41st Day of Fall
West Street
12th Bell
West Street
12th Bell
It began small, which is the way of most things. A trembling in the ground that only the most sensitive could make out (or those under it, of course). Not the insistent shaking of cavalry or charging feet; more the steady, building rumbles of dozens, hundreds of wagons and pack mules.
Then the sound began to waft down into the city proper from Mirahil Pass, Zeltiva's high-flanked gateway to the continent. Street vendors and pedestrians frowned and turned as they went about their business, hearing the neighing from scores of equine throats, and the faint but building squeak of wagon wheels... then the calls, barks and bawled orders from far more evolved throats.
The smell, next, once the procession had began to plod past the University. A herd of unwashed, tired animals that had been riding all morning... and not just those on four legs. Over a hundred humans (and other) accompanied or guarded the caravan as it began to stream into Zeltiva with the speed of lava, and about the breadth.
Pristine and proper West Street was soon inundated with the sight of it, which caused the most commotion. Two-dozen wagons, loaded high with goods from Taldera, Cyphrus, Eyktol and Syliras began grinding down the cobblestones, braying oxen pulling them onwards. Behind them came strings of mules, sturdy and calm-faced but bears burdens twice their size. A pair of carriages followed, and the fine ladies or well-to-do gentlemen of Zeltiva muttered to themselves at whom could be carried within, beyond the velvet curtains.
Providing them avoiding the muck, of course. One overlooked fact of caravans: the only thing they produce more than revenue, is manure.
"About bloody time..."
Zephron Karla flicked his half-smoke cigarillo halfway across the street with one adept, well-practiced movement, confident it would be crushed to nothing within a few chimes. Years before he'd been a strapping young man who'd been able to lift hundredweight sacks of flour, barley and grain like they were mere baubles. But ten years in the more "managerial" side of the business had sapped his fine physique, if not his height. Six-and-a-half-feet tall and now bearing less hard angles and more doughy rolls, his face was clean-shaven and still somewhat angular, shrewd and glittering blue eyes shining below and thinning crown of dark hair.
The sign above him read "Karla & Valini Trading". Twelve years prior, it had read "Robensturm Imports And Exports". Nine years before, once Ol' Roben had understood that the big, brawny Zeph had more brains as he did muscle (which was a lot) than his own sons, he'd taken the lad under his wing, taught him the myriad of tricks and rules of the merchant, and it had read "Robensturm & Karla Goods".
A few years later the old man passed, and his name was removed, leaving Karla alone on the title... until Leo Valini had found him, through his many subtle waves, and seen opportunity with the enterprising man, no longer young but still keen to expand... and expand into the west of the continent.
A deal was struck, arrangements made, contracts signed, capital invested... and Karla got a partner. Today, that partnership was about to pay fabulous dividends. But still-
"Three days, Albrecht!" He shouted up in that cultured tone that still betrayed hints of the East Street accent he'd shed over a decade ago. The caravan master in the lead wagon grinned, or Karla thought so; his beard twitched in a telling manner. "I've already had cancellations, and the threat of more!"
"We're here now, aren't we?"
"Late! You are here late!"
"The world is unsure and unsafe, my friend." Albrecht said, a glimmer of read sadness in his eyes. He jumped down from his perch and the wagon driver wheeled the laden wagon into the wide, broad yard Karla's property possessed. "Yukmen waylaid us, among other incidents. We lost a slew of sellswords-"
Karla grimaced but left it at that. Sellswords were a dime a dozen, and no-one mourned their passing... but he understood. Hated it, but understood. The budding merchant prince sighed quickly and offered Albrecht a cigarillo, his traditional greeting to the old man.
"Well... get your people inside, I suppose, and-"
His speech stopped as a steadily-riding figure hoved into view, revealed as Albrecht's wagon vanished. Mounted on a black and silent steed, the rider seemed... cloaked in nightmares. At least to the civilized folk of Zeltiva. Tattoos depicting death and struggle and runes beyond ken or description covered his mostly-bare torso... outweighed, perhaps, only by the scars that marked him as one who had warred and brawled most of his life.
He and his horse were silent, but his wares were not. Metal clanked against his chest, ax and gladius, kukri strapped to his chest, others that the humans could not see... and swirling around his shoulders in the sunny noon wind was a patchwork cloak that looked like... hair and dried flesh.
"What... is that... a Myrian?"
"Aye." Albrecht said airily, so much that Karla's gaze jerked to him in shock. "Razkar of the Shorn Skulls, leader of the sellsword company Valini had escorting us. Now, I know he looks a little rough-"
"He has bones through his face-!"
"Not so loud! He's... touchy about that sort of thing."
"I never thought Leo would stoop to hiring-"
"-a savage?"
Words stilled, at least among the two humans... because the last two came from above. From the softly-smiling lips of that much-whispered savage, leaning against his bridle with his head cocked to one side, tattoo on his forehead looking more malevolent than the black, gleaming eyes he fixed them with.
Karla swallowed. Albrecht just shrugged and rolled his eyes.
"Don't you call us all 'barbarians', Mister Razkar?"
The Myrian shrugged and smiled lopsidedly, a familiar gesture to them all the more bizarre coming from one who looked like he could barely understand language. As Razkar paused, another pair of riders appeared, flanking him: a dark-haired woman with a bow across her chest, dress marking her as a Drykas... and another with short but flaming strands done up in a tight braid, curled and evil-looking whip on one hip, straight and shining wakizashi on the other.
"Good point." He turned to Moretta first. "Have the men watch this entrance and then spread out to others. No-one but the merchant's workers come in. We did not escort this load across half the Wilds to have some thief pilfer from it when we arrive." The half-Drykas nodded and spurred her horse away, already snapping orders to the sellswords riding on either side of the arriving caravan. "Apprentice? Stay with me for now. When Moretta is done... check her work. Make sure she did not petch up, hmm?"
The red-haired woman just nodded, mute and stone-faced, leaving Razkar to turn back to the slowly-recovering Karla, smile spreading over his face.
"Mister Karla and I still have business..."
The Valini Expedition had arrived, and Razkar was owed his coin.
