The distant column of black smog is barely visible. We have left the Tower behind as our slog along the muddy road takes us towards Yorkton, according to the milestones. Originally we skirted through the bush parallel to the highway to avoid detection.

I soon realised that our pace was constantly hindered by obstacles and fear of other travellers. As we’d come to a busy bridge, I’d decided to swim across. We move further down river, trying to find a suitable section. Only to walk into a travelling band of exotic merchants gathering water. The group squealed with delight at the sheer size of Cane, but none showed fear.

Folkston, their leader, offered 15 shillings, two cases of scaleback dust and his daughter's hand in marriage for my hippo.

“Not for sale. Cane’s the only family I have left.” I say with certainty, offering no hint of bartering interest.

“Family’s just another resource to trade with the world. You will see one day, a price will come. That’s why I keep having children.” He grins through a thick beard and extravagant headpiece.

Although I denied the sale, Folkston was more than happy for me to join his convoy of wagons to Yorkton. Claiming he could see an interesting tale in my eyes that he must hear. I assume the massive hippo also works as a decent deterrent to robbers.

I’d been travelling with them for several days when I noticed I could no longer see the black clouds of the fire. My flock would be faster along the road but not all humans share the merchant's familiarity with hippos, I see the alarm and fear in them.

Patrols of young heroes protect the highway, keeping me locked at the hip with Folkston’s lot. As the sun dies each evening, we find worn patches of previous campsites to make our bed. Stories and food of the land are generously shared around the fire. Weary eyes watch the shadows even with Cane so close.

“Seth, I never asked what brings you and Cane to Yorkton?” The merchant inquires.

“Slaves. Looking to buy a few.” Half lies are easier to believe.

The merchant snorts out in disbelief. “Will cost a fair few shillings. Then even more to ensure no one takes them off your hands afterwards.”

“Bukke seems to have that effect on people in these parts.”

“Not just here. I’ve been everywhere and I can confidently say, if you aren’t flying about with the wealth of a Guild or the power of a House up your arse, then you chasing Bukke.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“People are miserable and envious. They see these walking Gods all around them, unfazed by disease or famine. Why else would you want to dream, if not to escape reality.”

I’ll have to bear that in mind when I escape the cities with a few hundred walking drug factories next to me.

“I just need them for the labour. Do you know who I’d talk to once we get to Yorkton?”

The merchant easily sees through that satyr muk but doesn’t sully the mood by pushing further. I’ll have to watch what I say around him more carefully.

“Varies depending on the seller. Most are sold privately, a few make it to high-end auctions.”

“I hear the Blackroots are selling.”

Folkston considers that for a leaf fall, as if finding the matching piece to a puzzle.

“That makes sense then.” He says looking off into the night sky.

“What does?”

“Rumours of a merger between the Blackroots and York house. They must be buying their way in. Bugger, I think I owe my brother some coin. I never thought it’d happen.”

“I’ve not heard of that house before.” I admit.

Folkston spits his swill out and howls aloud with laughter. “Omnia’s balls, son. How long you been in the bush for?” He eyes my poncho and Ferrum armour.

“A while.”

The merchant’s natural charm doesn’t let the jibe sting, smiling and offering an ebony as he lights his own. I’ve discovered the smokes relieve the thirsting itch a tad, any little helps so I’ve been burning through them like a lifelong addict. Unfortunately, I'm starting to enjoy the taste.

“Good, life is out there. The wilds are a rewarding place if you can survive. Which I assume you have little trouble doing.”

“As long as my God continues to watch over.”

“Bless Order and his great presence.”

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If only he knew the truth. I watch the shadows like the rest, looking for another horror.

He takes a fat drag and blows into the campfire, blooming the dwindling embers back to life.

“Old and mighty. The York family founded the city or took it and changed the records. It matters little at this stage. They rule like Kings and Queens. Demanding taxes to fund their raids on the underworld and parties in their castles.

Pumping out little heroes clad in armour and wielding weapons that move mountains. Membership is for the privileged, but once you are in, you are family. Hence the deal with slaves.”

“I’m guessing the Blackroots don’t have a similar reputation.”

“Ha! Those muk stains are nothing but a band of raiders and hunters in uniform. It’s the leaders that will get into the Yorks. The rest will be sent to No-mans land or used in a raid as a flesh shield.”

“Wait, so If the Yorks are so rich and powerful, and precious of house membership. Why not simply buy the slaves with coin? Or capture their own?”

“Good question. The house will decree that slaving is beneath their pedigree. Tavern talk whispers of a taint in the woodlands, a deity resides in the green sea. No doubt you’ve heard of her.”

“I have.” Good to hear that their strongest fear Mother.

“A better question is why not just take the slaves by force from those third-rate ‘heroes’. Think about it, one of the most powerful houses in the known world. Abilities and trinkets to shred Daemon armies. One of the Royals, that’s their leading council, could dismantle the Blackroots alone.”

“Law and Order perhaps?” I suggest.

“They create the laws and then ignore them. The wrath of our almighty could explain it. Especially with so many sightings of Omnias forces near the border.”

“I’ve seen their castras in the forest as well.”

“You should report this to the Yorkton authorities when you arrive. They may even pay coin for that sort of information.”

“Can’t be worth too much.”

“I make my living off the flow of knowledge my friend.”

“I thought you sold ointments and animal parts?”

“Purses open for all sorts, never specialise" my father would say. Watch the market and keep your ear open. So that’s what I did, quite literally. I trade in gossip but also some collectors' scrolls and tomes.”

“Muk me, are you saying people can read?”

“Of course lad, otherwise all those signposts would be a waste of wood. Not many can read the writings I sell though, a higher education is required first. But those that have it, usually have the wealth for more.”

I’m a fool to believe in that lanky Livingston.

“I’ve been searching for a trader like you forever.”

“Well, fate finally smiles your way. I have a whole wagon of writing. What would you like to learn about?”

The mists of empowerment have lifted somewhat since I first arrived, though parts still elude me. Such as the meaning of Ordo and the other attributes. Anything on the Reavers would be helpful but I won’t risk asking in case they’re watching.

“When I empower, a message appears in this rune language.”

“Ancient Silvic or old tongue. I have a translation tomb thicker than my wife's. It will take many years to learn.”

“I already know it.”

Folkston looks amazed. “Incredible. Translating for the Royal libraries would be a handsomely paid vocation. Who taught you?”

“That’s a tale for another time. The runes I see talk about my attributes increasing. Particularly Ordo, Neuo and Chao.”

The merchant stares at me for a moment, puffing on his ebony with patience.

“Sorry, son. I didn’t catch the question there?”

“Oh, I just don’t know what those words mean.”

His bushy eyebrows rise like jumping caterpillars. “So the wanderer reads the old tongue but doesn’t understand empowerment. Very strange education you’ve had.”

He waits, hoping I’ll fill the silence with an answer to his intrigue.

I light another smoke without giving in.

He snorts in amusement at the game. “Ordo is related to the spirit of Order, that is what lies within all his followers. Such as me, you and even my mutts. It fuels abilities and classes related to organisation and tactics. Summoners, generals, smiths, that sort of thing.”

The mention of spirit reawakens the itch with a horrible intensity. I suck down the ebony haze with a greedy intensity and try to concentrate on his words.

“Neuo is the neutral force of nature. The strength and speed of our bodies. Found in all living beings. It’s why a deer can outpace a human, for their Neuo is strong from years of running. It improves from both empowerment and physical strain.”

“I noticed that when I was training.”

“Last is Chao. Sheer unrelenting power that we imbibe by defeating Omnia’s people. These spirits give our heroes destructive magic. Firing great bolts of lighting or shearing through solid walls with a single swing. That is why the heroes that live through battles and raids become legends, almost godlike. This is why your Chao will have increased and Ordo will remain at nothing. Do you understand?”

I don’t. All my attributes increased as I drank the elixir. This might be why I’m an Aspirant, why I’m different from the others. A unique benefit. Unfortunately, I need to blend with the common crowd, which is something I’m already struggling with alongside Cane. A vendor in gossip is the last person I want to know.

“So just to get his right. Man kills Daemon, gets Omnia spirit. Which gives them crazy strong abilities. Daemon kills Man, acquires our spirit of Order and gets… smarter?”

“Clearly you haven’t slain many purpleskins ahahaha. I jest. But you are on the right track. The classes that Daemons get are always to do with orchestrating, supplying or bolstering their armies. Even their strongest lords can’t fight our heroes individually. So they send heavily armoured hordes to make up for it.” Folkston flicks his spent smoke into the ashes.

“Worry not about the horned devils so close to the city. It’s our own that prowl the night for opportunity. On that scroll, Stu, Far. Decide amongst yourselves who will take first watch.” He tells his sons as he turns in for the night.

I burn more ebonys, knowing the itch will stop any chance of sleep. The Reaver said I had to feed it spirit, which is unlucky to happen if I sit here on my arse all night.

I turn to young boys bickering about guard duty.

“I’m just going to check around camp, sing out if you see anyone.”

Motioning to Cane to stay put, I slip into the shadowed foliage, seeking relief.