I Met a Traveler from an Antique Land

 

Chorac, the home of the Dry Sea. At home, I would frequently look up from my herds to the north, thanking God that I was not having to deal with such a terrible environment. Grislenung was tough; this was not a point that could be argued. But it was livable, something that made its children leathered and strong. Flowers still bloom in adversity, though a seed will never blossom if there is no soil to plant it in.

 

        Necessity, however, knows no home. I had been traveling through Chorac and parts of the Dry Sea for several days now, close to a week. I was not a refugee, though many would not hesitate to call me one. Indeed, I was fleeing my home country, but only because neither side of the country is blessed with sound judgment and anything remotely resembling intelligent leadership. I had sent my wife and children ahead several days before, to a friend in Alden whom I had met conducting business. Alden was not my first choice, but the situation called for my quick action. My family was secure, traveling by carriage to Grand Western station, and then by train or airship to Brazenwing. Though to avoid conscription, I was forced to flee north, through the desert. I would not abandon my family.

 

        I had come across a derelict airship two days ago, after three days of riding. Much to my pleasant surprise, it had not yet been picked by the bandit buzzards.  The ship had been used by privateers, I surmised: There was a hefty shipment of what appeared to be currency from the GUNR, as well as the carcasses of several prize horses in addition to the standard allotment of food, water, oil and aether, and fireams and ammunition. Unfortunately none of the bullets were chambered to my rifle or to my pistol, but I took them anyway along with some food and water. The gunpowder would be useful if I had to make small explosion and the cotton wadding could serve as tinder or used for first aid. I was busy at work dismantling bullets when the man of books and silk came tumbling down a hill to my left.

 

 

        I stop, observing for a moment in stationary silence, cocking an eyebrow at the strange man that now is attempting to right himself. He does not appear to be bleeding, but when he breaks into a panicked trot; his left ankle apparently appears to have suffered from the fall. Likely a twist or a slight sprain. The stranger cries out to me in a foreign accent, says that he needs help; something about bandits. At first, I do not believe him, as I have seen no one else in the desert since I crossed the border. Several figures on horseback pierce the crest of the hill, darting around the rocks and coming down in steady pursuit. I leap to my feet, telling the stranger to enter the ship’s portcullis. As he scampers past me, I do not get a good look at his face, though I was certain that he was not Chorac. I grabbed my rifle and shouldered it, crouching behind a rock and firing off a single warning shot. The bandits halt and began to circle the ship.

 

        “I will not miss a second time!” I yell in the most fluent Chor that I can muster. The man that appeared to be in charge, wrapped in a red cloak and white hood, stopped his horse in front of my position, his allies rallying up behind him.

 

        “Yer guardin’ our quarry, outlander,” He says, bemused and confident. It is a false confidence, not a position truly won, “Hand ‘im over and we’ll consider not killin’ you, too.”

 

        “I do not believe that you are not going to life me if I do what you say.” I say, tripping over my own words. A plague on these thrice damned soft-tongued languages. They laugh at my weak Chor, exchanging bemused glances and lowering their weapons. They believe they are dealing with a simpleton.

 

        My finger twitches and I deliver a single curt argument to the contrary.

 

        The man to the leader’s right drops off his horse and I have already pulled my lever action, chambering another round. I steady my rifle directly on the leader’s head, exhaling. He draws a pistol, and the rest of his men have me in their sights. The grip of my rifle is moist with sweat. I reassure myself that it is because I am kneeling in the sun.

 

        “Now that just ain’t courteous, ya jackass,” He says, “You take out another one of my boys and I’ll gut your smelly Grisly carcass, we clear?” His tone is condescending. This man has no authority over me. I grind my teeth in frustration and survey my surroundings. There are seven rifles trained on me at the moment, and one pistol. I could kill their leader, but I most certainly would be gunned down in an instant. There is no place to duck into cover, and the rock which I crouch behind barely came up to my chest, to my thighs while standing.

 

        An explosion rocks the hill in front of me. Though I am just as surprised as the bandits, I am not one to squander blessings. They whip their necks around and attempt to steady their horses and I just as quickly drop their leader and the man to his left, taking advantage of the surprise and deafening blast. By the time the remaining bandits have steadied their horses, only four of them remain. I see the surprise, exasperation, and fear in the eyes of three. They quickly flee, leaving one behind with a short barreled rifle still keyed to my body. I do not falter. His hand shakes and I see the rifle quivering, our eyes locked for at least half a minute. I nod my head twice to the side, and he takes the invitation, kicking his horse in the ribs and galloping off.

 

        I release my bated breath and touch the metal of my gun to my wet forehead. I at least pretend that the metal cools my skin. I stand, cracking my knees and stretching my shoulders. I sigh, catching the appearance of the defended in the open doorway of the airship.

 

        “Well thank you, my friend. I am forever in your debt!” He says in perfect Grisly, smiling and making his way towards me. I do not share his joviality. I draw my pistol with my free hand and cock the hammer before he can take another step.

 

        “You’ll stop right there and open your cloak,” I say, shaking the barrel of my pistol. He looks… Not shocked, but merely surprised, almost as if he were expecting something this to happen, but not nearly as quickly.

 

        “Oh, well, alright.” He says, moving his hands without resistance, complying with my request. He holds his cloak open: It gives off the exquisite sheen that indicates a high thread count. His waist coat is clad in a similar black silk. A golden pocket watch hangs from his vest, and a small, slender case is fastened to his belt. It’s a wand case. My eyes narrow and I furrow my brow, looking from the instrument up to his face.

 

        “Close your cloak,” I order, “Introduce yourself.” He cocks a wry grin, flushing a wide mouth full of offensively white teeth.

 

        “Right, sorry. Manners were on hold for a moment there,” He says, “My name is Bard, and I am very, very pleased to meet you.” He bows and does not extend a hand. I would not have accepted it had he offered. I look him up and down from the tips of his polished leather shoes to the brim of his wide, burgundy hat. It shadows his face in a way that I do not like. I give him a curt nod and a short grunt of seeming approval as I lower my revolver.

 

        “I am Garza. Tell me about those men.” I say, blunt and direct. I know he can feel the discomfort seeping from every one of my words. I do not like dealing with strangers. It complicates things even further when they will not even give me their real name.

 

        Bard tells me that he is a merchant and that he had been traveling through Chorac for a few weeks with a caravan. Several days ago he was however separated and made to journey through the desert on his own. After his horse suffered an accident, he was forced to hike through the desert for a while before being accosted by bandits. I ask why a merchant affluent enough to afford silks would bother traveling through the desert by caravan, rather than take a train or travel by airship. He tells me that it was a preferential decision. Bullshit.

 

        He notes that I am traveling alone and asks to hire me, for me to escort him west through the Dry Sea, and then south to Grand Western Station back across the border. He promises to pay me with money, real Aldenian money. Though an odd meeting was ours, I do not think that it is in me to abandon the man. His soft and pale skin is alien to me, almost insulting. I am toughened and firm, but not cruel. I will have to make sure to beat the money out of him if he decides to come short at the station, however.

 

 

        We began walking at first light. I would not bring myself to ride on the same horse as Bard, so I released my mount. He would find his way back to Grislenung eventually, and Grand Western was only three days walking from this position. We were passing through canyons and badlands at this point, the desert becoming slightly more hospitable as we moved out of Chorac into the western parts of Grislenung.

 

        Over our short time together, Bard proved himself to be an incredible annoyance. When I passed him the canteen, he began singing. I did not join in, for I did not know the song. Even if I did, I would never join my voice with his. His accent was bothersome and foreign: He was not Grisly or Chor. He was not Aldenian or Colegnian or Raemulean either, though his accent was still cosmopolitan. Too simple and flat to be from the GUNR;  each different piece of that dominion has their own flavorful accent, and since its inception many years ago, many men from that part of the world spoke with a truly unique vernacular. God help those that attempt to learn the language.

 

        Everything about him was strange: His wide burgundy hat, his black silk garments, and that wand at his hip, especially alien when compared to my simple vest and shirt, rawhide duster, and serviceable leather hat. I was certain that he had been the one responsible for the explosion that distracted the bandits when they came upon us at our campsite, but I had not questioned him about it. I had rarely dealt with magic users, and my few interactions with them were unsavory at the very best. Soul thieves and spark tricksters, the lot of them.

 

        Though, I had not seen a wizard in Grislenung in some time. There was no distinct magical tradition in my land, or any of the immediate neighbors, if I remembered correctly. I had heard that Alden had legal sanctions on practicing, but it was lax in the underground due to the Empire’s interests being more focused on foreign relations – their euphemism for raping and pillaging other parts of the globe - and I knew for a fact that Chorac’s national priesthood were all practitioners in some regard. I had seen this myself.

 

        I had heard of a far off country, somewhere near the borders of Ardador, to the southeast of the primary Aldenian dominion, that was ruled entirely by wizards and their cabals. Maybe this was Bard’s homeland. I could not remember the name, though. Perhaps it did not even exist. You hear many crazy things when you do business with men from all over Expeltus.

 

        I had also dealt with enough men from the world over to understand that swindling bore no flag and had no skin color. Bard was no exception to this rule.

 

 

        I hold my hand to the sky and count on my fingers the distance of the sun to the horizon; it is time to stop and make camp. We pass a small crag field before noticing an abandoned rock spider; one of the old Chorac military outposts. I had made use of these wonderful structures just a few days before I met Bard. I always try to find something to praise about the other nations, so as to not become bitter in my ethnocentricity. I will still not deny Grislenung’s superiority, however. Chorac’s architecture was certainly to be praised: They built the rock spiders underground, with a central hub and many concealed firing posts several meters in all directions. Chorac’s borders were well defended, even if there was nothing worth seizing beyond them.

 

        I break into a light jog with Bard following suit and stop at the metal access hatch, its cover long since blow away. Chorac had little reason to be active in this part of the country. They had to focus their might farther south, about two days closer to the Grisly border, where tensions with the Provisional Army of the West ran high. Those belligerent fools even managed to draw the ire of a peaceful nation. Savages. I kick the hatch open and quickly survey the floor before dropping down. As I begin to look around the central chamber, Bard mimics my actions. Odd. The fop is light on his feet, this I will concede. This unit is smaller than the one that I previously stayed at; only two firing posts and a central hub about three meters across, two high.

 

        I start a fire in an iron stove left over by the soldiers and unpack some of our shared food, heating up a container of soup. For the better part of an hour we sit in silence, before Bard finds is necessary to break it with his delicate tongue.

 

        “So, Garza.” He begins, swallowing dry bread soaked in broth. I lock his eyes to mine.

 

        “What about me?” I ask, abrupt. I take a spoonful of soup and blow, never breaking eye contact.

 

        “Pardon me if this is crossing any uncomfortable borders, but I must ask… You’re Grisly, but you’re here in Chorac? What is your stance on the war?” He shifts his gaze around the chamber. I grimace, but do not falter. I take another spoonful of soup.

 

        “Well, this is complicated issue. I disagree with the positions of both the WPA and the LUG,” I try my best to shorten my words, lest I lose myself to passion, “My family was caught directly in the middle of the conflict and we wanted nothing to do with it. To avoid problems, I sent them away, and I later left myself.” Bard nods. I cannot tell whether or not he is feigning interest.

 

        “Indeed. Why do this? Why not try to fight and end the war sooner?” He asks. His words are carefully selected, though for which purpose I am unsure.

 

        “Because the war is a cess pool. A cess pool in which blind men wrestle their dogs. Neither side is in the right.” I reply.

 

        “That’s an awfully bold statement for you to make, Garza.”

 

        I grimace, “You have no right to speak. You come from a foreign land and know nothing about this war aside from what the colonialists feed you with a silver spoon.”

 

        “Right, right,” he says, meticulous, “I was just curious as to why such a strong son of Grislenung would run from such an engagement.” I blink, cocking my head.

 

        “Are you trying to make me angry?” I lean forward, my rough stubble framing my disgust on all sides like a fine coating of dust over a sleeping wolf, “You’ve seen me kill men before. And that was because they threatened my life. Do not test your luck as someone that insults my principles.” For a moment I think I see a smile curl his thin lips caked in the corners with lies.

 

        “No, no, Garza, of course not. I did not mean anything by that. I don’t want to muck up our relationship by overstepping my boundaries.”

 

        “We have no relationship. You speak like a bird.”

 

        “Right, right, let’s not call it that.” He seems done with himself, satisfied. We sit in silence a while longer as I examine him. His cloak hangs open and my eyes are once again drawn to the thin case on his beltline. I cave to my curiosity.

 

        “Your wand. You caused that explosion yesterday, am I correct?”

 

        “Very astute of you, Garza.” He says. I brush off his insulting tone.

 

 “Tell me, Bard, what is a wizard in silk robes doing wandering The Dry Sea as a merchant?” He grins again, that same damn toothy grin of his, with teeth so white that it burns me in the worst way.

 

        “Yes… That. Tell you what, Garza,” He begins, the tone of a seasoned manipulator, “I’ll tell you all about that tomorrow morning, alright?” He shoots me a sharp smile before tilting the brim of his hat over his face. I grunt in disapproval, but feel the pinpricks behind my eyelids as well. With slight sense of hesitation, they slide shut. I do not sleep well.