The Dream Walker

Chapter Two Xantara's Plight-1

Chapter Two

Xantara's PlightFey, like his father, and his forefathers, had been raised as a guide. Their family had long-standing ties in the Travellers' Plexus, but few people called on such services. A guide was often a local to an area and well-versed in the lay of the land. He knew where the rarest herbs grew, how to track and trap, and where the most dangerous beasts roamed. Given his aptitude for the wild, he was often mistaken for a ranger. But as a guide it was his duty to extend his services to any who asked.

Today he had the pleasure of escorting two ladies from Steelforge, one of his neighbouring villages, to Castlefort found in the westernmost area of Therascia. Normally, those of standing would request an escort from the Hunters' Plexus, but their prices were much steeper given the specialised training their members had to undergo. To become a guide, one simply had to have knowledge. Fortunately, as those in the area knew, Fey himself had received an invitation to partake in the trials of the Hunters' Plexus, but he had opted to remain true to his family's calling. It was days like these, however, he questioned his decision.

One of the two ladies in his company was extremely challenging. At every possible opportunity she deliberately attempted to undermine him. Now they were finally on their way she found other means to infuriate him, such as complaining about their rapid pace, while simultaneously moaning that they would be late.

Being a guide was a job he loved, most days. He would often find himself with the honour of escorting herbalists and apothecaries to sheltered and difficult locations, and help them gather their much needed supplies. By seeing the omens left by nature's spirits, and what their signs implied, he himself could pass warnings of plague and illness onto others. Other days, he would find himself in the service of a hunter who needed aid in tracking a bounty in his territory. And then there were days like these. He often reflected during such journeys that, if not for people like these, his hair would still be lustrous and dark, instead of streaked with grey. He swore, as he listened to the ceaseless barrage of complaints, he could feel another strand of hair being stripped of its once vibrant shade.

On the occasions he caught glimpses of himself, and witnessed the latest damage to his moderate vanity, he would not smile fondly, as someone who had raised a family might. He would not remember his charges kindly as he beheld the deepening frown-lines upon his furrowed brow, caused by those who thought themselves of some important standing or significant influence. Fey was too young to be turning white, and as he looked upon each strand the voice of each complaint would return, 'the pace is too slow,' 'the horse is too bumpy,' 'the wind is messing my hair,'. The two he now rode with were no different. They had the same complaints he had heard countless times before, but with the addition of 'my clothes will be creased.'

Fey had insisted, no less than twice, that they changed into more appropriate attire for riding. But the older of the two women—the one who seemed to have taken a deep breath at his arrival and spouted nothing but an endless stream of complaints and criticisms—had insisted they ride in their finest silks so they may arrive in the glory expected.

He had explained that the final part of the journey was through marshland, but his warning had met only with the woman's flustered looking husband heaving her hefty frame onto the carefully positioned sidesaddle. He, at least, had the decency to look somewhat apologetic, although Fey could see his poorly guarded relief at the promise of a few days of respite from the cantankerous woman he had married.

If not for the fee, he would have refused his services there and then. However, as much as he loathed to admit it, these were the tasks that paid in coin. Healers paid in treatments and remedies, hunters paid him in meat and hide, blacksmiths in services. The exchange of service for service was more common than it was believed. Often, when Fey found he was in need of something, he would have to trade and barter with his service tokens, and often found himself far from satisfied with the deal. These undertakings were essential and, in order to obtain some of his rarer supplies, he was forced to deal with traders who would only accept coin, precious metals, or jewels as payment.

“And it looks like it is going to rain!” The older woman was still complaining. Years of practice had ensured Fey could, for the most part, drown out the incessant noise. He focused his attention on their surroundings. Due to a migration in bandit activities along the main trade route, and the anticipation of wagons filled with supplies, Fey had guided their horses through the woodland. They were in the heart of bandit territory, and such scoundrels did not take kindly to trespassers. Today, however, this route was the lesser of two evils. Travelling the roads they were certain to be attacked. The two women were draped in fine silks and jewels, some of which he knew to have been borrowed from other members of the community in order to portray an image of wealth. The main routes would have meant certain death. This path, however, was merely dangerous.

“Look,” Fey warned sternly as he pulled on the reins of his horse, causing the two steeds behind him to stop. This was the reason he always used his own horses. His own beasts had no question as to who was in charge. “If you don't quieten down you'll have more to worry about than the state of your hair and the sores on your backside. I told you before we entered, the bandits here won't be any gentler because your clothes are pretty. I think you'll find it's just the opposite. So, unless you want to find yourself beaten, and making a living on your back, then I suggest you be quiet!” The look slowly transforming the woman's face went from indignant to outraged, almost in the blink of an eye. Her portly face grew red, visible even through the thick layers of makeup she had applied to hide her age-lines. She opened her mouth to protest, but the sharp gesture from Fey saw her mouth, instead, snapping shut. He turned back towards the path, spurring the horses onward as, in his peripheral vision, he saw the woman shaking her head in disbelief and patting down her windswept hair.

Fey had not exaggerated. If anything he had underplayed the danger. The bandits in this area were well-known Slavers and Fleshmongers. Their trade varied from selling their wares to high-standing households, to providing expendable resources to the overseers in the mines. The slaves they trained would become anything their new master would ask of them, servant or w***e. The Fleshmongers traded with shady brothels, those whose patrons were often disease-ridden, rough-handed men and women. There were more reputable dens of iniquities, but they ensured a genuine debt and crosschecked the history of the ones being sold something which, given the bandits' methods of acquisitions, could not always be supplied.

It was said if a w***e could earn enough they could buy their freedom—at a price of three times their purchase fee—their master would release them from the binding spell. Few survived long enough to earn this right. Before many had even saved half, their master had already prepared a replacement for when the unthinkable befell them. Finding fresh meat was never an issue.

Fey slowed his horse slightly, watching for movement in the undergrowth as he reached down removing his throwing knives from his saddlebags. Normally he was more prepared, armed and ready, but the woman's incessant droning had distracted him. Patches of darkened shadows wove through the camouflage of the forest. They thought their positioning towards the group's rear would conceal them for longer, but Fey's peripheral vision was better than most. Slowing his horse further he positioned himself between the two women.

Their trackers were few, but he had no doubt they would eliminate him given the chance. They would not, however, risk damaging the spoils. Fey glanced from left to right, looking for any indication the two women had realised what was about to happen. The younger one still sat submissively, her eyes closed as her mother droned on. The silence had lasted but a few minutes before she had once more found her voice.

By Fey's best estimation, there were currently four figures in pursuit. Given their alternating positions, it seemed two had been tasked to dispatch him allowing the remaining ones to claim the women. He exhaled sharply, he had warned them the noise would attract unsavoury characters. The track before them began to darken as the trees reached out onto the bridleway causing a visible narrowing, presenting the opportune position for an ambush. Bracing himself, Fey gave the reins a sharp tug bringing his animals to a halt. The undergrowth rustled as two of the assailants sprung forwards, their rapid steps faltering as they overshot their mark. Fey studied the men as they recovered quickly, his eyes narrowing impatiently as they took the reins of the ladies' horses in their dirt-encrusted hands.

“I was promised safe passage,” he announced, his tone harsh and unamused as he positioned himself to sit taller upon his saddle.

“These are two mighty fine wenches y've got 'ere, lad.” Another figure emerged from the forest, a little too far away for Fey to distinguish any identifying marks.

“Whores can appear however you dress them. Does Raz know you're disrupting his agreements?”

“What y' mean?”

“You're his clan, or at least your men wear his sigil. These were his”—Fey gestured towards the women—“inspect them if you must. They're branded and will-bound, but don't sully the merchandise.” The men in possession of the reins looked towards their leader questioningly. Fey attempted to project confidence, but was all too aware that the look of terror on the women's faces was betraying his ruse. Besides, given the slow approach of those still concealed in the forest he could tell his words had no effect. He tucked his fingers into his sleeves, grasping the knife handles before quickly releasing them.

The reins slid from the men's hands before their bodies crumpled to the forest floor, adding further sprays of red to the crimson blanket of autumn leaves. Maintaining eye contact with the leader Fey slowly dismounted, closing the distance between them slightly, enough to be able to watch the shadows behind him where the concealed figures still lay in wait. “Step aside.” Fey released another knife. Hearing it strike wood he released a second. This time he was rewarded with the dull thump of the blade penetrating flesh, and the crumbling thud of another body. Fey's fingers slid the final knife from its holder in his sleeve. One knife, two adversaries. “Don't think I'll hesitate because she's a woman,” Fey warned, inclining his head towards the remaining figure, who still stalked through the camouflage of the forest. The leader raised his hand and the shadow's movement stilled.

“That's a good eye, for a guide.”

“And you've got some nerve, for a stalker.” A piercing cry echoed from above as several dark shadows cast from circling birds penetrated the canopies and open track. The bandit cast his gaze warily skyward, at first marvelling how carrion birds arrived to pick the bones of the dead on par with the speed he could strip a corpse of its valuables. His face grew serious as he saw the outlines of the circling creatures.

“Harpies!” The birds let out a wispy wail as they began their rapid descent, diving towards them. Fey secured the reins of the horses, ready to protect the women, and lead them deeper into the shelter of the forest, but the attack was solely focused on the bandit and his hidden companion. The harpy eagles dove, their enormous bear-like talons extended. One of the creatures swooped close to Fey, flapping its wings to hover until he extended his arm. He strained against the sudden weight of the young creature, watching in awe as the bandits fled into the forest trailed by the predators.