"Looks like we made it in time," muttered the man, his eyes scanning the darkening sky. Shifting in his saddle, he adjusted his leather armor slightly, trying to get comfortable.
Ahead of him, down at the bottom of the cliff, he could see a cluster of rooftops nestled among the gently rolling hills.
"Let's go, little pony." He urged his tired horse into a trot, making his way down.
As the rain started to drip from the sky and he arrived closer, the distant sounds of village life grew clearer. The cluck of chickens, the bark of a dog, and the murmur of voices, all carried on the evening breeze, hinting at the simple routines that wove the fabric of this remote community.
The man squinted, noticing the flicker of torches and candlelight as windows began to glow like embers scattered across the earth.
The muddy streets grew closer, the scent of smoke from the village's cooking fires mingling with the damp ground. The rain grew steadier, soaking his cloak and leaving a fine mist around his horse's hooves.
His eyes searched the quiet streets, finding the gate unguarded. It was an odd sight, a village unprepared for the night's embrace. Only a few children remained outside near it, playing in the rain, oblivious to the world's worries.
One of the children, a young boy with matted hair and a torn shirt, looked up at the stranger with curiosity.
The man called out, "Lad, can you tell me where I might find a bed for the night?"
The boy's eyes grew wide, seeming stunned by the stranger's question.
Moments later he nodded and dashed ahead, pointing to a sturdy-looking house with a wooden sign swinging gently in the rain.
The man followed, his horse's hooves making a plopping sound as they sank into the mud. On the way some villagers emerged from their homes, looking at him, their gazes a mix of suspicion and curiosity. They whispered among themselves, some pointing, others retreating into the shadows to observe from a safe distance.
When they arrived before the inn, the man reached into his robe and tossed a gold coin at the boy. "Here!"
It spun through the air, before landing in the boy's waiting palm. His grin grew wide as he closed his hand, his eyes shimmering with excitement.
"Thank you, sir!" The boy shouted over the patter of rain, before sprinting back to his friend.
With a gentle tug, the man dismounted his steed. His legs felt stiff from the long ride, but the cool rain brought a bit of welcome relief.
The horse whinnied softly as he began to unbuckle the saddle and unload his meager belongings— a pack of supplies, and a bedroll. His eyes scanned the surrounding buildings, noticing that the village was smaller and more humble than he'd anticipated. Yet, there was something charming about the way the light danced through the rain and painted the wall of the building.
Suddenly, a young man rushed out from the stable toward him.
"Let me help you, sir." He extended his hand toward the belongings.
"No need, just take care of this one." He patted his horse before making his way toward the inn.
When he slowly pushed the door ajar, a cozy, inviting light spilled out, and he walked in, his boots making a soft squish on the wooden floor as droplets of water fell from his cloak. The delicious smell of meat roasting and ale wafted around him, blending with the subtle hint of pipe smoke in the air.
A handful of folks looked over, their faces showing both intrigue and caution, before shifting back to their drinks and quiet chats. One man, however, didn't seem to be done observing.
He was a hefty guy, his bushy beard flecked with remnants of his drink. Even though his eyes were a bit foggy from the booze, there was still a spark of intrigue in them. He leaned on his sturdy tankard, spilling a little as he slurred out a cheerful cry. "A stranger!"
The man smiled and nodded slightly at the drunkard, too weary to engage further. He approached the bar, where a stern-looking woman with graying hair was wiping down the countertop.
"I need a room," he said.
She eyed him up and down before asking. "From the other side of the border?"
"Indeed," He replied, keeping his voice low and even. "From the free city."
She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then gave a slight nod. "It'll be one silver for one night and three meals."
He fished out a gold coin and dropped it on the bar. "Keep the change."
The woman's eyes darted open in surprise, clearly not expecting such payment from him. She gently took the coin, scrutinizing it as though it might be fake. "Are you sure?"
The man didn't reply, just smiled.
"Alright then." The woman bent down before handing him a key. "It's the first room upstairs, and we have a hot bath if you're interested."
"How could I not?" He took the key and walked toward the stairs.
At the end of the corridor, a lone candle flickered in a wall sconce, its glow casting ghostly shadows that waltzed across the walls. He located his room and gently nudged the door open, stepping inside and letting his eyes adjust to the gloom.
The room was simple, featuring a single bed pushed against the far wall and a small table with a candle in the corner. He dropped his pack and the sword that had been on his back beside the bed, before undoing his cloak and leather armor, leaving himself dressed only in a loose white shirt.
As the refreshing breeze brushed against his skin and the heaviness of his gear slipped away, the man breathed out a sigh of relief, before heading towards the bath.
The bath featured a large wooden tub filled with steaming water. The room was small, barely accommodating the tub and a chair.
This was as he expected from an establishment in a small village on the edge of the border. However, what he did not expect was a neatly arranged small pile of clean, folded towels and a bar of soap that faintly smelled of lavender. It was a kind of luxury you can find only at a place in the big city.
The man wasted no time. He peeled off his shirt, exposing a torso marked with a tapestry of scars that stretched from his hip down to the nape of his neck.
He came to stand before the tub, looking at his own reflection on the water.
His face was caked with dirt and grease, and long black hair cascaded down his shoulders. Strange dark eyes stared back at him, empty, almost bored.
With a sigh, he climbed into the water, feeling the heat envelop him. It was almost too hot, but it was exactly what his weary muscles needed.
He sank into the tube, his head resting against the edge. The warmth seeped into his bones, chasing away the chill of the rain. The sound of it outside was a soothing lullaby, making him close his eyes, letting his thoughts drift.
It has been two months since he made his journey down to the south, to the Kingdom of Malicain. The whispers of impending war had been the siren's call that drew him here—the emperor of the south was preparing his army to invade the Malic. So, with the thought of joining the fun and earning some gold along the way, he decided to leave his homeland, travel hundreds of miles to this place.
For a man like him, the only thing keeping him alive was the thrill of adventure, the rush of experiencing something new and the intoxicating nearness of death—a sweet pleasure he was addicted to.
But there was nothing like that in the north—for these two decades, the once unruly and fractured people had begun to unite under the rule of a single family—the royal family—living in relative peace with one another.
He felt like he didn't belong there, and he began to lose his sense of purpose. That was why he decided to travel south, to the land where the great powers of the continent clashed with each other.
After cleaning himself, the man returned to his room and put on a new set of clothes before making his way back down the stairs. The sounds of the inn grew louder, the chuckles of patrons, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional bellow of laughter.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him of the meal he'd paid for.
Descending into the main room, the atmosphere was warmer and more inviting than it had been before. The fireplace was now ablaze, sending waves of heat to combat the chill outside. The innkeeper nodded to him, gesturing to a table in the corner where a plate of food and a frothy mug of ale waited.
The man settled into his chair, his eyes roving over the room. With the night drawing in, the villagers seemed to loosen up, their expressions softening. The drunkard fellow from earlier was still around, but now his gaze was dull and unfocused, heavy from too many drinks.
The meal was simple but hearty—roast chicken, crusty bread, and a side of stewed vegetables. The man savored each bite, finding the flavors satisfying enough for his tastes.
Then as he ate, a heavy hand suddenly clasped his shoulder.
It was the drunkard.
"Why don't you share a drink with me, stranger? It's a rare sight to see someone from the outside," he slurred, swaying slightly.
"Gladly. Why don't you sit down?" The man gestured to the empty seat across from him.
The drunkard pulled up a chair and settled in. "So, where are you from?"
"The north," he replied simply.
"The north?" The drunk exclaimed in surprise. "The land beyond the vast mountains and seas? That forsaken realm that is full of ice and snow, war and destruction?"
The man burst out laughing. "You know quite a lot for a drunkard."
"Hey, that's the perk of being a drunk; you're always where the gossip flows," he grinned, tapping his temple. Then his expression turned curious. "But I must say, for a Northman, your Malic is very good."
"It better be, I paid a lot for the merchant to teach me," The man chuckled, taking a swig from his mug. "What's your name?"
"Elling," The drunkard replied, "And your?"
"Hamon." The man offered his name, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "So tell me Elling, is there any interesting tale you heard recently?"
Elling took a gulp of his ale before wiping the foam from his beard. "Well, if you're looking for tales, I got plenty. But the one that's got everyone's attention is about the raids along the border. Bandits, they say, but with the precision of an army."
Hamon's interest piqued. "Bandits with military tactics? Unusual indeed."
Elling nodded, leaning closer, his breath heavy with the scent of ale. "They come in the dead of night, swift as shadows. They take what they want, leave no one alive, not even the livestock. Dozens of merchant convoys were plundered, and hundreds of people were killed."
His eyes grew wide, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "Some say they're not men at all, but demons from the wasteland."
"And what do you think of that, Elling?"
Elling took another drink before speaking, his voice full of skepticism.
"Demons? Nah, I reckon it's the work of the empire. It's their way to mess with us."
"Isn't this a border between you and the free city? How does the empire have influence here?"
Elling's face contorted into a sneer.
"The free city? They are goblins in human skin!" he spat. "They've got no honor. As long as there's gold to be had, they'll let anyone cross their lands. Bandits, barbarians, even demons."
"Is that so?" Hamon took a bite of food. "It seems chaotic around here."
"It's not just chaotic, it's hell! I'm telling you."
"So, if the situation is that bad, why is your village left unguarded?"
Elling leaned back in his chair, his expression turning sour. "We have a couple of guards, but this morning—"
He was cut off by the sudden clamor that erupted outside. The door to the inn burst open, and a gust of cold wind sent the flames in the fireplace flickering wildly. Rain spattered against the floorboards as a villager rushed in, his face pale and drawn with fear.
"They are back!" The villager shouted.
"Really?" The innkeeper exclaimed as she rushed out.
"Speaking of the devil." Elling rose from his seat. "Come and see for yourself."
Hamon set his mug down and followed him.
The rest of the people also spilled out into the rain, their whispers becoming a murmur that grew into a collective gasp as they saw what had disturbed their evening.
A group of guards, no more than a dozen, staggered into the village. Half walked with noticeable limp, leaning heavily on their spears for support. The others lay motionless in a horse-drawn cart, their bodies still and seemingly lifeless, half-covered in mud.
Observing the grim scene, Elling continued his story, "This morning, a soldier rushed into our village begging for help. He claimed their convoy was under attack. Typically, we do not leave the village unguarded to assist strangers, but I heard that some important individuals from the capital were traveling with them. That is why the captain took all his men with him."
Hamon nodded. If the convoy was escorting someone important, then it was likely heavily guarded. For bandits to strike such a devastating blow against them, it seemed Elling's suspicion was right—these were no ordinary bandits.