- On the Road
Luka unbuckled his leather jacket, the sweaty leather resisting the pull, and tried to get some air into his tunic. The air he managed to draw in was hot, dry, and tasted of fine road dust. The trio of horses pulling the cart, steamed from the flanks, their vast effort visible in the shifting, oily sheen of sweat covering their powerful bodies. The air was thick with the scent of exhausted horseflesh and churned earth.
Rolan rode ahead on his separate mount, his figure a dark, unmoving silhouette against the sun-baked track. His weight was saved from the pulling effort, ensuring the three horses could maintain their grueling, sustainable speed for their eventual haul.
People sometimes questioned why such a light cart took three horses, clearly unaware that someone who was not changing horses every fifty miles had a strong motivation to manage the load they carried. The over-sized team was the quiet proof of the urgency and anticipated value of the object they were traveling all this distance to fetch.
The first day had gone to plan. They hit their checkpoint with hours of light to spare. Today the world had conspired to slow their progress.
First, there was the overturned apple cart that had landed on its owner's leg, making it impossible for him to move it. The splintered wood smelled sharp and acrid against the dust, and red, green, and gold apples were scattered like coins across the road. Rolan had got out of his saddle to pull the pinned man free, the strain visible in the corded muscles of his neck, and then the two of them had dragged the cart upright. This would have only been a small delay had Rolan not insisted on transporting the man and cart and all the spilled apples back to his village.
Luka glared accusingly at Rolan, bouncing lightly on his saddle like the honourable knight he should have been. He'd already admonished him twice. They had a firm mutual prohibition about berating someone a third time, something Luka had benefitted from plenty of times and likely would again.
This afternoon's incident was the fault of neither of them. They caught up with a company of soldiers, clinking and clattering in their mail, going the same route as them with no space to pass them.
From the first moment it was abundantly clear they had no intention of moving aside to let them through. Leaving them with the dull, rhythmic sound of their boot steps, the tramping of pikes, and the humourless belittlement of their officers ringing in their ears for two hours before they mercifully hit a junction with enough alternative track to allow them through.
As a result of these delays, they were now in a race against the light. The wheels rasped a constant, hungry rhythm on the dry dirt as Luka tracked the sun's position. It was definitely to the west of them as it was facing, and not behind them. Whether it had migrated from southwest to just west was less clear. The heat still spoke of afternoon, but the golden sheen passing through the trees whispered ‘evening’.
Luka calmed himself, the furious blood in his ears slowly receding. As long as the light was still amber and not fading crimson when they arrived at the jetty, they wouldn't be too late.
A signpost appeared ahead of them, weathered and tilting, pointing its wooden arm ahead with the word Amaran and below it Amoron.
"What numbers did it say?" He called out to Rolan.
"Nine and ten." Rolan shouted back, his voice clear and unburdened by frustration.
Luka took the reins of the cart, the worn leather cool in his palms. "One more push and then we're done, boys.”
By the time they crested the hill to see the twin towns of Amaran and Amoron, the light was solidly amber. They were on the Amaran side, passing through the outlying farms toward the conurbation. The far side of the river was Amoron. Amaran was firmly within the borders of Ravelle. Amoron, indisputably part of Valmarch. The trouble was that the river had carved a two-mile-long island between the two banks, and neither side could agree who had the rightful claim.
To the left and right of the settlement, there were giant trebuchets set up to target that disputed ground. The massive wooden machines loomed, dark and angular, against the fading sky. Even from the road they could hear the creak and whoosh of them hurling their rocks into the ruins of ruins that the designated warzone had become.
This meant two things, firstly, that currently Valmarch must be occupying the ground. Secondly, they were not too late. The night barge didn't leave until after the fighting was halted for the day.
The disputed island fell behind them as the barge advanced into the dusk until the red faded to pink and violet and then blue. Lamps were lit the length of the deck, on the sides of the ship, and hanging from ropes over the deck. On the prow, a single bright globe was covered in all but one direction so that it shone out like a lighthouse to reveal the shimmering currents ahead.
Crew came around selling cups of wine, and there was an unspoken divide opening up between the passengers on deck. One group headed towards the stern and tried to find comfortable places to rest, while the other congregated around the prow, reconciled to missing the hours of sleep in the absence of any kind of proper bed.
"Which way do we go?" Rolan inquired.
"Let's see how we feel."
Luka took a cup of wine and they mingled amongst the awake crowd for a while. He spoke to a handful of merchants, learning the news of the region and offering his services for future journeys. It felt more productive than trying to wedge himself against a crate and pretending he was comfortable enough to sleep.
Eventually, the population of sleepers spread from the back to the front of the barge. Luka and Rolan found themselves a spot leaning over the side of the barge or alternating to sitting beside it for short naps. In the former position, Luka saw the first breaking of dawn reflect on the river from behind his head.
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Rolan was right. It did feel like cheating, but in a good way. Normally, every hour of night would be one where they progressed no farther. Now they were getting movement without their horses having to stretch a single muscle. Alas, the night barge was a curiosity of this section of the journey. From here on it would be travel by day all the way, unless something went awry.
There were only two stops for this particular barge. Amaran, or Amoron, and the bridge of Tymora. Which side end of the bridge the barge stopped at was dictated by which side the barge picked up from. Since they had got on from the Ravelle side, they would have to drop off at the southern end of the bridge and not the northern end by the gates of the walled city.
The irony was anyone getting off at the southern end could immediately walk over the bridge and enter Valmarch with minimal checks. It was almost as if Ravelle and Valmarch agreed that all their conflicts would be confined to that two-mile island so that they never truly moved from rivals to outright sworn enemies.
Today, they had no pressing reason to go into the city, so when they unloaded by the Ravelle outpost on the southern side, they joined the road directly to continue their journey.
In some senses, the river section had changed nothing for the animals. They would not normally ride overnight, so this was nothing more than an expected reprieve. The real benefit was felt in the cushion it gave them on the following days. Luka knew he wouldn't have to push them beyond a canter for a while, and the rest times could be longer.
The path from here carved inland away from the river, leaving the flat, moist smell of the water behind and rising up into dense forest land around Lake Nuben to their left and open farmland to their right. The air here was cooler, smelling of pine needles and damp earth. On this stretch they faced no delays, and by evening fall, arrived as he had planned in the village that marked the border post to the Metzberger region.
This was not the first time he had travelled this particular road, and yet the expected familiarity did not strike. He slowed the cart outside a wall of spiked wooden stakes, the raw, splintered wood looking unnervingly fresh, with a confused frown pressing down on the bridge of his nose.
"This is the place?" Rolan asked, his voice low and cautious.
"It was meant to be, but... I'm sure there was no wall here."
The heavy, groaning gates to the town opened before them and a group of figures frantically beckoned them inside. Luka spurred the horses forward and pulled them to a stop, the feeling unnervingly final behind them.
The figures moved back towards them, and Luka realized at once the word soldiers was not fitting. They wore no colours. The armour was varied and limited. These were merely locals carrying weapons. In some cases that was more alarming. Here they had welcomed them in at least.
Luka stepped down from the coach, his boots sinking slightly into the soft, untrampled mud just inside the gate, and tried to see which of them had the air of authority. None of them obviously exuded that quality as of yet. He would have to instigate.
"Is this Flammen?"
The nearest villager holding a pike answered, his breath visible in the cooling evening air. "Yes. You are here."
"I don't remember there being a wall here."
"You were here maybe some years ago?"
"Yes. Three or so."
"We put up the wall last year."
"Why? Is there a local dispute?"
"No. It is the wolves. They have grown hungry. More daring. We hear their howls closer every night. We cannot keep any animals in the fields now."
"And you formed a militia because of wolves?"
"When we took the animals inside, the bandits also got hungrier," the pikeman explained, the pike’s head glinting dully in the last of the light. "But we have plenty of food here." He handed off the pike to another militia man and waved them forward. "Come."
Luka looked behind and saw Rolan was already taking care of the stabling, his focus entirely on the horses.
"He will join you."
"Where are we going?"
"Of course, the beer hall." The man explained. "I am not really a soldier. I am Gunther. I own the beer hall and inn. We have many rooms for guests."
Luka held out his hand. "Luka Shadowfox."
"Shadowfox? Like someone from a tale."
"Eventually, I hope." Luka smiled. Gunther seemed genuine. Still, there was no harm in being cautious.
When he was sure no one was looking his way, he intentionally let his focus slacken, allowing his gaze to drift so left and right eye no longer agreed. The world immediately split into two hazy, overlapping fields, and for a jarring instant, the visual input multiplied. He saw the roof, the stable hand's anxious face, the dark line of the forest, and the glint of metal on the lookout's belt, all in a flood.
Luka blinked very deliberately. The chaotic sensory input snapped back into a single, clean image of the back of Gunther's head, just before he turned in triumph. "See? This is a good place to stay."
The beer hall was immediately appealing. A mix of inside spaces all near crackling fireplaces and semi-covered outside tables awash with the last amber rays of the evening. Smoke from cooking wafted between the two, promising the rich, savory smell of pork. Now Flammen felt familiar again.
As pleasant as the beer hall was, Luka and Rolan were still feeling the effect of the night passage and the limited sleep it afforded. Gunther put them in a small dorm with six beds. They were the first in them, staking their claim on the end wall.
When Luka opened his eyes, all of the other beds were filled and their occupants snoozing soundly, their heavy breathing creating a low, rhythmic hum in the cramped room. What time was it? There was no way of knowing in this room without windows, the stale air thick with the scent of damp wool and unwashed bodies. He dressed quickly and walked out in search of one.
It soon became apparent that he had not just risen early but entirely prematurely. The outside scene of trees upon trees was cloaked in deep night still, the air cold and biting against his face.
The moon was bright, with a faint blue tinge to its light, hanging heavy over the tree line. Elsewhere there were fewer stars than he would have expected. Was this a clear or cloudy night?
That was when he heard it, the low, angry rumble turning to a chilling shriek. As one, a whole chorus of wolf howls tore through the night. Goosebumps raised on the back of his neck, and he tried to block out the whine and listen beyond. Wolf howls weren't there to scare humans: they were for the wolves to talk to each other. What were they saying that was so important that a hundred of them needed their say tonight?