Chapter 10: Warlock 3

Getting out of the city was surprisingly easy considering the events of the last few days. My wounds had healed enough for travel, and while the gate guards might have been concerned with a single person leaving suddenly I had managed to sign on with a relatively reputable trading caravan. Knowledge of numbers was always appreciated with those of a mercantile concern. Even better, they were traveling most of the way to my final destination: the Calinbar Theocracy.

For someone in my particular situation the Theocracy was practically paradise. A small nation, every inch of it was warded with holy scriptures and the Holy Order of Paladins were militant (and wildly successful) in pushing back “unnatural" beings. Rumor had it they were especially concerned with thise who had “strayed from the path" to consort with beings of dark purpose, only to renounce their fel patrons. Personally I think they were interested in the insider knowledge so they could figure out the best ways to counter it.

Three days passed uneventfully, the most exciting thing to happen being wild dogs harassing the oxen one night. I’d already balanced the budget, found someone skimming extra off the top, hidden it better (I always appreciate an entrepreneurial spirit), and balanced the budget again. The wooden wagon boards were counted and recounted, a note made for them to replace part of the floor as it had begun to rot and weaken, and all the pen nibs were sorted by wear, size, and proper use. If this kept up I would have to begin counting the individual threads in the tarp covering the wagon bed.

Waking the fourth day filled me with a sense of impending doom, a pall of dread that had no discernible source. As far as the eye could see the road stretched empty, a brown ribbon stitched into the verdant hills. Unease filled me as I sat around the campfire eating my meager meal. The caravan set out as normal but I was restless, a wary eye cast out among the rolling landscape bent on catching trouble before it caught me. Several carts passed without issue, farmers delivering their goods to market or a family going on vacation. A few messengers passed in a cloud of dust, heightening my anxiety as they briefly obscured my vision. I was jumping at ghosts, and it caused me to miss the most obvious danger when it came.

A cart sat by the side of the rode, axle broken. Barrels and boxes sat strewn on the side of the road as a group of monks attempted to fix it. The caravan master, kind soul that he was, stopped to give them a hand. My eyes were darting around the hills, fixating on every little thing that moved. I almost missed the attack when it came, a split second glance towards the business on the side of the road the only thing that saved me.

The caravan master lay in the dust, hands desperately trying to staunch the flow of blood from his ruined throat. One of the monks stood over him with a bloody knife, bizarre ecstasy etched on his face. Shouts of alarm came from the guards as they rushed to stop the new threat. More monks poured from the surrounding detritus, each armed with a wicked dagger, the shape unique and seeming to devour the light. They waded into the mass if panicked people, taking extreme glee in the wanton slaughter they were perpetrating. My mind froze as the pieces finally fell into place: these weren’t monks at all, the daggers were very specially crafted from a type of glass and used in rituals for dark forgotten gods. These were cultists, and they were specifically looking for me.

There were a few supplies I’d managed to squirrel away in my wagon knowing I would have a hike ahead of me upon leaving the caravan. I’d thought I’d have a couple more days at least until I needed to go, so my pack was far from complete but it was better than nothing. Going out the back would put me in their sights immediately, so I kicked out the rotten section of wood and slipped out the bottom of the wagon. Of course I grabbed a few bags of coin, my wages for the trip and a little “survivors bonus". A quick glance revealed no legs in my immediate area, so I bolted quickly off the road and tried to disappear among the hills. Shouts erupted behind me, and the sounds of pursuit let me know my tactics weren’t entirely successful.

Wild bursts of fire, ice, and force gained me a little breathing room as the pursuing cultists dodged out of the way. Only a few were lost deep enough into their madness to forsake personal safety, taking grievous wounds yet still attempting to crawl in my direction. I desperately scanned the horizon looking for anywhere to make my escape. In the distance I spied the beginning of a forest and spurred myself on faster knowing I could lose them in the woods. More shouts came from behind me as they correctly deduced my intent, and the race was on. Funnily enough, it appeared robes were difficult to run in. My lead grew, and my pursuers seemed to struggle to not fall over. I reached the woods well ahead of them and prepared to disappear.

My hiding spot was particularly good, of I do say so. Layers of illusions both masked where I was hiding and set false trails away from me. Unless they had an experienced tracker or happened to have fey blood they’d never be able to discover me. My smugness was off the charts, and I was too absorbed in patting myself on the back to notice the spear at my throat at first. I cursed my luck at apparently running into bandits, but froze when I noticed what the spear was made of: silver. Horror gripped my chest as the Spearman coldly spoke to me.

“You’ve chosen poorly, thief. My master would like to have a word with you.”

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