Chapter Thirty-Three: The Village by the Brook

  The soft silvery light kaleidoscope from the trio of moon danced along the water’s surface. The murmuring of the River Valdorea provided an accompaniment to the ensemble of nightly sounds around the camp. The forest fluttered with the rustling of leaves, crickets chirping, and the occasional hoot of an owl.

  In the centre of it all, the crackling campfire with the sizzle of adipose, rendered fat dripping into the metal tin. All of this, punctuated by the sound of a howl—distant, not originating from the canidae that lay calmly beside the flames.

  Situated next to the wolf was a figure, hunched over, its eyes buried in the book, the soft glow of arcane energy emanating from its hand. They bore puffy cheeks, a jawline full of fat, with his other features worn and sunken, age wearing on his face.

  The arcane energy surrounding the figure’s hand dissipated as he flicked his wrist.

  The man placed his hands on his stomach, feeling the bulging, drooping belly that pressed against his undersized clothes, a look of astonishment and appraisal in his eyes.

  His hands rummaged through his pouch, pulling out a shard of glass—just enough to make out a reflection — pulling up in front of him, the firelight playing off the surface.

  The pudgy man’s brows raised in surprise at the sight before him.

  What he saw in the reflection was nothing he expected. Not only would it take months of eating in succulent abundance—far beyond the boar he had indulged in a mere hour ago, his first real meal in days—but it would require the passage of time many magnitudes beyond the bare month it had taken from his escape from the Templar compound to his current position.

  The overweight man glanced down at the tome before him, a mix of disbelief and intellectual awe washing through his mind. For three nights, he had attempted the same spell, intertwined with the consumption of his meagre rations of bread, dried meat, and tasteless forest fruits.

  On this night, his labour bore fruit, the spell’s true potential laid bare in the reflection and physical state of his body, enough to fool even the most discerning guard.

  Arcane energy once more brimmed in the man’s hand. He made a series of waving gestures, hovering his hand over his face and body. The stretched clothes relaxed as his portly build steadily morphed into a slim, almost malnourished stature, his clothes now hanging loosely.

  The face of excess melted away, giving way to a youthful visage. A moment later, the jawline and the sharp contours of his cheekbones were fully defined, a stark contrast to what they had been only moments before.

  The face of the runaway, the deserter, the fugitive, and the nascent mage. Sketches in his likeness, no doubt plastered on the walls of the mountain pass outpost he was trying to cross inconspicuously.

  That was one insurmountable issue resolved: his visage. However, it did not detract from the other two problems his predicament presented.

  The first was the beast of burden at his side—not the horse grazing near the river, but the fully grown dire wolf, a stoic facade of quiet companionship to the youth’s trek, a pile of fresh bones lying next to him—the result of the collaborative hunting effort between Selriph and Emmett. With it, it also bore the weight of the complications his presence brought upon the boy.

  The other was the very energy that had allowed the boy to take the form he had just sported, allowing him to fool the naked eye, but unable to bypass scrying or anything that could detect the magical energies forming the disguise.

  If any guard possessed an ability or artefact resembling that of the cursed inquisitor Varos, Selriph’s half-baked plan—if it even got that far—would crumble.

  Selriph sighed, his gaze falling on the patchwork map. The map marked their position on the southern bank of the river in fresh charcoal. A day’s journey east lay the first settlement since leaving the capital—the village of Fallbrook, where he’d hoped he’d get the information he sorely needed to cross the mountains unnoticed.

  The thick shaded canopies of the Shera woods made way for the G??unl??k Plains, the scent of pine replaced with a fresh breeze carrying the fragrant scent of wildflowers and the sharp, earthy scent of grass. To Selriph’s left, to the north, lay the River Valdorea, his main geographical guide for his journey to its source.

  Eastward, the azure horizon opened to reveal the Greyspire Mountains—his goal, a majestic range marking the geological division between central Eldeitia and the eastern provinces. Emmett loped in a comfortable stride beside Selriph and Nightwind. The wolf’s stoic facade gave way to the faintest hint of excitement, perhaps from the open fields, a stark contrast to the forest whence it came.

  Or perhaps that was a figment of Selriph’s imagination.

  As the blue skies made way for the yellow highlights of the setting sun, their destination came into view: a series of wooden structures that hugged an offshoot of the main river.

  The mounted youth and wolf strode into the settlement, apprehension building in Selriph as he prepared himself for the inevitable stares of curiosity. The rehearsed explanation played in his mind—to be given to the stable hand, who would hopefully provide a place for both horse and beast.

  As he crossed the threshold of the first houses, with the village centre in his view, two oddities interrupted his thoughts:

  For one, the town of eerily quiet, lacking the usual end-of-day bustle. The square, centred with a well and various merchants’ stalls, was all but empty, with only a few villagers flanking the perimeter, seemingly more engrossed in their own conversation than the curious trio that had just entered into view.

  The other oddity was extremely minor, but it drew the boy’s attention, nonetheless. The sign they had just passed:

  “Welcome to Fallbrok.”

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  The inconsistency in spelling stuck out to Selriph like an itch he couldn’t scratch. The wooden sign was worn and faded—perhaps as ancient as the village itself—yet it unmistakably, it more a single, faded ‘o’; ‘Brok’ instead of ‘Brook.’

  Was I mistaken? I’m certain I copied the settlement names accurately…

  Just before Selriph could further appraise the sign and indulge the building storm of curiosity, a voice cut through his consciousness.

  “Evening, traveller,” a female voice called.

  Selriph snapped his head to the sound of the voice, a stoutly middle-aged woman, half his height, pulling another horse by the reins.

  “Fine steed you have there,” she said, gesturing to Nightwind. A sound of acknowledgement puttered through the horse’s lips, as if responding to the dwarven woman’s compliment.

  Selriph simply gave her a curt nod as he dismounted, his feet hitting the gravelly dirt path beneath.

  “Not much for words, eh? Unexpected for someone who keeps such interesting company.” Her eyes glanced at the dire wolf by the boy’s side.

  “Any place for both him and her?” Selriph’s voice was calm, polite, as he gestured to the horse and dire wolf.

  “Aye, but it’ll cost ya. Unlike your steed of night there, my lot won’t take kindly to your oversized dog. We’ll need to place him out of sight, have his spot,” she said, pointing to a fenced structure on the eastern end of the town with the faint silhouettes of horses.

  “Just name your price. I was half expecting to sleep outside the town because of this oversized mutt.” Despite his words, Selriph’s voice intoned with the slightest hint of approval.

  “Won’t break your purse, we can talk details there,” as they strode off towards the stables.

  As it turned out, it would indeed break his purse.

  The thin sound of stacking metal came from in front of the boy as the woman counted the coins: twenty silver pieces, typically enough for four nights in a decent stall. He let out a sigh.

  Better than sleeping on the grass again...

  “Sorry, young’un. You’re lucky I have space; the miners hired a bunch of my strong’uns to haul their goods.”

  Selriph’s eyes flickered with curiosity. “Goods from where?”

  “Not from around here, huh? New mines opened up in the mountains. Could use a pair of strong hands like you,” as she gave a joking wink.

  Selriph figured awkwardly. “Thanks… but I have somewhere I need to be. Curiously, what about the old mines?”

  “Old Mines? Collapsed a month back, apparently some big cave-in. A lost cause. Shame though, brought good business here.”

  It’s a long shot… but perhaps…

  “And what of the new mines? Maybe they need a hand for goods to pass through the other way?”

  The dwarven woman’s brows lifted in curiosity. “That, you gotta ask Tol. Better find him before he buries himself in the Stag’s Head brew.”

  “Who is this Tol…?” Selriph’s voice inflected in inquiry.

  “He heads up a group of miners. Why?”

  Shouldn’t he be with the miners…?

  The woman traced Selriph’s face, as if following the lines of curiosity forming on his forehead.

  “Seems you’re a real thinker. Give him a good pint of ale, he’ll probably tell you the colour of his mother’s arse if you make him happy.” A chuckle escaped her.

  “I... I’ll remember that. The Stag’s Head, then? In the town square, I gather?”

  “Aye, and don’t you forget your two friends. If you aren’t back by noon tomorrow with more coin, they’re staying out in the fields.” Her voice was a mix of sarcasm and warning.

  With more coin…? Why would I need that?

  “Don’t plan to stay long,” barely audible under Selriph’s breath as he turned out of the stables. The pungent smell of manure mixed with the cold evening air hit his face as if a sardonic rebuttal to the words that had just escaped his mouth.

  Soon after, Selriph found himself at the foot of a two-story timber-framed building. True to its namesake, a stag’s head greeted him, fixed above the entrance. Its lifeless gaze was an ironic counterpoint to its antlers, spread wide in a gesture of macabre welcome. A creak escaped the door as he pressed his hand against the rough wood, the scene unfolding before his eyes.

  The chatter of customers, a stark contrast to the quietude outside, the smell of roasting meat, and the crackling fire all served to provide a wave of comfort to his senses.

  Dotted throughout the tavern seemed to be all manner of residents, farmers, labourers, and even two figures that seemed dressed in silken or fabric-like garments, likely passing merchants. To his right, Selriph passed rowdy adults engrossed in conversation over ale and food.

  Framed in the centre of this portrait of quaint liveliness was a large, jovial man, his fiery ginger beard acting as the centrepiece to the vibrant scene from behind the bar, his gaze sweeping across the room.

  Selriph crept to the counter, ignoring the occasional gaze of curiosity from the patrons. Calming himself with the thought that he was merely a face traveller among many—or so he hoped.

  The bushy man walked up expectantly to the boy. “Need a room, lad? Two silver a night, one more for the beef stew, and only another coin for the next day. Cheapest rate this side of the mountains.” His voice was cheery, with not a hint of forced display.

  I don’t need two nights … especially with the cost of lodging Emmett.

  “Yeah, could use a hot meal, just for a night.” Just as Selriph reached into his pouch, the innkeeper’s expression scowled slightly, his eyes raking up and down the boy. Selriph’s hand instinctively twitched towards his estoc.

  It can’t be...is it...?

  “Think you need a good wash-up first, boy. You look like you’ve seen better days,” the innkeeper chuckled, his tone friendly, with just a touch of genuine worry.

  “Yes… sorry. Had a few rough nights in the woods, it’s been a long journey,” Selriph’s voice trailed off, his hands relaxing slightly.

  “Can getcha what you need for five copper.” The innkeeper’s plain statement was more than a question, as he paced behind the counter.

  “Of course. Thank you.” As Selriph reached once more into his pack, the soft clink of metal echoed from the shadowy compartment in his pouch.

  Just as the innkeeper reappeared from the back, a neat stack of three silver and five copper coins had been neatly arranged on the counter. The innkeeper carried a basket with fresh clothes, a crude bar of soap, a small bucket, and a key.

  Selriph looked at the bucket, a brief flicker of surprise crossing his face before relaxing into understanding.

  Of course, this isn’t Caer Eldralis. You can’t expect a piping system out here.

  Selriph felt the rough, grainy texture of the basket in one hand and the cool metal of the bucket in the other as he made his way up the stairs, the commotion of the tavern fading as he reached the upper landing, both sides. Arriving in a corridor with doors along both walls.

  Selriph glanced down at the room key sitting comfortably at the number ‘3’ carved by a skilled hand on the tag.

  And there, on the second door on the right, was written in charcoal.

  “R?m Thr?.”

  Selriph’s curiosity about the odd spelling was superseded by the immediate need to set down his numerous belongings, freeing his hands to use the key to unlock the door.

  Of course, Selriph didn’t know it at the time, but the oddity explained the sign he had encountered in the village square.

  As the stale air met his face, the modest accommodation: a straw bed to his left, a sturdy-looking table, and a space in the corner with a grate, clearly intended for showering and water drainage.

  As expected, it was too much to expect running water, but it’s better than the cursed barracks…

  Selriph audibly heaved as he moved his various belongings into the room, an exaggerated exertion that conveyed annoyance at their sheer bulk rather than their encumbrance.

  The boy closed the door, the lock clicking with the turn of his wrist. He surveyed the room, a breath of relief escaping him, and he moved over to the basket. A fresh set of earth-toned garments lay—something he had not explicitly paid for.

  I must be in the right state; better wash up before the meal.

  Selriph’s hands moved automatically to undress, but his mind was already on his next priority: praying for a lucky break, that this ‘Tol’ might somehow provide a means to cross the mountains.

  Little did he know, his attempts to procure a conversation with the man at repast would not only provide his path through the mountains, but it would also entangle him in a chain of events that he could have scarcely prepared for.