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Despite our dwindling food supply, a bout of bowel-churning dysentery, and a three day slog through a gods-forsaken woods, the merchant’s somehow fatter. His pudgy hands twiddle the half-torn map between his fingers, a concerned look etched on his jiggling face, as if an eye furrow would miraculously re-discover the road that vanished sometime mid-morning. To call it a road, though, would be stretch–more like ancient wheel tracks cut into hardened mud, overgrown with weeds, brambles, and layers of Moler skat. And now, that path has vanished. Instead? Deep woods and stygian gloom.
“I think we’re lost,” the merchant says in his high-pitched tenor, gray eyes boring into the map that was likely derelict before the shit King Fanden was even a twinkle in his shit father’s eye.
“By Sylvan’s light,” I respond while yanking my sword an inch from the scabbard to add a little metallic zing to my sarcasm. “How did you deduce that?”
No response; instead, he tosses the map on top of a discarded cloak, fiddles in his satchel, then pulls out…
Oh gods. The mirror. The blasted mirror.
Clutched between his meaty paws, the red jewels adorning the bronze frame glitter, a stark contrast to the dead leaves and rotted logs surrounding our makeshift camp. The merchant rests it between his crossed legs, and with tender care that would make even the most experienced tavern wench blush, caresses the glass with the back of his hand.
I’ve learned not to interrupt. You’ve better luck pulling a Fay away from a fresh kill. For a full minute he strokes the glass, head down, his jowls sagging nearly to chest level. Heavens. Tough to watch a man fall in love with himself. I hop to my feet and take a few steps away from our fire, which, thanks to the recent rainfall, is more steam than flame.
“Tonight…” the merchant whispers under his breath. Oh great. We’re talking to it now. I can only imagine what “tonight” will bring. Hopefully, it’s not as traumatizing as my discovery of cousin Tamrik’s tryst with his prized-goat. That’s an image that no amount of ale can wipe from memory.
Gazing finished, the merchant carefully places the oval mirror back into his satchel and secures the binding, but keeps his hand on the leather for a few extra heartbeats, likely his way of wishing it goodnight.
“Boy,” the merchant shouts, apparently oblivious to my full beard and weary eyes that have watched the seasons change twenty-seven times. “We’ll camp here tonight. No need to keep watch. Nothing around here except trees. Get your rest.”
In response I simply grunt–typically, that would be terrible advice, but, for once, the man’s correct. Bandits don’t venture this far off-road. I’d congratulate him for achieving his first ever intelligent thought, but his name has slipped my mind. Boron, Floron, something like that. Rhymes with moron, as I recall.
Between the branches of the withered pine trees, the last remnants of sunlight disappears into the western sky, briefly brightening the cloudy sky before it darkens into a dull gray. It’ll be pitch-black soon, and cold. Our meager fire won’t do much except smolder. I unhook my scabbard, pull my traveling cloak tight, and prop my back against a moss-covered log. My mind wanders.
Bellen would’ve gotten a kick out of this, the tale of the love-struck merchant. I definitely did not inherit that cheerful disposition. That came from mother. Father would’ve taken my side–there’s nothing funny about a rumbling belly.
Out from the trees comes a gust of wind, and I pull my cloak a little tighter. I should be tired, considering we trudged over twenty miles through a forest with vegetation thicker than the merchant’s head, but sleep is not forthcoming. Just racing thoughts and a nagging voice that suggests I probably should’ve passed on this job. But coin is coin, and that is something not easily obtained these days, especially for someone with my reputation.
A typical escort job from Meriband pays twenty silver, not including the Empire’s cut. Fifty blasted percent, and they do nothing except keep the roads safe, which for us mercenaries is a long-standing joke. If the definition of “safe” means legions of bandits, crater-like potholes, and swarms of sharp-clawed critters, then yes, the roads are perfectly safe. So safe that even modest caravans with cargos of wheat need a minimum of four guards to keep the nasties at bay.
When this girthy merchant bustled into the backroom of the Twisted Hen, with an off-the-books commission for a solo escort to Munden, a bumblefuck of a coastal town known more for its bumbling than fucking, I should’ve seen the red flags. No wagons or caravan, just one satchel, he explained over a cider. We’ll take the less-beaten path. Just one guard will suffice. Payment upon safe delivery.
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Sounded easy enough. And he paid well…very well. One hundred silver. I’d have to make ten runs with twice the danger to make that amount, and with the trip being solo, I’d avoid the suspicious eyes of my fellow mercenaries. Of course, I never would’ve shook his fat hand had I known he had the navigable ability of a blind rat, stretching our six-day journey into twelve, providing an extended viewing of his self-loving perversion that would shock even the most ardent narcissist.
I shake my head and peek at my friend, who’s lying on the bare ground with his arm draped over the satchel, his jiggly chest already rising with the calm rhythm of deep sleep. If rest comes this easy for him, his conscience must be guilt-free. Lucky man. Maybe I should find my own mirror. He could be on to something.
The fire’s nearly out, now just glowing embers. With my sack for a pillow, I find as much comfort as the damp ground affords, and stare into the black sky until my eyes droop. Resting a restless brain, though, takes longer, with ghosts flickering across my mind like phantoms through the graveyard. To banish those unwelcome memories, I chase them away with thoughts of happier days; the sound of mother singing as she tends to the fire, which crackles as grease drips from the carcass of father’s latest kill, and Bellen laughing. Always laughing.
“Soon…”
From the darkness is a whisper, though my fading brain pays it no mind. Sleep comes, but it’s not peaceful. Rather, a sleep littered with images of people long-dead, promises long-unkept, and trust long-betrayed. But those flickering images fade away, and soon, out from the blackness…
Is a river. The water isn’t gray or blue…but red. Blood red. It rages in a torrid flood, sloshing against the banks of a crumbling canyon, gushing with ever-growing intensity. My eyes spot something; I take a hesitant step forward, mindful of not slipping into the deluge, and there, riding the flood like driftwood logs, I see…people. Hundreds of people, their limbs twisted in jarring angles, snapped like twigs in a hurricane. But their bodies aren’t lifeless—by Sylvan, their eyes. Their eyes follow me, unblinking, every pair pleading for help. For aid! I try diving into the river, but my feet are anchors, tethered to the wet ground. Helpless, I can nothing but watch as thousands of souls roar past me, forever lost in the current, emptying into a black horizon.
Mercifully, the image of the red river fades, and my mind is again a blank canvas, but abruptly, that void is filled with sound…or rather, a voice. A panicked voice.
“Wait, no! Him! Not me. Not me!”
That voice is cut off by a wet, stomach-churning gurgle, and then…silence. Blessed silence. My mind drifts like a fog, aimlessly, slowly condensing until, following a shrill chirp from a woodland critter, my eyes snap awake.
It’s likely just past sunrise; a hint of light peeks between the branches of the pine trees, though the clouds are still thick, and air frigid. I sit up and rub some crust from my eyes, and with a spine-tingling shiver, the memories of that dream floods back into my mind.
Oof. That was a rough one. Typically, my dreams involve looking for misplaced shoes, not trying to rescue zombies from a river of blood. Hopefully, that wasn’t foreshadowing today’s journey. I don’t think any rivers flow around here—what say you, friend?
I turn and inspect my still-slumbering companion. He’s curled up in a ball, his chubby rear end pointing towards me. With a crackle from sore joints, I stand up and stretch out my arms, rubbing some life into the numb skin.
“Good morning…uh, Goron. Soron. Whatever. We should move soon, while the sun is in the eastern sky.”
No response.
“Doron? Hello?”
Still nothing. Not even a jiggle from a heaving chest.
“Hungry?” I say while stepping over the ashes of our meager fire. “Not much left in the sack, but if we boil some tree bark–”
Aaaaaand his head’s gone.
Not gone, but eaten. The remnants of his neck is just shredded skin, with a gnawed spine sticking out from the gore like the chewed-end of a wooden skewer. Around him, a pool of blood is seeping into the ground, long-congealed, stickier than spilled sweet-tea.
I force my suddenly racing heart to ease, and take in the scene. The area surrounding the camp is clear except from our own footsteps from the night prior, the imprints now covered with a thin layer of frost. No piles of animal skat, no broken branches, no…nothing.
Except for one thing. The mirror. He’s clutching the damn mirror between his lifeless hands, its formally glittering exterior now completely drenched in blood.
The mirror ate his head. That antique, bejeweled mirror devoured his fat head. And where I’m from, though it’s a place of limited education, rampant folklore, and with a healthy population of self-proclaimed warlocks, it’s still common knowledge that MIRROR’S DON’T EAT PEOPLE.