It was odd how angry silence was so distinct from comfortable silence. Snowy wasn’t skipping along the goblin trail, but she was far more energetic than she had been. Snowy had [Track] and [Scout] - though at tier one and at a low level - both were skills I lacked, so it wasn’t surprising that she noticed the return of the mercenaries before I did. I had reverted to thinking about [Meditation] while hiking, being ‘lost in my mind’ as my parents called it, so I missed the subtle signs. To be fair, I probably wouldn’t have noticed them from the distance and height even if I had been paying attention.

The first I knew about it, Snowy was pulling me down and behind cover. This wasn’t the first time she had done it during our walk, she had noticed each merchant or peasant on the trail before I had as well.

“They’re the mercenaries. Look, the one on the wagon, the one pretending to be drunk. That’s the leader,” she said.

Squinting to avoid the sun that had just crested the hills, I tried to make out the face of the man in the wagon, but it was hidden by a jug he kept close. When I sent a questioning look to Snowy, she gave me an annoyed one in turn.

“Look at the horses,” she hissed in my ear, arm still firmly planted on my shoulder.

Staring, at first, I didn’t know what she had seen, but I quickly spotted it as the band of ‘merchants’ slowly trundled past.

The horses pulling the wagon, as well as the mounts for the guards, were all well-groomed. None were the typical nag or workhorse, they didn’t have a single donkey or mule, and the horses pulling the wagon lacked blinders. The merchant troop was all-male, and more, well-formed and hardy men. Not a lame leg, bent back, crossed eye, or paunch in the group. Every last one of them was eyeing the road and the hills. This wasn’t a merchant’s group traveling over the mountain in trade. Worse, there were at least double the number of men in this troop than had passed us the night before. Whoever wanted us dead had both money and men and was willing to spend them for just the two of us.

Silently, we nodded to each other and waited behind our cover, watching to be sure we didn’t alert any stragglers.

After a tense twenty minutes of watching the road, Snowy turned to me.

“We can make it to the edge of the forest, but then we will have to wait until my father sends out the garrison. They could have people watching the fields, and we’ll be too visible on the plains. If we had horses, we might be able to gallop into the city, but I wouldn’t want to risk it,” she said.

Before I could agree, a gentle cough and a voice from behind startled both of us.

“Yeah, that could work.”

Sitting no more than ten paces behind us was a weathered old man wearing hunting leathers dyed with dark browns and greens. He was also absolutely covered in daggers. The leather hunting clothes were well patched and subtly hid metal reinforcing, the armor said this man had seen fighting. His blades were of many different sizes and types, each blackened to hide their metallic glint. Small throwing daggers lined the sides of his well-tightened coat. Longer knives ran along his forearms for a downward double draw, and even his leather peasant cap had small bits of metal that I was sure could be thrown.

The real concern was his age. Weathered and raw-boned, the man looked like smoked and cured leather. Father had a saying for fighters: The young fight with their guts, the leaders fight with their heads, and the veterans fight with Skill. When he said it, you could hear the emphasis on the capital letter S. For a young man to become a veteran, he had to gain at least a few weapon Skills and master them. Mastering any Skill took a long time. Given the daggers, short blades, and throwing knives strapped to him, I could guess what he specialized in. That he had snuck up on us while we had been so tense and quiet made it clear he had [Stealth] of some kind to go with his weapon Skill.

Our silent surprise broke when the man spat to the side then drew a triplet of knives from each side of his coat.

Snowy and I both reached for weapons but weren’t fast enough to react as the man stood and threw his weapons. My attempt to lever my crossbow up was aborted when the man launched his blades. His knives streaked up the hill, then down the trail. To our surprise, the knives made almost no sound, but the meaty thunks of the blades impacting one after the other came with the sound of bodies dropping. Ignoring both of us, the man walked through the brush with hardly a noise as we watched. Stepping around a rock, he pulled a blood-smeared dagger from a goblin body. Shaking the remains at us good-naturedly, he continued to retrieve his weapons. The scariest part of his display was the fact the daggers arced around the boulders and trees and hit the goblins in hiding.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

I had seen similar levels of weapon Skills, but never in a ranged attacker who also had [Stealth] like this one. My guess was that he had Skills for [Tracking] or some kind of [Hunting] Skill, possibly one of the darker variants like [Man Hunter].

“Well, now. Your Pa sent me out here to look for ya. Lots of them damn gobs out here though,” the man said with a slow uneducated drawl. Despite the way he spoke, his eyes had a sparkle of intellect that said he enjoyed being underestimated.

“My father sent you to hunt for us? He never mentioned a hunter of your description,” Snowy said while drawing herself upright and towering over the shorter hunter. I, sensibly enough to my thinking, remained silent and watched the man. I doubted he wanted to attack us. If he wanted to, he could have, but that didn’t mean I planned to trust him.

Sniffing, the man turned to check the bodies for loot while casually wiping off the knife with a loincloth.

Being ignored didn’t sit well with Snowy, but I couldn’t say I was surprised by the man’s response. It must have seemed like a kitten snarling at a bear.

“You don’t say much, do you?” he asked, his grey eyes staring at me as he dropped the last corpse, finding nothing on their remains.

I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t resist. The man reminded me of the trainers my father had hired. Instead of answering his question, I just flashed him a bright exaggerated smile, goofy and over the top, then shrugged. Dropping the silly grin, I returned to watching his movements as he approached.

To my silent sass, all he did was snicker and shake his head. His body language said he was used to dealing with snot-nosed kids, and I would just be one more. My actual age didn’t really come into it. My father probably would still seem wet behind the ears to him.

After traveling down the path for a few steps in the direction we had been heading, he smoothly turned and walked backward and asked, “Well? You want to go home or not? I get paid either way, but I think your pa would be annoyed if I didn’t make an effort,” before turning back around and continuing.

There wasn’t a debate about what we should do. This guy could have killed us at any point, and we wouldn’t have seen it coming any more than the goblins did. He seemed to know the Baron and had a plan.

“So, who are you?” Snowy asked.

Snagging a blade of grass while walking, he stuck it in his mouth before answering the question.

“Name's Mason. I used to be a Cutter for your Pa back when he needed wet-work. Retired on about eight years now, got me a nice bit of land at the edge of the forest, and I do odd jobs for ‘um now and again. You know, you’re just as pretty as your mom,” the man said, the non-sequitur throwing Snowy off her stride.

I was just watching how the man walked, the way he seemed to glide over the ground, how he would shift his stance as his foot took his weight. It was awkward and odd-looking to watch, but if I hadn’t been looking for it, I might not have noticed. Definitely at a minimum [Stealth], possibly a more restricted version like [Forest Walk], or [Forester], but given his clear combat experience, I doubted it. I wasn’t particularly interested in the conversation that meandered between war stories and his time in the North, but his movements and Skills? Oh yes, that I was interested in. Not that I thought I could learn them just by watching, but it was always possible.

“So, what combat skill do you have boy?” Mason surprised me by asking, drawing me out of my internal musings.

“I’m sorry, what?” I asked to hide my surprise.

Mason smiled at me; his mouth was full of shining white teeth, which was jarring in someone both old and a combat veteran.

“I watched you two pick off the other hunting party. Been thinning the herd of the green rats for days. You got you a combat skill. Not good at it none, but you got it,” he said.

Both of us went silent at that. We hadn’t seen Mason the entire time we were hiking, but he had seen us. What exactly was his rank in [Stealth]? How many levels? 

At our silence, he just flashed a smile at Snowy and continued blithely on, “Well, ain’t no never mind to me. I get my stipend by helping solve your Pa’s problems, and this seems to be a problem for your Pa. So, I’m going to solve it. I’ve got an old wagon at the homestead. We’ll throw you in the back of it and off to town we go.”

This seemed to be the end of the discussion for Mason, and neither Snowy or I had a better plan. Walking along behind the old man, thin limbs still moving with speed and confidence, we walked through the forest and down a few switchbacks to the plains. When we reached the edge of the forest, he kept us walking through a well-concealed pathway in the trees. We passed three farms and finally came to a small cabin just out of sightline from the farms. 

Stomping up the old wooden steps to his cabin, the old man slipped in, then slammed the door before we could follow him. Seconds after, he was out again and covered with a ratty cloak that hid him down to his knees. Worn, with the blue dye faded to a muddled grey, the cloak was as much a full-body disguise as any of my own creations.

Mason ignored our looks and moved around to a small covered area behind the cabin. Protected by the sturdy wooden overhang was a well-built wagon. The wagon was overflowing with pelts, stacked nearly to the top of the rails.

“Well? Come on then, snuggle in,” Mason said with a smirk as we looked at the layers of skins that were only partially treated.