The jug was getting light. He hated it when the jug got light. Vox pressed the rim of the jug to his lips and turned it up. Some of the amber liquid leaked down his mouth and onto his neck. He ignored it. It was only a small waste.

The liquid flowed down his throat, leaving a sour after-taste. It was the last of his ale. In an instant, he was in a bad mood. He chunked the jug out the narrow opening of the covered horse cart that had served as both his bed and his home. It shattered on the dirt road outside. He stared at the shards that littered the ground with regret. He should have used that to refill his supply for the trip ahead.

“Hey, hey watch it, buddy.” Someone yelled just outside the cart. “That almost hit my kid you rude smuck.”

Vox snorted and wiped his mouth. Vox sniffed stale air and let his agitation fester. He was out of ale. Now wasn’t a good time to be yelling at him with a tone that held far more aggression than was respectable.

“Daddy, let’s go.” It was the voice of a child. He sounded young, barely older than a toddler. Funny, he hadn’t seen too many children in the village since he and Lyle had arrived. Lyle…where was that old peddler?

“Why don’t you come out here you homeless smuck, huh! Chucking things at children, I’m gonna smash your face in.” The man said.

Vox had heard enough. He grunted and shifted his long legs clockwise. He shuffled his rump forward and crawled out of the covered horse cart. With his rump still planted on the edge of the cart, he set his feet on the ground. He stood and stretched his arms. The eyes of his bald challenger widened and crossed as they stared up at him.

Vox snorted and put his hands on his hips. “You were saying?” His height alone was enough to shut the mouth of most challengers. His array of knives that lined his dark vest was enough to silence all the rest.

“Ahhh…” The challenger collected himself and took two steps back. “Nothing, just watch where you toss things is all. You have a good day.” The man grabbed his son’s hand and rushed off.

“But daddy, I thought you wanted to pound his face?”

“Shut up boy.” The bald man said as they scurried away.

Vox snorted again and squinted his eyes. The sun was bright. It was always bright. He brought his hand to his brow and shaded his eyes. The town looked as it had yesterday before he fell into a drunken stupor and the day before that. For two days Lyle had chosen to stay in this tiny village to sell his wares. It was a quaint mountain village set near the river bordering the forest. Most of the buildings were constructed of logs. Cabin houses littered the hills. Cabin stores lined the streets, the few the little town had paved with brick. Vox was growing sick of the smell. There were too many fields of daisies and dandelions nearby. The whole village stank of cedar and pinecones. He snorted again and spat on the ground.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Lyle’s fragile frame shuffled over to him. The man had the look of a great man who had been reduced to a shell of his former self. Vox imagined he’d been a fighter, possibly battle-trained. There was a chance his ancestors and Lyle’s had fought against each other in the desert wars. But the old man’s fighting days were long past. Sunspots dotted his hands and face from years of overexposure to the sun. His short hair was thinning and so gray it was white. His face, although wrinkled, was deceiving for his age. Despite knowing the man had seen beyond eighty winters, Lyle had the face of a man who had seen just shy of sixty.

“I’m going to get more ale.”

“You need to stay with the cart. We need to keep a low profile here. We don’t need anyone recognizing you.” Lyle said. He pointed a long, wrinkled finger and waved it in the air.

“We’re a long way from the royal road. No one from there would be crazy enough to visit this waste of humanity. I’ll be quick.”

Lyle shook his head and sneered. If he wanted too, Vox had a suspicion he could stop him. He’d seen the man work his magicks. Vox suspected he was a novice, never fully trained, but capable far beyond what he let on. Perhaps that explained his face and why he got around so good for his age. That or the old man was younger than he let on. Warlocks and wizards were known to exhibit many forms of magical disguises. What better a disguise than that of an old man? He’d known the man only a few months, could magick hold for so long?

Vox stomped his way through the main street of the small mountaintop, garnering stares as he passed. He was used to it. He was far from a local. He stood head and shoulders over everyone else. His skin was the color of coarse sand, a smooth light brown, not the pale complexion of folks of this region. Normally he could pass as tan, but not here. His dark hair stretched down his back. He let it hang loose. The hair of those around him was curly and thick. Most were lighter shades of brown or sandy blond, not black as coal-like his.

He used to think it was his many knives and swords that lined his attire. For some, perhaps that was the case. It wasn’t natural for a man such as himself to be there. He saw the flood of emotions in their eyes as he passed. They feared him, yes. Some even hated him. Most simply wished to avoid him, but they all noticed him.

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It didn’t take long to find the nearest pub. He swung open the door and bent down to enter, making sure the twin blades strapped in a crisscrossed fashion against his back cleared the doorway. He was glad to be leaving the open streets of the sad, pathetic little town. The door had bells nailed to it. They jingled as he entered, ringing long after he had shut the door behind him. The pub was dark and dank, a reprieve from the brightness outside. The air was filled with a mixture of mildew, piss, and sweat, no dandelions had entered that room in ages. The nearest table, the wood so old it had turned a milky grey, was stained with dried blood. Vox snorted and allowed a grin to form on his lips. This was his kind of honey hole.

He approached the bar on the wall to his right. In the far right corner, a traveling band was playing stringed instruments, their leader played the flute. The flute player’s eyes bulged and he released a long high note out of key as Vox’s eyes met his. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him, which weren’t many. It appeared in this town, folks didn’t quench their thirst this early in the morning. That, or he had chosen a smuck of a pub.

The barkeep regarded him with nervous energy. “What will you have?”

“What do you got?”

It was a question the barkeep wasn’t used too. Not many visitors traveled to these lands. That’s why he and Lyle had come there.

“Nevermind, do you have any Mountain Water?” He was in the mountains past the hills of Gulstead. No one made a better concoction of alcoholic brew than the liquor he had experienced in Gulstead. The liquor had sustained him for days after. 

The barkeep’s face lit up. “Ah, we have a public well out back that draws from a spring not far from here. Best spring water around. It’s the only way you can get water from the mountain without venturing into the forest.”

Vox snorted to control his disappointment. “Just give me the strongest ale you have.”

“Sure thing.” The barkeep looked a little confused but went to retrieve a mug.

He felt rather than saw someone approaching from behind. He tilted his head up and prepared himself. He doubted anyone would be foolish enough to attack him. They knew what he was. But he could hope.

A man sat at the bar two seats down from his left. He was bald and round with basic dark trousers and a light colored shirt. He wore a green wool coat that draped down the length of the barstool. The man noticed Vox staring his direction and turned his head.

Their eyes met.

“You wanting to fight?”

The bald man’s eyes widened and he stood his head. There was something familiar about him. “You followed me here?” It was the guy from before, the pissed off dad who had tried to fight him back at the cart.

“No, but you’re not hard to find. I just asked around.” The man said.

Perhaps he should have listened to Lyle. He was too recognizable. Now if the guards came through this town and asked for a man that matched his description, far too many could confirm a sighting. He had endangered their escape. This ale better be good.

Vox snorted and turned away from the challenger.

“No, wait. I have to ask you something. Are you him, the manhunter.” The man asked.

“What would make you think that?”

“You’re one of them, A near-giant from the lands of Gase. You’re skin and hair are darker, your hair is longer, your body is taller. You wear a sleeveless leather vest. You’re strapped from head to toe with blades. You’re a Gaseni Manhunter.”

Vox snorted. He needed to consider a disguise before venturing out in the open. His mind wasn’t used to considering such things. He had never run before. He was a hunter, and this was all new to him.

The barkeep set a mug of brown ale in front of him. “That’ll be one copper.” The barkeep held out his hand, palm up, his eyes expectant.

“I got no coin.”

“You have to pay.” The barkeep grimaced, his eyes avoided Vox’s, but he held his palm open.

“Here.” The bald man slid a copper across the counter.

Vox snorted. “I don’t need your charity. I was negotiating.”

“We don’t negotiate like that in these parts. The price is the price and if you want another, you best find some coin or be on your way.” The barkeep said. 

Vox didn’t like the Barkeep’s tone. He narrowed his eyes and straightened his back to remind him of his height. “And I could just as easily give you a second mouth across your neck.”

The barkeep swallowed hard and took a step back.

“I’m jesting with you lad.” Vox tried to imitate a chuckle and gave the barkeep a fake smile. The man was the gatekeeper to the ale, and though he could jump the bar and just take it, Lyle was right. They needed to lay low to prevent the guard from finding their trail.

“I have a proposition for you manhunter.” The bald man said.

“No,” Vox grunted and chugged half his ale. It was weak and tasted of piss-soaked dandelions. Still, it was ale, it would do its job and numb the pain.

“It’s not for me, it’s for my boss the magistrate. He’s the administer of this town. He wants an audience with you to share the details. He’ll pay you well.” The bald man said. 

“No.” Vox chugged the rest of the ale, feeling better already. His manhunting days were over, whether he wanted them to be or not. The king wanted his head on a spike. Accepting any jobs now would raise too much attention, at least until he crossed the border.

“If you don’t meet with him, I’ll be fired. I’ll lose my job. I have a son, a little boy at home. I can’t afford to lose my work.” The bald man said.

“Another.”

The barkeep hesitated before he approached. “One copper.” Vox snorted and dug into his pocket.

“Nevermind that, put it on the Magistrates tab.” The barkeep smiled seemingly happy to be relieved of the burden of having to challenge Vox over his payment.

“Make that two more then.”

“So you’re in, you’ll come to meet the magistrate?”

Vox snorted and grunted. All he had to do was meet the guy, what harm would that do. Half the village had already seen him. If the guards came, he’d be identified. He’d already screwed up, might as well get the ale he needed to recuperate.

“If this magistrate pays for my ale, then it would be rude not to go to this audience and hear him out. No promises on accepting the job though.”

“Getting you there is all I’m responsible for. Thank you, Manhunter. You just saved me my job.” The bald man said. 

Vox couldn’t have given a smuck, but he had ale. Lyle wouldn’t like this, but he’d explain it to him later.