Folker and the apprentice had finally left the wilderness behind them, and once again reached the road that led along the Uil River. The green valley stretched out long before them with the Uil flowing fast through it bearing the water from the mountains to the distant sea. Along the river there were not as many trees as in the hills, but many pines still dotted around it. It was by a small congregation of these pines where Folker decided to make camp for the night. He set about collecting wood for a fire and then he let the apprentice down from Bruin. For the first time since Folker had captured her, the apprentice sat down by the campfire with Folker to eat her food. They still took their dinner in silence however. While eating Folker studied the apprentice in the firelight. Like all sorcerers and sorceresses there was an eerie beauty to her. Her age he could only guess at, as it never was apparent with mages but taken that she was only an apprentice Folker assumed she was not much older than thirty. She had autumn red hair, that hung down to her shoulders and emerald green eyes were set in her face that gleamed with some natural defiance. Despite her days in the wild, her skin was still pale, which Folker suspected was because of her Northern descent. Folker was still looking at her when she finally, after four days of silence, spoke.

‘I wanted to cook acorns’ The apprentice said.

‘Excuse me?’

‘I wanted to cook acorns. That’s how I blew myself up. I noticed I misspoke in time however and managed to mutter half a shielding spell before it went off. That’s what saved me.’

Folker laughed. ‘I’ve heard of many people dying for foolish things, but acorn tops them all.’

‘I was hungry, and my ma’s ma used to make it. It seemed a good idea at the time.’

A silence followed.

‘My name is Isole.’ The apprentice said

‘That’s good to finally know. The hour is late Isole, I suggest we sleep, there’s a long road ahead of us.’

Dawn came, and a clear night was replaced with a clear morning. There were no clouds to be seen anywhere in the perfect blue sky and the sun shone down warm and soft. Summer was coming. Folker woke up Isole and packed up the camp once more. Folker decided to have their breakfast on the move, he did not want to tarry. They were on a mining road, so it was not much used but also not abandoned and Folker preferred not running into any company that took it, no matter if they moved east or west.

‘Is there a reason for all this haste.’ Isole finally asked when they were on the path again.

‘This is an ill road Isole, I wish to leave it for the river as quickly as possible.’

‘Why?’

Before Folker could answer the loud crack of a whip rung through the valley. It was followed by the faint rattling of iron and monotonous voices singing a song. Slowly a band of men came into view. Some were on horses but most were walking in an awkward march, with every step making the sound of clinking iron that was getting louder and louder as they approached. Seeing the sad procession coming closer to them, Isole gave Folker an alarmed look.

‘Don’t worry. We’re with the Fellowship, they won’t do anything to us even if they wanted to.’ Folker said

‘Where are they taking those men?’

‘To the mines I’m afraid, the emperor needs ore and someone needs to dig it up for him. They, will probably die in the dark doing it. I had hoped we’d avoid any slavers before we got to Orwdan.’

‘I wish it had been so too.’

The slavers and slaves were close enough now that he could make out their faces. The slavers on the horses looked on edge. That was how all of them always looked. Marching human cargo to a place it did not want to go was a dangerous job. The constant threat of revolt made these men cruel and unforgiving. Folker had met enough of them to know this. The slaves on the other hand had sad, hard worn faces. They knew what fate awaited them under the mountains and this far into the march it was likely that they had forced themselves to accept their new hard life. Most of them were thin but not starved, under their rags they were mostly skin and bone but slavers know their merchandise is not worth anything dead, so Folker assumed they were fed at least half decently. By their arms and legs iron chains linked them all together in a long line, that trudged on with difficulty. All of them must have been prisoners of war. Folker had heard of the wars the Kirrinans were fighting in the north and south. War was good for the slave market, more slaves were captured, the more the better because that way prices go down and the constant demand is supplied a little better for a while. The Kirrinan empire was not built on the back of slaves but it was on war, and war and slavery go hand in hand, so no matter where you looked one could always find some poor indentured soul. It was a sad affair, one that had been going on since the first spear was made.

The man who seemed to be the main slaver hailed to Folker.

‘Greetings fellow traveller, what business do you have in these parts.’ The slaver called out in Kirrinan.

Kirrinan differed from the Spirian, Folker and members of the Fellowship of Sorcerers spoke as a common tongue, it was harsher and if one were to ask the average mage, less sophisticated. However, if one were to listen with a close ear one could hear that the languages were not at all dissimilar. They shared a common ancestor in fact, just like many of the languages spoken south of the Hoogpiek Mountains it originated from Old Passian. Folker, being a well travelled man, could understand, read and most importantly speak most of these languages south of the Hoogpiek Mountains with only occasional confusion in grammar or syntax

‘I am a Hunter of the Fellowship on official business, there’s no need to concern yourself with us.’ Folker replied.

‘Your business is quite interesting Hunter!’ Chuckled the slaver. ‘My master would give you a good price for it, if it’s on sale. He’s always talking about wanting to own a witch. And a pretty one like that, I’m willing to bet he’d pay double.’

‘I would turn your master into a pile of ash before he could even make an offer, you pig!’ Isole said before Folker could answer. He was surprised she spoke Kirrinan.

‘The merchandise talks with such insolence, you’d almost think she has a choice in the matter.’ The slaver and the other men on the horses started laughing.

‘She is not for sale. I am never in the business of selling. Now pass, before I tell the Fellowship about you and your master, and they have the emperor put your heads on a pike.’

The slaver seemed taken aback by this and responded in anger. ‘Fine! Have it your way! I thought Hunters were men of the chain as well, but apparently they won’t even listen to the most profitable of business dealings!’ He cracked his whip. ‘Come on cattle! We only have a days march left!’ He urged on his horse and the column started moving with him.

Isole glowered at the slavers as they passed. They returned her anger with mocking smiles. With the clanking of chains now trudging on behind them, Folker removed the hand he had placed on his sword the moment he saw the mass approaching. He always feared spilling blood, and men like the slavers often were the kind that left him no choice. Folker tried to continue down the road undisturbed by what happened, but it was clear that Isole was brooding on it. She was angry and for the rest of that day’s journey they did not speak a single word.

That night when they had made camp, the brooding still had not stopped. Isole stared into the flames of the campfire, occasionally breaking and throwing twigs into it, not paying attention to Folker, who sat at the opposite end observing her.

‘Why didn’t you kill those men?’ Isole finally said, breaking the long heavy silence. ‘You had your hand on your sword, you could have drawn it and killed them.’

‘I could have, yes.’ Folker responded

‘Then why didn’t you?’

‘Have you ever killed anyone?’.

‘No. But I imagine you have, I imagine you have probably killed people less deserving and terrible than those men.’

Folker did not respond for a while. He was carefully weighing the words in his head.

‘Killing, Isole, is a burden. It weighs on you, no matter how terrible or horrifying the person was, their soul is another rock on your back, and eventually your back will break. You lose your humanity. Men who have spilt too much blood know this, all of them are either mad or soulless and I intend to put off that fate for as long as I am able.’

They both did not speak a further word that night. They slept under the clear dark sky, Isole dreaming of vengeance and justice, and Folker dreaming of rain and things past.

With dawn came drizzle. It was pleasant with the slight spring warmth. Folker woke up as he always did, but was surprised to find that Isole had woken with him. It seemed she was picking up his path habits. They helped each other pack the camp in silence and then they returned to the road. The drizzle kept on pouring on top of them ever so slightly as they walked. The valley was quiet except for the rushing of the river and the faint noise of the wind.

‘How many men have you killed?’ Isole asked from atop Bruin.

‘Is this an important question to you, Isole?’ Folker said looking up in her green eyes.

‘Yes. Yes it is.’

‘Men, includes women and children I assume.’

‘It does.’

Folker sighed. A silence followed. He was not sure how to answer the question, he only remembered the faces. He saw them in his dreams often, sometimes they even talked to him but he had never counted them. His mentor had known the exact number the lives he had taken, it was a point of pride for him. Folker always despised his mentor for keeping count. Folker quite vividly remembered his mentor telling him about his hundredth kill, it had made him sick to his stomach.

‘A Hunter’s life is death, I’m sure they told you this at the academy. We keep order in the Fellowship, we do its dirty work, we kill. Whether it’s an apostate mage, a daemon or some other abomination, inevitably a Hunter is forced to kill. It is in the nature of our existence, it’s in our cursed blood. Being a Hunter is not something I wanted or sought out, it was ordained by destiny and destiny cannot be rejected. So yes I’ve killed many, I don’t know the exact number but it’s many and I will keep most likely keep killing until something kills me. That is my fate.’ As he was talking Folker noticed the road was slowly turning into mud.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

‘It does not have to be your fate. There are plenty of sorcerers who have taken a different path from sorcery despite their magical blood.’

‘Sorcerers have a choice, their blood is not tainted. If I had not drank from the Waters it would have only let to death, our blood attracts the dark. I have seen children like myself for who it was too late. They suffered. The Waters are not a choice, they are fate.’

‘With enough courage anything can be rejected, even destiny.’ Isole looked Folker in the eyes. ‘We’re not just cogs in some contraption. We are people. People who can do as they please if they’d just dared to do it.’

Folker returned Isole’s look. ‘I think you will eventually find that everyone is destined for something whether they like it or not. There is a grand universal plan for us that trudges along as the gears of time keep turning.’

‘And people are of course notorious for sticking to plans aren’t they?’

Folker did not know how to respond to this, so the conversation died and they kept going.

They continued down the road. The drizzle stopped and behind the light grey clouds the sun started to shine down, making everything glisten in its beams. Warming in the sun, Folker could see smoke rising in the distance. Chimney smoke. They had finally reached Orwdan. There were only a few farms outside of the town, for in reality Orwdan was not much of a town. It was a glorified trading outpost, it was where the mining slaves were dropped off and the iron from the mines was picked up to be transported to actual towns like Harien and Wisseil which had staple rights to buy and sell the iron. It was a rather miserable place. The denizens behind the low stone wall were mostly slaves, either waiting to be transported to the mines or working in the large wooden houses of the iron and slave trade administrators. Before they passed through the gates Folker stopped and signalled for Isole to get off Bruin.

‘What’s wrong?’ Isole asked.

‘We’re taking a boat from here.’ Folker said. ‘Bruin hates boats, and it’s never easy to convince captains to let a horse on, they think it’s bad luck, so Bruin need to find Regenburg herself.’

‘Herself? She’s a horse. She’ll get eaten or stolen before she even comes close!’

‘She bears the mark of the Fellowship. See?’ Folker pointed to a tattoo on the side of the horse, it was of a mandala. ‘So no one will be dumb enough to steal her, as for getting eaten, Bruin is a strong and clever horse, she can manage any number of wolves or bears just fine.’

‘Fine, if you’re so confident, but who’s going to carry our things now?’

‘We are. Don’t worry we don’t have to walk very far with them.’

They took the luggage off of Bruin’s back and then Folker came close to the animal’s ear and whispered something. Bruin took off immediately after he finished speaking.

‘What did you say to her? A spell?’

‘No, I just told her where to go.’

Loaded with their own baggage, Folker and Isole walked to the gate of the town. Folker hailed a guard, lazily leaning on his spear in the gatehouse who let them pass into the town. The streets were of dirt and the buildings of wood. Barely any of the houses were painted, they were all just ordinary brown. There was only one house, considerably larger than the rest that was covered in several colours. The walls were white, red, yellow and blue, in the dreary town of Orwdan it stood out like a big eyesore. If it had not been made of wood it could have been a house from Olise, Folker thought but here it seemed hideous and out of place among the unpainted buildings. It was the estate of someone important no doubt. As Folker and Isole walked Folker noticed the few people on the street staring at them. Some even whispered things to each other. A Witch Hunter was in town, and not only that, he had a sorceress captive. Word would undoubtably spread fast. Ignoring the looks Folker and Isole went to the only inn in Orwdan, ‘the Iron Hearth’. Folker had been there several times before. It was not a busy place, the only business it got was from inspectors or other officials which had dealings with the mines. The innkeeper Josephine was an old, almost blind, woman who relied mostly on her son Jurgen to do the work in the inn. Josephine did not recognize Folker when he rented a room, and made arrangements for dinner. This saddened Folker a little as he remembered having a rather long conversation with her once. She even offered to show Folker to their room, even though he already knew the way from his previous visits. Folker thus politely declined the offer and walked up the stairs with Isole to their room. The room they had gotten was not big. It only had one bed, an old goatskin rug and one small table with a chair.

‘It’s no palace but it will do for a couple of nights and anything is better than the common room.’ Folker said. ‘Don’t worry you can take the bed, I’ll have the floor.’

‘How long do we have to stay here, do you think?’ Isole said. ‘Do many boats sail up and down the river?’

‘I don’t think it will take longer than a week to find a transport, I’m a Witch Hunter, most captains are obligated to take me on board.'

‘Ah that’s settled then. When are we going to the port?’

‘I am going to the port. Alone. This is not a town where you want to draw attention to yourself, and bringing you along will do just that.’

‘Attention? We’ve already drawn attention in case you hadn’t noticed the thousand people ogling us when we passed.’

‘It’s still better this way.’

‘Well what am I supposed to do then? Just stay here in the inn and bore myself to death?’

‘Basically yes.’ Folker said as he fastened the chain to the bedpost of the room’s bed. ‘I will be back from the port before supper.’

‘Pox on you then!’

Folker left the room with Isole still cursing him as he descended the stairs.

There were only two ships in the port Orwdan, a large slaver vessel, where prisoners of war bought on the markets of Garadon were crammed together to be shipped to the mines, and a smaller broader iron ore transporter. Folker was in luck as the slaver vessel had just dropped off it’s slaves while the iron boat had just been loaded, both were preparing to depart soon. Folker first talked to the captain of the iron boat but he told Folker that he would sail no further than Harien, which was still miles off from Regenburg. Folker then hesitantly approached the slaver captain, a stout bald man with a typical black Kirrinan moustache. The captain, whose name was Terion, told Folker he was headed all the way to Ys on the Uil delta where he hoped to find the markets before the war in the north ended. After some short negotiating the captain agreed to let Folker and Isole travel along until Regenburg, they would leave in the morning of the next day. Folker was immensely pleased with the quick arrangement and set back off to the Iron Hearth in good cheer.

Halfway back however he was stopped by a group of armed men. They seemed to be mercenaries to Folker. Most were wearing padded gambesons, in a wide range of colours. Blue, purple, red, yellow and green were all present. Aside from this they also wore a simple steel helmet bearing a feather on top, and carried spears. The man who looked to be their leader however was wearing full lamellar steel plate and was brandishing a well made Kirrinan sabre on his side. He wore a steel mask resembling a monkey’s head that completely covered his face. The group of armed men were truly a curious sight in the lacklustre and uninspired Orwdan, in the eyes of Folker they looked ridiculous quite frankly.

‘My master, Aruil son of Arion, has requested your presence Hunter, we are to be your escort to his house.’ The masked man said in Kirrinan with a marked accent Folker could not quite place. The man’s voice was high but harsh.

‘And what could you master possibly want from me?’ Folker asked.

‘My job is to do not to know, I am sure my master will enlighten you of his intentions when you meet with him.’

‘I am sure he will, but I don’t see any reason for me to be enlightened, I leave this miserable town tomorrow.’

‘The reason is the armed escort in front of you. I have heard much of the skill Witch Hunters have with a blade, but I doubt it is enough to take six trained men. Not that I would not relish an opportunity to cross swords with a Hunter, however my master commanded me try to convince you to meet with him first without the shedding of blood.’

‘It seems I have little choice.’

‘Yes, so it would seem.’

‘Show me to your master then.’

Folker was not at all surprised when the armed men brought him to the large colourful house in the middle of the town. Like the outside everything inside the house was also made of wood and was just as colourful. The walls of the antechamber Folker was led into by the masked man were richly painted, with flowers, trees, and grass while the ceiling was a bright perfect blue dotted only with a few soft white clouds. It was not the local scenery of the mountains and hills of eastern Kirrina, rather Folker recognized it to be the lands surrounding the Kirrinan capital, Halloer. Kirrinan aristocracy’s dislike for the eastern part of their empire was well known. The mountains and the pine tree covered hills stood in stark contrast with the rolling green plains the horselords loved so much, it made sense that, the undoubtedly very Kirrinan, master Aruil would want to be reminded of his beloved home. Folker had to wait in the antechamber for a rather long while which annoyed him, as he did not want to be there in the first place. He had almost decided to escape the large house when a servant came through the door. She was a woman no older than twenty, she wore a simple white dress with yellow flowers on it, she also had flowers in her intricately braided hair. The woman herself must have hailed all the way from Sodonia, her skin was dark and her eyes a deep blue. She was a pretty sight.

‘Greetings my name is, Eleanor.’ The woman smiled. ‘My master, Aruil son of Arion, is waiting for you in his chambers if you would please follow me I will show to him.’

Folker followed. The rest of the house was a mosaic of different colours and patterns. There were no paintings as was all the rage back with the nobility, the walls themselves were art. Folker wondered which artist had been hired to paint everything in this house so far from any real high society or civilisation. The servant led Folker to a big red door and bid him to enter. Inside he found a fat man in red attire sitting behind a wooden desk looking over several documents. He looked up when Folker entered the room. The nose of the man stood out remarkably small on his large bald head. His eyes were small and brown and one of them seemed to be watering so much that he was holding a kerchief in his hand to wipe away the tears.

‘Ah just the man I wanted to see.’ Said the fat man as he stood from his chair and waddled over to Folker. He extended a jewel adorned hand to Folker. On every hand there was a ring inlaid with gemstones of all different kinds. ‘Master Aruil son of Arion, though I am sure my servants have already told you that.’

Folker grabbed the hand extended to him.

‘Folker, son of no one.’ He said without returning Aruil’s smile.

‘Come sit with me Folker son of no one, we have much to discuss.’ Aruil indicated to the chair opposite his desk and with a loud creak sat down back in his own chair again.

‘Do we now?’

‘Yes of course, we don’t get many Witch Hunters in these parts, quite frankly I have never seen one and just when I make my yearly visit to this outpost on the edge of civilization one just happens to wander into town. What a marvellous coincidence.’

‘Is that why you greet me with a band of armed men to force me to your house.’

‘Yes.’ Aruil laughed. ‘I would’ve of course preferred it if you came here willingly but this is a once in a lifetime opportunity and a man of my standing and position always gets what he wants.’

‘Well, now you’ve seen me. Anything else you want? A story about daemons and witches? A look at my sword?’

‘Not really. I am sure you’re an interesting man with plenty of grand tales to tell, and I’ve heard enough about Hunter swords to know that they are quite special, but sadly I am not necessarily interested in you. I personally find your companion, captive is probably a better word, far more intriguing. She’s a sorceress correct? What am I saying of course she is, otherwise she wouldn’t be on that leash of yours. I wish to have her and I’ll pay you a very, very good price for her.’

‘I think you should be more careful in your wishes, master Aruil.’ Folker said gravely to get his point across. ‘The Fellowship guarantees the freedom of its mages. Not to mention that as soon as the leash, as you call it, is removed from her she will probably turn you into a rather sizeable pile of ash.’

‘I’ll pay for the leash as well master Hunter, don’t worry. And if you’re not willing to part with it you’d be surprised by the amount of ways I have of breaking the resistance of my property. As for the Fellowship, they don’t have to know I bought her if nobody tells them. She might as well have been killed by a Witch Hunter who saw no other option. This secrecy will all be factored into the price of course.’

The nonchalance in the way the slaver talked about the matter surprised Folker and he did not know how to respond. He did not think anyone was stupid enough to actually try to buy a mage.

‘I believe you misunderstand the nature of my profession’ Folker finally said. ‘I am not a slaver, I don’t capture people to sell, I do it to protect others. Sorcerers are dangerous, they can cause a lot of destruction, if they want to or are forced to.’

‘I understand that of course, and I do admire the work you Hunters do to keep us all safe from defiant mages, however I would say that if you were to hand this sorceress over to me you are also doing your duty to the world. I assure you that she won’t be able to do any harm in my chains. Dare I say, giving her to me would even protect more people as I will give you any offspring I may have with her to the Hunters, you are always in need of cursed blood am I wrong?’

Again Folker did not know how to respond. He could feel anger rising in him. What was this man thinking?

‘You disgust me.’ Folker stood up from his chair. ‘I’ll take my leave now.’ Before he could go however, Aruil slammed his hands on the table in a rage and leaned over to him.

‘Listen Hunter! I made you an offer and offers I make cannot be refused! You either take the coin and give the girl to me peacefully or I take her from you!’

Folker had had enough. With one swift motion he drew his sword and put the black blade on Aruil’s throat. The slave master stumbled backwards in his chair and looked wide eyed to Folker, a tear was rolling from his watering eye as he could no longer hold his kerchief to it.

‘Lay one hand on her and you’ll lose the hand along with your head.’

Aruil was still trembling when Folker sheathes his sword again. A slight trickle of blood ran down his neck as Folker slammed the door behind him. Tomorrow there would be trouble.