Mags took every shortcut she knew as she cut across Misthearth. Her boots pounded on the cobblestones, the weight of her backpack making her clumsy. She knew anyone unlucky enough to see her tromping past would have a laugh at her expense. Her gear weighed half as much as she did, if not more, and though she hated to admit it, she wasn’t as fit as she had been during her brief enlistment.
Mags forced the self-conscious thoughts from her mind. Focusing on her task, she quickly crossed to Southshore. No sign of Marek, so she pressed on until the stone railing of the last bridge came into view. She stopped in the middle of the road, breath pluming in the chill air, and searched all around. Terror gripped her heart mercilessly.
“Shouldn’t have packed anything!” she wheezed. “Oh, Marek, where are you? Damn, if I’d only come straight away, I might have…”
A distant flame caught her attention, and she held her breath. Mist covered the ground in patches, having burned off the river in the afternoon and settled onto the cooling streets. Mags squinted, waiting for the wind to clear her view.
At first, she thought it was a torch, perhaps a patrolling town guard making the rounds. Then a patch of fog shifted, revealing a lantern swinging gently side to side. Mags flitted to the side of the road, stepping clear of the ruddy light cast from the nearest sigil lamp. Ducking behind a hedge, she waited to get a better look at whoever was coming her way.
Soon, the figure came nearer. Hooded and leading a horse, a small lantern dangling from one hand, the man or woman shuffled along nervously. Is that him? she wondered, not daring to speak a word, for sound traveled unpredictably far in such conditions. Can’t be. And if so, when the hells did he get a horse? Haven’t seen the jerk all week, so maybe he did get one and I didn’t know. Little by little she perceived more of the situation. The beast she’d assumed was a horse turned out to be a donkey, and the figure leading the donkey had a build and height similar to Marek’s. With such a deep hood, she couldn’t tell for certain, though. This hooded stranger clutched a short walking staff in their offhand. It was pale, and the wood rough-cut, revealing it had likely been carved recently.
Mags chewed her lip, worrying she might have to reveal herself before learning the stranger’s identity… until the figure coughed. A hacking thing, phlegm rattling in a young man’s throat, and a whispered, “Principalities, it’s cold.”
Relief swept over Mags in a rush. She stepped out from her hiding place and whispered, “Marek, it’s me.”
Her friend skittered away from her and to the side, bumping into the mule. The beast chuffed and headbutted him in the backside, prompting a grunt of pain. The lantern in Marek’s hand clattered noisily, and Mags winced, hoping the sound might be dampened by one of the fog banks. Cudgel clutched to his chest like a maiden in distress, her friend found his voice.
“Mags, you scared me half to death! What in the Coherent Realm are you doing here?”
Mags tilted her head and pointed, a gesture she’d gained from her mother, and said, “I should ask you the same. Since when did you have a donkey, and what’s this about you leaving town in a hurry?”
He betrayed a little humility, clearing his throat and shrugging, before his eyes flicked to the pack she bore. “It’s a mule,” he said reflexively. Then, noticing her scowl, he blurted out an explanation. “I’m sorry, Mags. I didn’t want to have this talk, but you can’t come. I’d want you to, of course. Something happened to me—something real big-like—and I can’t stay here. Ugh, it’s hard to tell it all quickly, and I don’t have much—”
“Shut it!” she snapped. “Rauld contacted me with his itchy mind trick. It was his idea that I sneak out from my house before supper and come find you. Apparently, we’re going on a grand quest, and Marek, you’re in danger! He said soldiers are coming for you; did you know that? Casteran soldiers!”
His eyes widened, head swiveling behind him instinctively. Seeing they were still alone, he sighed. “I know. Rauld and Mirrin told me to leave through on the east road, and… well, I’ve been preparing to head off for a few days now. I couldn’t tell you, and Mags, you gotta believe me, I have to go it alone!”
Mags pointed in the opposite direction. “Rauld said they split up into two groups. One is coming down from the east road as we speak. You can spill the beans later, but right now we’ve got to head south, and quick!” She jogged ahead, knowing he might waste more time arguing. Sure enough, she heard him shuffling after her, cursing under his breath. Happy to see you too, she thought, dashing across the open street. We’re so close. Just a quarter-mile and we’ll be in the clear.
The street was largely empty, but a merchant locking the front door eyed her suspiciously. She smiled broadly and waved, standing a little taller so as not to appear like a skulking thief. Her effort didn’t quite land, but the man was complacent enough to simply shrug and walk in the opposite direction. Ahead, the road forked south. A wide swath of cobblestones lay illuminated beneath two large sigil lanterns. That was their target, and she increased her pace in the hopes they could avoid any sort of trouble.
Her eyes caught movement beyond the lantern light, and she staggered to a halt. Mags flung herself against the nearest shop, waving Marek to do the same.
Then a pair of men entered the light. Both holding spears and wearing strange armor, their feet didn’t make a sound as they trod over the cobbles. It was eerie to see, and Mags guessed the party had a Hunter or Rogue Class with them—someone with the Ability to cloak the sound of movement in a party. More men followed, though she couldn’t see them all.
Backtracking, Mags snatched the mule’s reins and yanked the beast and her friend along with it toward the mouth of a nearby alley. The trio plunged into darkness. Heart pounding madly, the woman prayed to her patron god, Neckenai the Traveler, that they’d not been seen.
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Mags crept to the end of the alley to spy on the Casterans. “What happened?” Marek whispered in her ear. She turned and held a finger to her lips. Reaching down, she closed the little window on Marek’s lamp and waved him off, gesturing for him to retreat a little further down the alley.
Then she waited, body pressed to the cold stone wall behind her, eyes trained on the road ahead. The Casterans had been close to two hundred feet from her, which was quite the distance in this darkness with fog to obscure things, yet if they had a Scout Class among them, there was a chance they’d been spotted. Soon, their pursuers came into view, striding into a pool of bright light from another sigil lantern. Mags thanked the gods, for the brightness would dampen the men’s eyesight, giving her and Marek a better chance of escaping notice. Mags counted fourteen in total, seven ranks of two men. Rauld had described the men as soldiers, but something felt off about that description. The Casterans walked without cadence, showing discipline in their movements but far too much individuality. Stranger still was the assortment of weapons they bore. Most had spears like the two at the head of the party, but at a glance, Mags spotted shortswords and daggers strapped to belts, longswords attached to back or hip sheaths, and a few of the Casterans even held bows, arrows on strings and ready to fire at a moment’s notice.
When the last soldiers stepped into view, one of the men peered into the dark shadows that concealed her. Every muscle in Mags’ body stiffened. She thought for certain they were caught, but the man’s head turned in another direction as he continued to scan the shadows.
And then the Casterans were gone.
She waited a full minute before sighing in relief. “Let’s go, Marek. We can sneak out and be gone from Misthearth before anyone’s missed us.”
“And why would you be leaving town?” an icy voice asked from deep shadows at the far end of the alley.
Mags clenched her jaw and condemned her cursed luck. The speaker’s snide condescension couldn’t be mistaken. “Isaac,” she said wearily, turning to face the Captain of the Guard’s favored son. “What are you doing here?”
Flanked as usually by his two companions, the young man smirked. “I asked you a question first. Were you hiding from those soldiers? Suspicious behavior, if you ask me.”
Marek touched Mags’ shoulder, probably with the intent of calming her. His effort failed completely.
“Nothing suspicious about it. You saw ‘em! Those weren’t Ardeans by any means, and if I had to guess, I’d say they were mercenaries.” Then, steeling herself for the inevitable confrontation, she warned, “Leave us be, Isaac. Rauld sent us to complete a little task, that’s all.”
“Why would you hide from a foreign envoy, then?” the man persisted, cradling his chin in thought. “Seems quite strange, doesn’t it, Frim?”
“Mighty strange,” the thug echoed on cue.
“What she said is true,” Marek said in an uncharacteristically firm tone. “Rauld himself gave us a quest. We aren’t lying.”
Isaac’s brows rose dramatically. “No? First the Tiny Tower said it was a little task, and now you speak of a quest? You’ll have to forgive me, but this isn’t adding up.”
Corrigan cleared his throat. “Let’s leave them be, Isaac. Anyone with sense would avoid that group, and besides, you already gave her a beating the other day.”
Isaac puffed up with pride. “That I did. A keen memory you have.”
Corrigan’s eyes flitted to Mags briefly. The man was in his guard uniform, though his tunic was untucked, as if his shift had passed hours ago. He gave her the faintest of nods before adding, “Also, that new bard will be starting up soon at the Fletched Arrow. Thought you wanted to hear him.”
Isaac’s malicious smile didn’t falter. “It’ll be a grand show. Still, what’ll it cost us to raise the alarm? I simply must know why you two are hiding from a squadron of Casteran foot soldiers.”
The young man’s smile fell as he raised cupped hands to his mouth.
Mags watched in horror as Isaac’s chest expanded. She grasped the hilt at her hip, but she knew it wouldn’t be enough. She’d be too slow to stop the jerk, let alone strike him down with friends on either side. Marek stood closer to the bunch, but even he would be too late to stop Isaac’s shout.
Then something Mags never could have expected happened. Corrigan’s eyes filled with light, and he blurred with uncanny speed. She only caught the final movement as the big man struck Isaac in the ribs. A pulse of golden light emerged from Corrigan’s fist, illuminating the alley. Isaac’s mouth flared wide as he fell, yet he didn’t so much as gasp. He slumped to the ground, unconscious before his tunic was soiled in the dank alley.
Mags was astonished. She’d seen Corrigan in the practice yard, and thus knew the young man had just employed one of his most impressive Skills. It was called Sap, and it subdued a man’s mana for a handful of minutes, doing no physical harm but instantly and silently removing him from a fight.
Frim flinched, the oaf’s eyes gaping as he stared first at Isaac, then at the ally that had attacked. The brute pointed a blunt finger at Corrigan, face clouding with anger. “You traitor,” he growled, hand moving to the weapon on his belt. “Try that against me.”
Again, Mags cursed at her positioning. She was too far away to do a thing. Surely, if two swords clashed, the Casterans would hear and come running. It seemed fate had other plans, however, and she found herself shocked a second time when Marek swung his cudgel. The blow clacked against bone, striking the fool on the side of his skull.
A second body accompanied the first on the dank cobblestones of the alley.
Marek and Corrigan exchanged shocked looks. Then the larger man nodded in acknowledgment before his eyes flicked to Mags. “Shoulda never hung out with that asshole. Sorry, Mags. I don’t care how much I owe his father; Isaac is trash.”
She blinked in surprise a few times before waving a hand. “Don’t… worry about it, I guess. What are you going to do when he wakes, though?”
Corrigan huffed out an enormous sigh and shook his head slowly, staring down at the man at his feet. “Hell if I know. But I’ll deal with it. Callum’s not as much of a jerk as his son. I’m sure he’ll see reason when I explain what happened… You were telling the truth, though, weren’t ya? About Rauld?”
“We were,” Marek said evenly. “Ask him to talk to Callum, and I’m sure all will be well.”
Mags hesitated a moment while a heavy silence filled the space between the three. Then she stepped forward and gave the man an awkward hug. “Appreciate it, Corrigan. I knew you weren’t like him. We’ll thank you proper when we get back, yeah? First round on me.”
He stammered a moment, clearly flustered, before asking, “Where are you going? And why were you hiding? Foreign envoys have come to Misthearth before. They’re probably on official business. Are you okay, Mags?”
She gave his thick arm a squeeze. “Just a little quest is all. Nothing strange or dangerous. I’ll catch you up when we return.” Not daring to delay, she silenced Corrigan’s mouth with a quick peck to his scruffy cheek. “Thank you,” she repeated, lingering just long enough to witness the man’s body betray him as he turned into a great, blushing statue.
When Marek arched an eyebrow in her direction, she rolled her eyes and jogged ahead. Peering from the alley, she found the street empty.
Mags shook out her hands and tried to relax her shoulders. Then she strode from the alley with her head held high.
Marek caught up, the mule trailing behind. The two made for an awkward sight, their attempts to look casual not helping their cause in the slightest. None but a stray cat and a tall young man holding his cheek witnessed their departure.