Emissary of Death

Twelfth of Highsun, Year 1411 After Great Cataclysm

Thin wisps of smoke rose from the smoldering, skeletal remains of a small homestead perched on the edge of the Westway. Large footprints, accompanied by even larger paw prints, created a chaotic labyrinth of trails through the wide patch of soot and blackened dirt that surrounded the wreckage. Near the road, which was little more than a wide path of trodden dirt and weeds that meandered through the low, rolling hills of the Bloodborne Plains, the tracks converged into a single line and veered south.

From her perch on the driver’s bench of a small cart in the middle of the caravan procession, Kerrin studied the scene before her, her stomach knotted with unease. The razed homestead and muddy tracks were not an uncommon sight in these parts — especially within the last two years. It was the time in which it happened that left her unsettled.

Orcs did not attack during the day, yet the evidence of their presence remained so clearly marked that even Kerrin, who understood nothing of tracking, could tell they left the area only recently. Embers still burned within the larger beams of the house’s frames. The tracks were so well defined that, even from the road, she could see their impressions, unimpeded by the morning rain, in the mud. The attack had happened within the last couple of hours.

It was an alarming sight indeed — as were the implications of it.

Kerrin threw a tentative glance at the caravan guards. They were a pitiful lot to behold; among the twenty-odd men accompanying them, only three carried an air of competence about them. The rest, with their worn leather jerkins and cheap weapons, looked as if they’d come from whatever fields they caravan passed along the way. Perhaps they had. She’d overheard Gerund, the caravan’s master — a man too well-fed to have survived off the fruits of his own labor — complain about the lacking guard in the last village they’d passed through. They’d left with four extra hires, all of whom looked as if they’d rather be elsewhere.

She didn’t blame them. The Bloodborne Plains, pretty as they might be at the right time of day, were a monotonous stretch. Out there, there was nothing but an endless see of flower-speckled hills, dotted with the occasional scraggly oak or apple tree, that rose the hazy, ever-distant horizon. Even a short, six-day trip to Tarith seemed to take an eternity when there was only boundless grasslands, empty skies, and the sweltering heat of summer bearing down upon them.

As uninspiring as the trips to Tarith were, however, Kerrin knew the dangers of the Wildlands were never far off. Orc and goblin tribes prowled the hills at night, searching for homesteads and settlements to raid. Bandits and highwaymen stalked the Westway, preying on smaller caravans and lone travelers. On rare occasions, beasts from the northern mountains or southern cliffs wandered into the central plains. In the three years Kerrin had traveled the Westway, those dangers had never presented themselves — until now.

“Damned orcs,” the guard nearest her hissed. “They’re getting bold if they’re venturing this close to the road this time of day.”

“Or desperate,” Kerrin said. “I’ve heard they’re even encroaching on the settlements further east.”

The guard scowled, the lines of his aged face deepening, and shook his head. “It’s all that bloody expansion. Been a lot of that lately; all those fat lords from the kingdoms lookin’ to become kings of their own out here.” The guard paused, then spat on the ground. “The audacity of them, comin’ out here and takin’ our lands as if they’ve a right. They ain’t goin’ to stop until were all dead or under their thumb.”

Kerrin hummed in dubious agreement. The expansion into the Wildlands began with trading posts propositioned by Tarith to help facilitate trade with the larger settlements and kingdoms in the east. It had served the people of the plains well at first, but as the lords and merchants of the west came to realize the Bloodborne Plains were rife with untouched lands and an abundance of resources — that sizable settlements could persists despite the dangers — avarice reared its ugly head. Settlements and trading posts sprang up overnight, and like unattended weeds in a field, the spread quickly, choking out everything in their paths. The surrounding villages and homesteads came under their jurisdiction, either by coin or by force.

The rapid increase in population disrupted the tentative peace of the plains. A borders and expanded and settlers staked their claims, the orc and goblin tribes found themselves displaced. As those tribes were driven closer to the Westway and further into the interior, the increased competition for land a resources wrought conflict among them. Raids and skirmishes became more common. The survivors of those raids turned to banditry and thievery to survive.

“It’d be better for all of us if the tribes get them,” the guard continued. “And if the Deadwalkers take the tribes as well.”

Another, younger guard, one of the three mercenaries accompanying the caravan, threw him a wary look. “I’d be careful what you wish for. It won’t bode well for any of us if the dead take to the plains.”

“Maybe so,” the older guard said with a careless shrug. “It’d still be two less problems to deal with.”

“And we’d be left with arguably the worst one. That is assuming we don’t join them all in their undeath,” Kerrin muttered.

The older guard turned to look at him over her shoulder, a gray, bushy brow raised. “We may yet, if Gerund keeps runnin’ us ragged like he is.”

As if to prove his point, Kerrin’s stomach released a sharp growl. They’d begun the day’s trek at first light, and Gerund hadn’t allowed them a moment’s break since. Despite the caravan’s every attempt to convince Gerund to allow them a few moments to rest, he refused. They would not stop until they reached Lysrian or night fell — whichever happened to come first. Those who defied him would be left behind.

Another grumble sounded and she bit back a sigh. Turning in her seat, she reached into the front of the wagon. Her hand delved into the crate nearest the bench, the velvet fuzz of the peaches inside soft against her skin. She snatched the first one she could find, a rather plump fruit that was neither too firm nor too soft, and pulled it free.

There was, in her opinion, no greater treat than the fruits of her family’s orchard. Where other tampered with their produce, dumping options and concoctions into the soil to encourage larger and quicker growth, her family threw the seeds into the grass and allowed Mother Nature to work her magic. Their fruits were naturally grown and ripened, as her mother insisted all fruit should be. To imply one knew otherwise was to insult the very gods who’d created it.

She couldn’t deny that her mother had a point. The first bite of the peach was pure bliss. Juice dribbled down her chin as she chewed, savoring the sweet and tangy flesh of the peach. On the second bite, she hit the pit. Just as she took the third — fully intending to devour the thing as quickly as possible to soothe the hollow ache in her gut — Gerund’s voice stopped her short.

“Kerrin! Gods damn it, I told you to quit eating my produce!”

Gerund pulled up beside her, the pony carrying him huffing with effort. Anger tinged his pudgy cheeks red as his grubby, ring-muddled hand reached to snatch the fruit away from her. Scowling, Kerrin swatted it aside.

“They’re my peaches,” she countered. “I don’t recall selling them to you.”

Gerund flushed further, his dark, beady eyes alight with fury. “It’s my caravan and you’ll do as I say or you can make your own way to Tarith.”

Kerrin took the third bite and chewed slowly — deliberately. “Again, they’re my peaches. Unless you’re willing to buy them outright, you’ve no business telling me what I can do with them.”

“You—“

“If you want to make it your business,” she continued, taking yet another bite of the fruit, “I can pull out now and you can explain to the Commerce Guild why you’re one wagon short. I’m sure that’ll go over well. It’s not as if you have a habit of overstating your load and pocketing the extra coin.”

Gerund glowered at her, his hands clinging to the reins so tightly his knuckles bled white. As he urged his miserable pony forward, he hissed, “This will be the last trip you ever make with my caravan.”

She pulled the pit from the peach and hurled it at the back of his head, missing by mere inches. “And I couldn’t be more thankful for it!”

Once Gerund’s pony lumbered far enough away that he was no longer in earshot, the mercenary turned to her, a brow raised in what she could only assume was some form of impressed amusement. “You certainly know how to handle him. Perhaps better than the rest.”

“He’s sleazy as sleazy gets, and I’ve been with the caravan long enough to know he was more problems with the Guild than he can afford,” she said with a huff. “And I mean that quite literally.”

“That still doesn’t explain why he’s so bent out of shape over a fruit.”

“It’s not the fruit,” she corrected. She reached into the cart and plucked two more peaches from the crate, tossing one to him and another to the older guard beside him. “Gerund thinks he owns us, and by extension, our cargo. I wouldn’t be surprised if he tries to weasel more coin out of me when we reach Tarith for “tampering with the weight” or a similar excuse.”

“If we reach Tarith,” the older guard muttered.

“We better,” the mercenary said. “I don’t get paid otherwise.”

Silence returned as the caravan continued on. Kerrin finished her peach and started on another, her mind wandering as she ate. She was only halfway through the first thought when the procession deviated from the road. The change was as jarring as it was baffling; the cart lurched as it left the relative stability of the Westway, the right wheel striking a shallow hole hidden beneath the tall grass.

Kerrin sat up straighter, her free hand latching onto the underside of the bench to steady herself. Gerund had given no indication that they’d be pulling off for a respite, nor had a messenger passed by to relay as much. The caravan had shifted course without warning, and with each passing minute, the distance between them and the Westway grew more pronounced — more concerning.

To stray from the road was tantamount to suicide. Out there, there was nothing — no landmarks, no markers, only the sun and the stars to guide them. It was far too easy to find oneself lost among the hills. Gerund knew that. He head dozens of caravans from Tarith of the eastern most kingdoms. Yet, they continued onward, pushing deeper and deeper into the plains until the soft blue of the sky gave way to the bruised purples and burnt oranges of dusk.

It was only when the first of the stars twinkled into existence between the gaps in the gathering clouds, and it became too dark for her to see the cart in front of her that Gerund called them to a begrudging halt. The caravan broke formation. They pulled the wagons and carts into a wide circle, in the center of which they set up camp. Around small cookfires, they laid out their supplies and staked their tents. Before long, the smell of roasted meats, boiling stews, and herbal teas took to the air.

No one said a word about the deviation; they were all too exhausted and too hungry to care.

Kerrin sat by her fire on the edge of the circle, a blanket pulled over her shoulders, as her gaze swept the darkness beyond the fire. Her mother’s bow, an old thing fashioned of faded ash, sat across her lap, a half-filled quiver close at hand. She preferred not to carry it, as the broad side of a barn was the only thing she could hit, but her mother had insisted. To travel the plains without a weapon was a fool’s errand. The caravan had guards, but there was no such thing as being too cautious.

Orcs, barbaric as they were, were clever; they struck at night, when the darkness concealed their hulking forms, and their vargl companions moved as easily through the grass as any predator. Without dogs to pick up their stench, an entire tribe could gather at the edge of the firelight and the caravan would be none the wiser. Goblins, while far less intelligent, brought with them their own set of problems. If either were to stage a raid, twenty guards would not be enough to hold them at bay.

It was not movement, however, that Kerrin sought. The plains spoke if one paid enough attention. Beneath the crackle of the fires, the clang of cookware, and the idle chatter of travelers, she heard the rush of the wind as it swept through the grass. Crickets chirped from deep in the grass. The occasional cry of a night bird and the screech of an owl rose in the distance. Beyond the light of the fire came the soft breathing of the horses tethered to the nearby tree.

Satisfied that nothing was amiss, she prepared her dinner. It was a simple thing of watery stew and grilled peaches, but it may as well have been a feast fit for a king. For the last four days, Gerund drove the caravan forward with unusual haste. When morning came, he gave them barely enough time to prepare a quick meal and pack away their belongings. What breaks he allowed were two hours shorter. These past two days, he pushed them further into the night than any of them were comfortable with.

It would only get worse as they entered the final leg of their journey. Gerund never allowed the caravan to linger in Lysrian. He stayed long enough to water the horses and offload those breaking from the caravan before continuing on to Tarith. It was during that stretch that he pushed them the hardest; the sooner they reached the kingdom, the sooner he collected his earnings from the Guild.

As Kerrin downed the last of her stew, she turned towards the spot where her horse was tethered. The thought of spending another two days racing across the plains did not sit well with her. Her horse was already struggling to keep up, and without proper rest, there was a chance she may not last the trip. If Gerund did not let them have at least a day to recuperate—

A sharp huff from said horse brought her thoughts to an abrupt halt. The silence that followed was deafening. Gone were the chirping of the crickets and the calls of the night birds. In their place was only the whisper of the wind and the restless jingling of bridles and harnesses.

Then, a quite thud and startled gasp rose from beside her her. One of the guards she’d spoken to earlier that day — the older man with the bushy brows — stumbled into the light of her cookfire, an arrow protruding from his shoulder.

Another struck him in the head, and he collapsed into a lifeless heap beside her.