“Vynny boy. You up,” the old man yelled.

The music was gone and the rhythmic movement of the cart stopped. Sunday was unsure whether he had drifted away in a dreamless sleep or just zoned out. It had felt nice.

“Damn bandits,” Vyn looked disappointed and reluctantly sheathed the flute. “Simple times are fleeting, eh? Come, let me show you why bandits dream nightmares about me.”

Sunday could only blame his big mouth. But at least for a while, he had listened, and all had been well.

He jumped off and leisurely followed after Vyn. The cart was quite a bit larger than he had thought. There were eight barrels, hay for the horses, and enough space for him and Vyn to lay down even if their legs remained hanging from the back. Sunday inspected it with interest, especially the places where the wood met iron. He had high expectations from this world. There would be no internet or TV, but at the very least he was hoping for windows and showers – two things no self-respecting person could go without.

“Gentlemen,” Vyn called from the front as they passed the two large horses. Sunday looked over the horses too. He hadn’t had time to appreciate the beautiful beasts before being whisked away on this new journey. Their shiny coats and the powerful muscles beneath made him wonder if he couldn’t just become a spell-slinging cowboy. Roaming the world and occasionally getting into trouble. It looks like such is my fate, after all, even without a horse.

Emiel sat grumpy on his seat, staring with squinted eyes and gripping his poker in a steely fist. It was certainly not the man’s first rodeo.

“Gentlemen,” Vyn repeated higher. His stride was confident, and his smile was disarming. “Is there a need to ruin the beautiful days with things such as witless banter, empty threats, or violence? How about we be on our way? I assure you, there are plenty of carts traveling down this lonesome road, and I double assure you, there are better ones to rob,” he said.

For the first time, Sunday looked at the supposed bandits. They were all eyeing him too for some reason. Was he that interesting to look at?

It was a group of five dressed in dirty clothes that somehow seemed fancy at the same time. All had some manner of a weapon. One had a bow, another a wood axe, and two sported rough-looking clubs of various lengths. They were dirty, with oily hairs and smudges covering their faces as if they had just come from rummaging through a pile of burned coal. Oddly young too.

Not that Sunday was doing much better, despite having cleaned himself in the swamp village. The Repel Dirt spells in his backpack could help quite a bit if he had the slot. Then there was also quite a bit of dried blood and other liquids covering him, and as much as he had tried to clean up his clothes could still use a good wash. Or burning.

The tallest of the bandits stepped forward as the rest fanned out. He was the one with the worst weapon, at least according to Sunday – a polished rapier that looked very out of place. The one with a bow nocked an arrow, a bit shakily, and pointed it toward Vyn, who, to his credit remained calm. His long sword was still sheathed and he held it casually in one hand.

That had Sunday wondering. How do regular people deal with mages? Spells seem overwhelming, but they’re a finite tool. A mage without essence is not different than a regular person. I guess it also depends on the spells one has. I wonder if mine are stronger than the average.

“You seem smart,” the head bandit called with a smile. His teeth were pristine and his voice forced. “How about you give us the cart, your swords, and whatever else you’re carrying and be on your way? We’ll leave you a single weapon, to guarantee your safety. That poker in the old man’s hand seems good enough.”

Despite trying his best to appear mean, he sounded uncomfortable for a seasoned bandit. The rest chuckled. It was a fake chuckle, and the timing was off too - unnatural. Like they hadn’t rehearsed enough. He looked at them better and he even stepped closer. The group was fascinating for some reason. They shuffled uncomfortably under his gaze and even Vyn cleared his throat. Sunday felt his inner bastard stir. The bandits had something he wanted.

Vyn returned the leader’s smile and sighed, “Oh, good sir. I’m afraid we cannot agree to that. See, my friend and I are bound to protect this cart. We will fulfill our duties, even if it costs us our lives. I assure you that this sword of mine is better left sheathed.”

“That’s a shame,” the bandit smirked oddly but still eyed the blade. “It’s five of us and two of you. Dying for a few barrels of ale will be quite the waste of a life.”

Sunday frowned.

Vyn drew his sword in one swift motion. It was a long, beautiful blade that was well-maintained. “I must implore—”

“What size are your boots?” Sunday interjected, taking another step.

The bandits seemed startled he had spoken. They eyed the sword on his hip, hesitated, and then the speaker turned toward him. “I beg your pardon?” his voice was higher now, and more… polite.

“Are you even a bandit?”

“Sunday, I got this, please. They’re dangerous –” Vyn tried but Sunday waved him off.

The bandit leader seemed unsure and looked toward his companions almost involuntarily.

“Sir, you will find that you’re greatly outnumbered. If you can just—”

“I think you’re my size,” Sunday interrupted again. He grinned madly and winked at Vyn who for the first time seemed to have lost confidence.

The bandit coughed and pulled his rapier. It was a fragile thing. Can that even cut me? The tip looks sharp. The rest not so much. Ah, who cares? If he pokes me I’ll just heal up.

“Sir, I—”

“The hell are you on about calling me sir? You’re a bandit. Act like it. Threaten, attack, mock,” Sunday interrupted. “Or, give me your boots and be on your way.”

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“What’s going on?” Uncle Emiel called from his cart. Vyn seemed unsure as to what was happening, and Sunday simply ignored the question.

“Give you m-my boots?! Why would I—”

“Because I’ll break your fucking face if you don’t,” calm delivery, but loud enough to be heard by everyone, and most importantly proper eye contact. It was not Sunday’s first rodeo and he would be damned if a bunch of cosplayers would be ruining his afternoon. He was getting to a city, and he was doing it with proper footwear.

The silence stretched uncomfortably long as the two groups stared at each other.

Vyn cleared his throat again. “I think we can all agree this was a mistake, right?” he said, stepping up to Sunday.

Was it? Sunday thought. Should I push it? Why not, after all? They’re no ghouls, nor hounds.

“Y-Yeah. A mistake. We will just—”

“I don’t like to repeat myself. Give me your boots, and then you can be on your way,” Sunday said. He took a few more steps forward and sensed Vyn following.

The man leaned close before whispering, “Listen, friend, please don’t make things difficult. While I’m confident in my sword, there are only two of us.” He threw a glance at the old man, “Two and a quarter, maybe.”

“I’ll bash your skulls in, damned bandits!” the old man yelled from the cart, chewing on his seemingly ever-burning pipe.

“How am I making things difficult? Aren’t they trying to rob us? I’m just doing the same, but better.”

Vyn opened his mouth again but seemed to think better of it when Sunday raised an eyebrow. “Ah, gods be thrice damned. Fate has decided us two shall be friends.” He turned toward the leader, “Give him your boots.”

“B-But—”

Sunday was about to move again when his eyes grew wide and he ducked by instinct as an arrow flew far above his head, above the old man and the cart, and disappeared somewhere behind.

There was an awkward pause.

“Did you just shoot at me?” Sunday asked, incredulous.

His reaction seemed to make the bandit panic. “M-my hand grew tired. I-I’m sorry!” the one with the bow stuttered raising both arms. Their voice was high and strained. There was a note underneath that made one question some things.

Sunday frowned further and lifted his hand slowly, not toward his sword, but straight ahead. The gesture seemed threatening enough even without what was about to follow.

“Alright, look – look, calm down! We made a mistake! We’re new to this! Here,” the leader bent over without skipping a beat and started removing his boots. “Here, you can have them.”

He threw them between the two groups, then stepped back. He even has fancy socks on. Sunday thought as he shamelessly strode forward while mean-mugging the one with the bow. There was shame written all over the bandit’s youthful face. Sunday picked up a boot, brushed his dusty foot with his hand, and stepped into it. It was uncomfortably warm for a moment, but nothing too bad.

The pair fit nicely. The leather was soft and broken in and there was little to no discomfort.

“Good boots,” Sunday said with a smile to no one in particular. “What are you bunch doing out here anyway?” he asked in a friendlier tone. He had just robbed the man of his boots; it was only polite to make small talk. He decided to ignore the arrow issue for now.

“W-We’re trying to, uh…” the leader stuttered. He shuffled uncomfortably in his socks.

“Branching out,” said one of those in the back, earning himself a punch to the shoulder from another.

“I think I know you! Aren’t you the boys from the Empty Manor?” the old man’s voice suddenly asked. He was walking toward them, poker in hand. “You robbers now?” He hit Vyn in the side of the thigh with the flat of the poker, making the man exclaim in shock and step to the side. For all his flair and bravado Vyn was looking very lost right now. “Am I paying you to chat with those sonsofbitches? Either cut them or scare them off.”

Then he turned toward Sunday and eyed his new boots. “Shoulda taken more,” he said.

Sunday smiled showing all his teeth. “I just might.”

That made the bandits take a few more steps backward until the first one of them turned and ran. The rest followed, with the leader lingering a moment longer, opening and closing his mouth a few times, letting out ‘uhs’ and ‘ohs’. Sunday shook his head. There were times to run, yes, and it was such a time in the life of the poor bastards, but they should’ve at least worked on their one-liners.

The old man watched them flee and shook his head, “I heard rumors tha’ there are bandits ‘round these parts now. If it’s just the boys from the Empty Manor then I need no guard.” He looked at Vyn with disappointment, then walked slowly back to the front of the cart.

Sunday shrugged and followed, and Vyn did the same.

The two were soon back on the cart and the wheels took them forward. Sunday briefly considered walking the rest of the way, or running as getting winded didn’t seem to be an undead thing. He gave up on the thought though, especially after seeing Vyn’s expression. The man was a flat, sad version of himself. Where he had filled silence with strange stories or music before that, now he was grumpily cleaning his pipe.

“Sorry for butting in,” Sunday began. “I liked the boots.”

“That you did.”

“I think you’d have done great on your own.”

Vyn eyed him with suspicion, “You do?”

“Sure, you were looking fearsome. Gave me all the courage I needed to do what I did. Pretending is easier when I have someone strong to rely on,” Sunday smiled. “Thanks. I was tired of walking barefoot.”

“Yeah. Yeah! No worries,” Vyn laughed. “I figured you need someone at your back. For a moment there I almost thought you were about to cast a spell. As if a mage would try to kill themselves by lying on the road!”

Sunday smiled. “An insane thought.” Wasting essence on those posers would’ve been embarrassing.

“Right?” Vyn leaned closer, all signs of his sadness gone. “Tell you the truth, I recognized these kids too, so I didn’t want to go hard on them.”

“Oh?”

“The Empty Manor is an abandoned noble house on the outskirts of the city that’s been occupied by some less-than-fortunate individuals. Poor things. Vagrants. Orphaned kids and even some fallen nobles. The city council doesn’t care as it’s quite removed from any useful resources and lands, and so they are left to their devices. It’s better to have them bunched out in one semi-safe place than falling in with the gangs.”

Not much different than what I went through once. Now I feel bad. He made a mental note to square things up. And it's not like they wouldn’t have taken his things if they could’ve.

“Are they dangerous?” Sunday asked although he knew the answer to that.

“Not really. No more than regular pickpockets. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Are you some sort of warrior musician or something?” the flute had gotten Sunday curious.

Vyn smiled wryly. “No, no. Music is just a hobby. Every warrior needs to dip a toe into the creative arts, or he grows stale and limited by the martial practice. It’s what my teacher used to say, she—he was a great painter. I’m just a lost soul who’s looking for a cause, so to speak.”

“So you’re good with that sword?”

“Very.” The sheer confidence in the response was different than anything Vyn had said before.

“Care to teach me someday? I’ll pay, eventually.”

Vyn snapped to attention at that. “My friend, it would be my greatest honor!”

Sunday nodded. He could use a trick or two for that sword he was carrying around.

“And by the way, have you had a drink meant for your kind? One of those special ones?” Vyn continued.

Special drinks? “Not yet.”

“You’re in luck then. We’re almost there.”

Sunday looked around. Farmlands stretched as far as the eyes can see. Livestock was running freely in large swaths of land surrounded by wooden fences and he could see the occasional farmer milling about. Houses that were nothing to scoff at rose with greater frequency by the minute. Stables barnyards and sheds were connected to most of them, and Sunday was in awe of the craftsmanship. It was unlike anything he had seen before.

He used one of the barrels for support as he stood up on the cart. Not much further the road sloped into a vast plain and ended right into gaping open gates where many carts were lining up, slowly passing through one by one.

The large stone walls and the view behind struck something inside of him. They stretched far to both sides and beyond them peeked rooftops and towers of various makes and beauty. And beyond them was a field of blue.

This is it. Life, here I come.