The rain fell in sheets, clinging like oil to the skeletal branches and turning the rutted track into a mire that swallowed footsteps whole. Old Man Hemlock, they called him, though he wasn’t particularly old, just worn down to the bone by years of scrabbling a living from the edges of magic. His cloak, once a deep forest green, was now a patchwork of mud-stained rags, clinging to his thin frame. He clutched a gnarled staff, its wood slick with rain, the only sign of his profession a few dried herbs tied haphazardly to its top.
Hemlock wasn’t a grand wizard—no summoning of firestorms or raising of the dead. His magic was the magic of the hedgerow: poultices that sometimes worked, whispered curses that occasionally withered a crop, charms against the common cold and the wandering eye. Grim work, for a grim world. He’d just finished bartering a dubious love potion for a handful of scrawny chickens at a nearby farmstead, a transaction that left him feeling more soiled than usual.
Rounding a bend in the road, he froze. The mercenary was leaning against a moss-covered boulder, a hulking figure wrapped in furs and studded leather. Rain dripped from the brim of his helm, obscuring his face, but Hemlock could see the gleam of steel at his hip—a heavy, two-handed sword.
Hemlock’s stomach turned to water. He knew better than to run. A man like that wouldn’t let him get far. Swallowing hard, he forced himself to stop, gripping his staff tightly. “Mercy, stranger,” he croaked, his voice as thin as the wind slicing through the trees.
The mercenary straightened, the movement fluid and predatory. He pushed back his helm, revealing a face as hard and unforgiving as the landscape. Scars crisscrossed his cheek, and his eyes, a pale, icy blue, held no warmth. He didn’t reply to Hemlock’s plea. Instead, he said, “Your coin or your life.”
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Hemlock’s hand trembled as it went to the small pouch at his belt. It contained only a few copper pieces—the price of a loaf of bread, maybe. Not enough to tempt a man like this. He knew what this was. Not robbery. Sport.
“I… I have nothing of value,” Hemlock stammered, his eyes darting to the mercenary’s sword.
The mercenary grunted, a sound devoid of amusement. He drew his sword, the steel whispering from its scabbard. The rain seemed to intensify, washing the world in shades of grey.
Hemlock closed his eyes for a moment, a silent plea to whatever uncaring gods might be listening. Then, with a sigh, he opened them again. He couldn’t fight. He wasn’t a fighter. But he had one last trick.
He muttered a quick incantation, a string of guttural words that tasted like ash in his mouth. A faint shimmer of energy surrounded him, his form flickering and shifting. For a moment, he appeared taller, stronger, more formidable. A desperate glamour. He hoped, prayed, it would be enough to give the mercenary pause.
It wasn’t.
The mercenary’s sword flashed through the air, a blur of steel. Hemlock felt a searing pain in his side, a wet warmth spreading through his ragged cloak. He gasped, his breath rattling in his throat. The illusion shattered, revealing the old man, bleeding and broken.
He crumpled to the muddy ground, the rain washing over his face, mingling with the blood that seeped from his wound. The mercenary stood over him, his expression unchanged. For a moment, his icy blue eyes lingered on Hemlock, but there was no pity there. Only cold indifference. He wiped his sword on Hemlock’s cloak, sheathed it with a metallic click, and turned away without a word.
Hemlock’s vision blurred as the mercenary disappeared into the rain. His thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm. Regret? Bitterness? Perhaps. Or maybe just the simple, crushing realization that in this grim world, his death was nothing more than another drop in an endless deluge.
The rain continued its relentless drumming, the sound merging with the faint, gurgling breaths of a dying man. A small, insignificant death in a world full of them.