Chapter I

Coranth saw the trails of dust before he saw the riders. The brown wisps gave away the position of his pursuers. They would catch up to him before noon, but Coranth had no intention of allowing his pursuers to pick the time or place. He crept back from the crest of the hill and lay against the slope shading his face with one of his arms. He felt the butterflies in his stomach at the anticipation of battle.

Coranth used the pillars of dust to keep track of their location without revealing himself on the hill. They were close now. Coranth’s hand tightened on his famous sword. With his left hand he subconsciously brushed his fingers across the handles of his throwing knives strapped to his thigh. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a shield. Coranth shrugged his knapsack off his shoulders and focused on the dust steadily growing closer. He sank back into the grass to wait.

This time, only three bounty hunters were riding in close formation, trotting across the plains. One less than yesterday, he died impaled on his own spear. Coranth could barely see them through the grass stalks he was using as cover. The bounty hunters stopped a good hundred yards away and seemed to be debating a strategy. He could imagine the debate they were having.

‘He can’t have left this gulley!’ One of the men was saying. ‘He might have traveled along the trough to escape us!’ Another argued. ‘Well, which way would he have gone?’ Towards one of the rivers, the Rasin or the Slaysin?’ ‘He won’t head to a river now!’ ‘He just got drinking water off of Ol’ Bucktooth the impaled!’ Coranth smirked.

However the conversation went, the bounty hunters were approaching the ridgeline that he was crouched behind. The horse's hooves became audible and then they had seen him.

“There! I am going to kill you! Arkin was a good man, you son of a bitch!” The lead horseman bellowed. He spurred his horse and it thundered towards Coranth.

And Arkin had some fine boots, too, Coranth thought.

Unfortunately for the hothead, his horse had no intention of barrelling down the loose soil of the steep hill and came to a sudden stop rearing on its hind legs, spilling Hothead unceremoniously from his saddle and onto the ground. Coranth would have stabbed him right then and there, but as he pushed off his back foot the loose soil the horse had avoided collapsed, sending him down to one knee. Gravel cascaded down in a flurry.

He quickly drew a throwing knife from his thigh belt with his left hand and sent it flying towards the downed rider. As soon as the dagger left his fingers Coranth was fighting his way back to his feet. Hothead looked up only to grunt as the dagger stabbed into his shoulder.

His compatriots were dismounted and fast approaching Coranth together, separated by about six feet. The man on the left was short and burly with a mohawk and the fellow on the right was completely bald with a terrible scar diagonally across his face from chin to eyebrow. They wore the same leather harnesses, but Mohawk had an axe and shield while Scarface held knives in each hand, a sword still in its hilt swung by his side.

Scarface flicked his wrists this way and that. His deadly knife points glinting with the sun each movement a potential throw.

Coranth headed to the right side and they pivoted together keeping pace.

As the spiraling group drew closer like marbles in a vortex Scarface made his move. He flicked his wrists and moved his arms this way and that before releasing one of the daggers. Coranth twisted quickly dropping to one knee.

It flashed through the air faster than Coranth could track zipping past his head. The second dagger glanced past his right arm and into the gulley behind him. Pain flared from his bicep and a red line of blood oozed out of the shallow wound.

Hothead was gathering the horses.

Dust flew away from his shoulder as he sprung back to his feet. Mohawk was swinging his axe down in a decapitating arc.

Coranth’s sword rang as he caught the shaft of the axe with his blade. The force of the blow rattled his arm and shoulder but unfortunately for Mohawk, he was unscathed. Coranth twisted his blade free of the axe just before Mohawk could wrench his blade free from his grip. Coranth punched forward with his left hand connected with Mohawks shoulder spinning him sideways.

His bicep felt uncomfortably warm and itched slightly.

Coranth jumped back to create space from Mohawk and pivoted to face Scarface’s charge, but instead was forced to roll to the ground yet again as another pair of daggers whipped towards him. Mohawk bellowed and charged towards him again. Saliva flew from his lips and his axe waved overhead.

Hothead was mounting up and turning away.

Coranth leaped to his feet and tossed a dagger at Mohawk's legs. Mohawk collapsed using his shield to deflect the dagger.

Coranth closed the distance and slammed his sword down. Mohawk caught the blade on the rim of his shield and just barely saved his head from being split.

Coranth kicked Mohawk’s shield with all his might while the sound of their weapons still rang about the hillside. The kicked man sprawled backwards in the loose soil.

Hothead had gathered the horses and spun away. His horse letting out a whinny of confusion.

Coranth spun to face the raging Scarface who had drawn a sword and now rushed to Mohawk’s aid. Scarface lunged forward, and Coranth turned his blade aside. Then slashed at the exposed arm drawing a scream from Scarface. Which was cut off when Coranth’s sword crushed in a backhand blow through his jaw. The man crashed to the ground and dust rose from the gravel.

Coranth’s arm was on fire where the dagger had struck him. Heat radiated from the wound.

Mohawk regained his footing and looked in the direction of Hothead. Who had just mounted his horse. Hothead didn’t look back as he kicked into his horse which thundered across the plains away from the fight.

“You fucking coward! Mother fucker!” Mohawk shouted at the back of the fleeing bounty hunter. “God dammit all!” Mohawk turned his attention back to Coranth and let loose a roar of sorts before charging across the distance between them. He swung his axe early whistling across the air in front of Coranth and then whipped his arm back around bringing the axeblade back viciously. The blade sang through the air and Coranth barely got his arm under the strike to direct the blow over his head. Coranth stepped forward and pushed against Mohawk's shield. This time Mohawk was ready and leaned against him, hardly moving.

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Coranth darted his sword out and it sliced through Mohawk's axe-holding arm, Mohawk was forced to drop the axe, but he shoved the shield with his bodyweight. Coranth was sent sprawling to the ground and slid slightly as the soil gave way. The nick in his arm was boiling. Gritting his teeth Coranth rolled to his feet.

He could feel his grip weakening in his arm.

Mohawk charged after Coranth and his shield pushed Coranths blade away. He dropped it from his grasp. Coranth and Mohawk tumbled to the ground and rolled over each other. Mohawk drew his dagger with his left hand and plunged it downwards stopping an inch above Coranth’s heart, stayed only by Coranth’s left hand. His arm shook with the effort. Coranth drew a throwing knife and attempted to stab Mohawk in the side.

He missed on his first swing. The blade slid harmlessly across Mohawk’s back.

Mohawk roared and spittle flew from his lips spattering Coranth’s face.

On the next strike, the dagger slipped against the armor and he nearly lost his grip on it.

Mohawk redoubled his effort grunting as he tried to force the dagger down. His hot breath puffed with effort.

Coranth slammed the dagger into Mohawk's side. Mohawk’s eyes went wide with pain and fear. They glimmered with tears. He pushed harder.

Coranth stabbed into Mohawk’s side again.

It just wasn’t stopping him.

He stabbed again and blood bubbled into Mohawk’s throat. He spit it out. His breathing fast and shallow.

Coranth’s right arm was roaring with pain and it was going numb. The dagger's tip was just a hair length away from him now. Coranth released the throwing knife and hit the flat of Mohawk's dagger with his now free right hand and rolled to the left. It cut through his leather tunic and his shirt, barely drawing a red line across his skin.

When he got back to his feet and turned to his assailant, Mohawk was struggling to stand. Blood was leaking through his tunic and a large wet spot was growing there. His arms were shaking and his legs weren’t working. Coranth drew another throwing knife and deftly flicked it into Mohawk's head.

His right arm was now completely useless and the cold numbness seemed to be spreading into his shoulder and side. Coranth rushed to the crumpled form of Scarface and rummaged through his kit. There was no antidote, but there was a vial of amber fluid, Skark venom without a doubt. He grimaced thinking about it slowly oozing through his veins.

It was a fast-acting numbing agent that quickly numbs the muscle system.It was generally a local affect, although entering the bloodstream close to important organs could be fatal. Almost as soon as the muscles stop receiving commands the recovery process begins. All in all, it was only a short effect.

Mohawk and Scarface didn’t have much in the way of equipment on them. He decided to forgo Mohawk’s shield in favor of less pack weight. They also had a few days ride worth of rations and water. Which, he had about as much as he could carry already. They did have one item that Coranth desperately needed, a map.

As the feeling returned to his right arm he unrolled the map. It wasn’t much and only had a few major landmarks of the three-river area, but it was enough. The slaysin and raysin began at the far corners of the map and slowly converged before finally merging into the great Turnbite River. The city of Maruk was just beyond and in front of it, crossing the mighty river, was the great bridge, as old as history itself.

The Turnbite whipped back and forth across the parchment, angrily cutting away at the Jet Highlands. It quickly collected the waters of the land into a titanic force of nature that roared across the plains and finally into the Slenti Sea. The Turnbite also formed the natural border of the edge of mankind's reach. Beyond it, a forest with trees larger than entire castles grew and those who lived there did not like visitors.

It was exactly where he was headed. And there, a brief unremarkable annotation. Boarslo township sat on the edge of Jet County by the Raysin river. There he could rest for a moment and get a better plan together.

He had come a long way.

Coranth hefted his bag and turned toward the shallow waters of the Raysin. It should be just over the next rolling hill at the end of the gully. He clumsily climbed and slid down the loose side of the ravine and finally reached the bottom. The underbrush was thicker here and smooth stones littered the ground beneath his feet. Water trickled around them in a small stream. It was one of the many small tributaries to the larger river. Coranth followed along the creek bed where he could, but in a few spots was forced to one side or another when the water levels or rocky ground didn’t offer good purchase. The lush bushes of the ravine gave way as the ravines mouth widened and the Raysin came into view. The tall grass replaced the brush and it grew thickly and more vibrantly as he walked. The stalks brushed up to his waist.

The sun beat down on him as he followed the Raysin. His sword swung in his scabbard as he walked. His knapsack bit into his shoulders through his leather jacket in an all too familiar feeling. Soon he would be to the bridge and Boarslo. He could already imagine the small bustling village and the warm fire of an inn’s hearth.

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Coranth walked down the wide streets of the small town. He was wearing a cloak borrowed from one of his pursuers like most of his current equipment and he had the hood drawn up around his face. He also walked with an exaggerated limp and a hunched back.

The performance seemed to be in vain because the town was empty. There were no small-town merchants happily chatting and no farmers dragging their carts out as the sun sank lower in the sky. No villagers were ambling to the town drinking hole.

Where were they then?

Deserters could have come through this way, but it didn’t make sense. The town was in good shape and there wasn’t even a hint of a struggle. Besides, there weren’t any battles this far south and east. He would know.

He heard footsteps pounding on the pavement pounding on the ground behind him and a child’s laugh.

Out from behind an alley, a boy came charging around the corner and into the street. He was looking back over his shoulder, a grin on his face waiting for his pursuer. When he turned to look forward again, he froze.

“Jamie! Thars anitor un! ‘ight ‘ere!” The boy announced excitedly. Jamie came jogging from the alleyway, his arms pumping absurdly for the slow speed he traveled. “Hail stranger!” He puffed. The child Jamie called with a ridiculous imitation of a man’s voice. The other boy grabbed at his sides laughing.

“As the town watch I order you to state your name and business!” Jamie exclaimed.

“My name’s Coran.” He cut himself off and cursed himself. He was not used to slinking around. “And yours is Jamie I presume?”

“Yes sir, Jamie McCoy, town watch to be!”

“Well, Mr. McCoy, I was hoping to rest my aching feet and find a bit of respite from the trail, but I can’t seem to find anyone to give me directions to the inn.”

Jamie’s face lit up. “Why, good sir, I shall escort you there immediately!” He turned on his heel and marched forward.

“You dun’t sound old, but you act old mista.” The other boy said decidedly. Coranth cursed under his breath.

“Aur ya hurt?”

“A little bit. Where is everyone?” Coranth replied maintaining his limping gait. It wasn’t too hard to do considering the blisters on his feet.

Jamie slowed his walk, “A couple of strangers came into town some hours ago and everybody and their uncle is in the inn!”

“Great,” Coranth sighed.