve, departing immediately in the hopes they could make good time. But given the mud and their bedraggled state, the going was slower than expected.

Marek was blistered, chapped, and sore, head to toe. His friend wasn’t doing much better. Mags sniffled loudly, peering down from Lydia’s back. Her eyes were puffy and red. Stubborn pride shone in her eyes, though.

“Ready to trade?” she asked for the third time in the last ten minutes.

Marek rolled his eyes. “You’re getting sick. You need the rest. Don’t be stubborn. I can keep going, and if you get any worse, we’ll have to stop for a few days.”

Pouting, she said, “I’m not sick. Just feeling a little under the weather.”

“That’s exactly what under the weather means! Give me a moment of peace, woman, or I swear I’ll…” Marek trailed off when he heard his friend chuckling. On any other day, he’d have laughed with her. A week of spring rains had cured him of all fondness for her endless quips and hard-headedness, however. “You’re an ass,” he grumbled.

“An ass on a mule, huh? Strange coupling, but I’ve heard worse.”

Marek groaned. Sick of her company, he urged his limbs into motion. Picking up his pace, he found a comfortable jog—or at least, one as comfortable as could be with weary muscles and blistered heels. His body had improved further over the past week, his endurance increasing despite the constant travel. A feeling of triumph bolstered his mood as he ran along the road, though it lasted precisely as long as it took Mags and Lydia to trot past.

“By the way you’re waddling, seems like it’s your chafed ass that could use a break, Marek. All you got to do is ask!”

Despite knowing full well he was now the one being stubborn, Marek carried on for several minutes. Soon his lungs burned, and his left leg was begging to cramp up. He stopped and bent over at the waist to catch his breath. Wheezing, his left ribs twisting into a cramp, he waited for his heart and lungs to recover.

The clop-clop of Lydia drawing near was hard to ignore.

Mags’ sniffling, harder still.

“Marek,” his friend said in a subdued tone, “it’s great that you’ve unlocked a new Class and gained three points in Constitution. I’ve been training my body for years, though, and wasn’t poisoned every day of my damned life. Last I checked, my Strength was at 8, and my Dexterity and Constitution both at 12. Sniffles or not, it isn’t fair to expect yourself to keep up with me… not yet at least. Okay?”

“I prefer you when you’re mean. You’re unbearable when you try to act kind. Makes it hard to hate you.”

She chuckled. Her boots crashed to the gravel road beside him. Then her hand was on his back. “I’m serious, Marek. If we’re going to last long enough to actually get to Shirgrim, we’ve got to take care of ourselves. In a couple of weeks, you’ll probably be able to outrun Lydia. Be patient in the time being, yeah?”

He nodded, watching the sweat drip from his nose and patter against the tamped soil of the road. “Okay,” he conceded. “I’ll ride.”

“Thank you for reconsidering,” she said, punctuating her smile with a wink. “We can cover a couple more miles, and then I’ll show you the best trick I ever learned as a soldier when we stop for the evening.”

Marek took out one of the last remaining lumps of cured honey and offered it to Lydia. After a few more mishaps, they’d grown accustomed to doing so every time either of them mounted up. It was now affectionately called the honey toll. Marek only worried what they’d do when their store ran out.

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“Oh, yeah?” he said, trying and failing to throw himself into the saddle with as much grace as Mags. “Finally gonna show me how to pretend I’m a foot taller than I am? Surely, you learned that as a soldier.”

Mags warned him with an arched eyebrow. “Easy there, Elbows. I think we’re too grumpy for snark. Let’s play nice.” She strode ahead with her typical swagger before answering, “No, that’s not the trick I meant. I was talking about how you can soothe that sad arse of yours. Don’t get defensive! Can’t march in the rain without consequences. Trust me, you’ll appreciate the lesson.”

Marek’s face flushed, but as he winced to reposition himself in the saddle, he hoped whatever solution his friend might offer would help. There was only so much a man could take, and a chapped backside proved most challenging indeed.

A horse whinnied some distance behind them. The sound was so faint he nearly missed it. A jolt of panic shot up his spine, and quicker than he’d mounted, Marek was off again. He dashed to the side of the road, tugging at Lydia’s reins. “Mags,” he hissed. “Riders behind us!”

A hasty scramble brought the group to a tall clump of holly bushes, where they promptly hid. He and Mags flanked the mule and peered through the prickly leaves. Marek winced as he realized how thin their cover was. The center of the bush was easily dense enough to hide them. On the edges, however, he feared someone might be able to spot them if they looked at just the right angle. Their hide was also positioned far closer to the road than desirable. Nothing to do for it, he told himself as he slowed his breathing with a force of will. Have mercy on us, Judgment. We’re in no shape for a confrontation.

As the riders drew near, Marek fought to suppress a disturbing thought. Would Judgment protect the line of Tenacity? Do the Principalities work together, or are they jealous like the Old Gods?

When a flicker of gray caught his eye, his mind stilled. One, two, and then three riders emerged from the grove of oaks two hundred feet to their south. Marek studied the group as they traveled at a steady pace so quietly it gave him the chills. For some reason, he could scarcely hear the clop of hooves, and not a single clang or jingle could be discerned. He recalled how the Casteran hunters had moved in Misthearth. Mags said they might’ve had a Ranger with them, or a stealth Class. Maybe these three do as well.

It wasn’t easy to travel quietly. Even with one mount, their own party made far more noise than the men passing by. Mags had tried to silence their baggage. Since Marek’s pack wasn’t crafted with soldiering in mind, however, the many clasps made her efforts less than successful. His second Imbue project had been to further dampen the noise given off by his jostling pack, but the enchantment made little difference.

Dressed in grays, browns, and faded greens, the cloaked figures were tall and broad of shoulder. Two wore half-helms, though by the thickness of their arms, Marek assumed they too were men. The third rode at the rear, a tumble of auburn hair draping down his back. Like his companions, his body was adorned with studded armor.

Definitely not Casterans, Marek thought. Their armor looks nothing like the hunters we saw. And they ain’t official Couriers, either. Nobody needs to be so well-armed to deliver letters.

The lead rider, by far the largest of the three, sat with a ridiculously huge mace resting on his thigh. A spattering of crooked spikes adorned the weapon. Directly behind him, the second man wore a trio of daggers along his right hip. The curve of a longbow jutted out from his lap, and though Marek couldn’t see for certain, he had the feeling the man had an arrow nocked, ready to draw at a moment’s notice.

As deadly as these two seemed, it was the third and final rider that inspired the most fear. Marek’s intuition urged him to flee, to run far from the dead-eyed man. Once handsome features had been worn to leather by hard travel under the sun. Buckled at his waist was a greatsword. Two-handed, to be certain—that much Marek could tell even from a distance, for the handle was over a foot long.

The weapon drew Marek’s eye for some reason. Every inch of the sword and scabbard was black; whatever paint or treatment colored it lent no shimmer to the steel. It was an ugly thing, by no standard elegant or attractive. Well worn and well cared for, Marek had the feeling the blade had ended a great many lives. A long spear strapped to the pack on the horse’s rear jutted up at an angle. Like he needs that too! Please, just pass us by. Go and murder someone else.

And mercifully, the group did just that. They trotted north, heads fixed to the road ahead. Twice, Lydia’s tail swished the air. Marek’s stomach dropped both times. None of the riders budged an inch, however.

A minute later, all sound of their passing had faded.

“Rift Wraiths take us,” Mags whispered. “Those are nasty ones.”

Marek eyed his friend, surprised she’d used such a hated curse. Few evoked the dark creatures that inhabited the Rift directly. Given the circumstances, it was justified. “What should we do?” he asked. “Wait a little longer before we move on?”

Mags sighed. “We have to. Wish Rauld would do that itchy head Spell again and tell us the Casterans went south. I wouldn’t be so jumpy if we knew them hunters weren’t on our tail.”

“He said he’d do it,” Marek repeated, “and I trust Rauld with my life. I’m more worried about that lot. Those men were hard, and I want nothing to do with them.”

“Aye,” Mags said, standing to full height and stretching her back. “Let’s eat a little and then go. Can’t cook the rabbits yet, but if we can find some actual shelter, maybe we can risk it tonight.”

They staked Lydia near a thick cluster of wildflowers and sat in the grass behind the holly bush. Nibbling on the last of their fresh fruit and a few handfuls of oats, they each took a nap. An hour later, the clouds darkened and the rain returned at last.

Frightened as they were, neither complained as they trudged through the drizzle. As dusk approached, the storm’s passion increased. Soon they were forced to abandon the road. Mags led them up a gentle incline toward a promising pair of oaks. When they reached the hilltop, she gasped in delight.

“Look! Oh, I can’t believe it! Thought this place would have fallen down by now! I didn’t even think to look out for it!”

When Marek led the mule down the other side of the hill, he spotted a wooden house leaning at a precarious angle a quarter-mile ahead. A quaint stream trickled past on one side and a tiny, open-sided shack stood nearby, just big enough for a few donkeys or one quarrelsome mule.

His clothes were soaked. His teeth rattled constantly, his entire body shivering. Saddle sore and bedraggled as he was, Marek grinned wide as he and Mags approached the abandoned farmstead.

They’d sleep dry tonight.