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Chapter 2 - Southvale in Spring
After a night
spent fretting over my luggage, I am ready for travel. I almost feel
invigorated when I step into the crisp, scent-laden spring morning, weighed
down only by my knapsack and the ever nagging knowledge that I won’t be able to do my usual
upkeep for almost a week. I’ve always been a light packer, just like most of
the Hermetics— mages like me— I know. We have magic, so there is no need for
much more than clothing and articles of hygiene, maybe a light snack pack to tide
us over the walk, and a good, feathered bed at the end of the day. Still, I’m
cautious to a fault when it comes to my personal wellbeing. My knife- the one I
inherited from my grandmother, more of an antique than a weapon- is tucked into
my belt just out of sight. One never knows what capricious roadsmen one might
stumble upon.
Marie is already
at the Liongate, the main city entrance, smiling and looking primly fierce in
her thicker woolen skirt and flat leather boots. A small crossbow hangs from a
sling of her own knapsack, nothing too martial, but dangerous enough to scare
off wannabe-road robbers. If I were any other man than myself, I would be
tempted to forget about my plans and instead try my charms on her, simply
because her beauty matches this day so perfectly. Luckily, I am who I am.
“Ready?” I ask her and try to make my smile
lighthearted.
She nods and
turns towards the cobblestoned path leading away from civilization. Oh what
dreads await in the wilderness!
“You are quite punctual, I appreciate that,” she
comments as I try to keep up with her pace, jogging where she simply lengthens
her stride. I’m still a Silendrian at heart and very much alike our most
beloved pets. Just like our royal line of gig horses, I trot when things speed
up beyond a leisurely tempo. And just like them, I’m easily spooked and
high-tempered and will probably drop dead from fright one day.
Luckily, Marie
doesn’t seem disturbed by my
antics and we make good time, passing the cemetery and the tournament rinks,
off towards the fortified bridge separating my beloved city from the untamed
wilderness of the Ackrewood Forest. Bah, nature! Or rather a distant cousin of
nature, with most of the fertile land being farmed or used for wood harvesting
and the main roads cobblestoned almost all the way into the forest, but still,
manure everywhere. And the chickens… I wrinkle my nose at the indignity of it
all, but wisely keep my mouth shut as we march through the sunny landscape.
It doesn’t take long for the
surroundings to change. We pass the second, smaller gatebridge leading over one
last artificial river, and suddenly the world gets a little shadier. Trees,
most of them being oaks, rise towards the sky on both sides of the cobblestoned
trade road, birdsong and buzzing insects incant their daily choral, and oxcarts
clatter past us as we march deeper into the countryside and away from
everything familiar.
I miss the city
already, although the Acrewood Forest probably is the cleanest, tidiest forest
in all of Amhran. That alone should make it a perfect place for me to be stuck
in, but no amount of firewood looters, wood cutters and grazing goat herds will
ever make the outdoors a valid substitute for a scrubbed, dusted, polished
little townhouse. People are passing, some walking their stinking hordes of
cloven-hoofed menaces towards the city market, some ambling along towards the
unknown like we do. They look dishearteningly non-threatening and very unlike I
imagined robbers and I start to feel silly for worrying so much. The nerves
only come back an hour later when Marie, who by this point is quite a ways down
the road from me, turns off the trade road and onto a dirt path, right past a
lurking beast of a man standing beneath a dying apple tree, all but hidden in
its shadow. I can’t make out much about him, except for his size both in height and width
of shoulder, and the way he is casually leaning against the trunk of the tree,
watching the passers-by and probably marking up targets to rob later on. A
confused, oval sun spot dances across his bulging, crossed arms, adding to his
camouflage.
I slow down to a
crawl, grasping the strap of my knapsack tighter as a kind of dread crawls up
my back. I do not want to pass him as close as Marie, and although I have no
idea where this fear is coming from, I’m inclined to listen to it. Mithras alone knows how that frail little
lady could bear to simply prance through his line of sight and not have a care
in the world about it. Has she even seen him?
Marie’s impatient call finally
manages to rip me out of my flustered staring and I realize I’ve been standing
there like a lost lamb. She’s halfway up the path and waving at me, but I still
take a last look at the stranger beneath the tree, only to find him walking
away from me with sunlight glistening on his broad shoulders and unruly, long
hair. My cheek twitches with the need to take a brush to the chaos on his head,
but instead I turn and hustle up the path to catch up to my city clerk. It’s
not just the fluttering in my stomach at the sight of that thug that makes me
nervous, I’m also still convinced that he is on route to get his thug friends
together and come after us.
I am greeted by
Marie’s quirked eyebrow and a
questioning half-smile, which I answer with a shrug. “Vagrant,” I explain
apologetically and pick up the pace to keep her from asking questions. The dirt
path snakes through an increasing number of fruit trees and finally leads
through a wooden archway and onto a clearing dominated by what I assume to be a
rather impressive- if slightly dilapidated- farmhouse. An old man is crouching
near a plow in front of what I assume is the barn door, and a younger lady
stands in the doorway to the main entrance, staring at us with that alienated
bumpkin expression I have come to know as typical for farmers.
I trot closer to
Marie, mumbling, “you know, if you tell them what I am, they might just set me on fire.”
Of course, the same fate might just catch up to me one day if I keep working
this close to the Mithras temple and its inhabitants, but farmers are
notoriously quick at wielding pitchforks and torches when it comes to what they
assume to be witches. Unfortunately for me, all magic is a form of witchcraft
from their view.
Her answering
giggle does nothing to calm me down. “Oh don’t worry, right now they are more afraid of
their ghost than of you. Just be respectful and sensible with what you tell
them and all will be fine. You’ll see.“
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