King of the Seditious
Losses

Phalanx and the Seditious were partway across the glen but had begun to slow at the sight. There were shouts of objection and yelled threats.

Savage’s gaze was fixated on Danbury who leisurely lifted the sword and hooked it under Savage’s throat. Notching his chin higher as he pressed the tip into Savage’s chorded throat. Savage felt the quick bite but was unblinking.

“It’s a shame I can’t gut you here. After all you’ve done, it’d be the least warranted.” Danbury said in an enraged voice. Nearly shaking with the desire.

You’re too afraid of Radix. Coward. Savage gave him a lopsided grin.

Archers had climbed from the second carriage and more paid guard from the third. They all circled around him. Weapons at the ready.

“Now who’s outmanned?” Danbury taunted.

“We shall see.” Savage said emotionlessly.

It has yet to be determined.

“Yea. We shall.” Danbury gloated as he sheathed his short sword and pulled heavy shackles from a hook around one assassin’s waist. Walking over he clasped one on Savage’s wrist and roughly yanked his arm across him to shackle the other.

Enough time I could’ve killed him with his own blade.

Twice.

Once he was shackled, he was loaded in the carriage, much to the loud expostulation of the Seditious still standing in the glen. It was now obvious from the number of men that had emerged from the carriages that there were no goods this run. Phalanx drew his two thin swords and pointed them straight out. Slowly stepping backward in a directive for the Seditious to retreat. Groaning loudly and still uttering surprised exclamations they obeyed. Vanishing back into the trees.

Danbury sat opposite Savage. His sword still on the younger man’s throat.

Intent on holding that pose all the way to MidGale? I doubt that.

Swords grow heavy.

Savage knew he could’ve kicked the blade and launched it up while he strangled Danbury with the shackles. And all the efforts of the assassins may’ve killed Savage. But not before I’d killed him.

But Savage had no personal vendetta against Danbury. He only knew the Nauvree didn’t like him. And that, allegedly, Danbury was stealing from the commoners of Nightway.

Not worth me dying to kill him.

Would not serve my purpose. So, Savage sat. And he waited.

His unsettling peace making the other assassins in the carriage writhe. Wishing to be as far from me as possible. It was the usual effect he had on men.

Only Danbury was unaffected.

Because he has no predatory instinct.

Near the NetherRunnel, Grier

SAVAGE

Savage crawled up into a tree and was sitting with his back to it. Resting before he continued his journey. He was letting the night settle in.

Dusk is when all the beasts emerge.

The image of Dimurah splaying her crimson wings was branded in his mind.

I fear for her. I don’t know what it means but I know it means she’s a destiny I may not be part of. And a part of him feared she’d outgrow him.

Savage was unaccustomed to fear.

He’d gone to Mane Country and verified that the tracker was well in hand there.

A tiny black-haired woman was tending him. Barking orders with all the ferociousness of the Commander of the Grier Guard.

From his spot in the tree over the river, Savage could hear the rushing of the water splashing over rocks. Dusting out any other noise there may have been. He liked to rest here because the smells were so varied, it was nearly impossible to catch a human scent. Between all the deer, wolves, driters, and quillers that came to drink from the river his smell was well masked.

The scent of wet dirt and damp trees from the river sloshing up into the nearby needle trees were the most prominent. And as the sunlight faded the pointed trees became a jutting silhouette against the orange sunset.

Pretty. Peaceful. Savage was comfortable in the tree. His ankles outstretched to cross atop the branch. His back perfectly nestled where a portion of the trunk flattened. Over the years he’d found many spots like this that were suitable places to watch everything moving below. Unseen.

He unbuckled the front of his tunic and hung it on a branch. Wearing only his breeches and boots.

His attention was drawn when he saw a man crossing the bridge a bit down the river from him. He was gray tinged and smelled of Cimmerii.

A Firoque. A decomposing one. Which meant that he was already deeply tainted with Radix’s magic if his body was dying. His shirt was shredded from wandering the trees and he’d worn away most of his shoes. He was headed toward Mane. In-fact he was wandering from the main path and drawing near the trees where Savage had come out.

Headed straight toward Marshall Manse in Mane Country. Which was where Savage had found the tracker, Rhyers, being tended by the woman.

Why is he going there? Interested Savage leaned forward.

Dropping from the tree he intercepted the man. “Who are you?”

The man blinked slowly. Huge brown eyes confused. His words were slow and dulled as if it was hard to pluck them out. “Samuel Marshall.”

His lids were heavy, and he blinked slowly as he swayed. Seeming impossibly tired.

Samuel Marshall? Related to the girl?

“Where are you going?” He asked. Almost certain he already knew the answer.

“Marshall Manse.”

Savage grunted. He walked around the man and saw black festering in his chest where the shirt was torn and a similar spot where black veins clambered from a dead wound on his back. He died.

Savage was suddenly certain. “What happened?”

Samuel Marshall shook his head as if trying to toss out some of the haze dulling his brain. He looked at the ground a moment. “Stabbed. Gutted…I think. Then the old man-”

“He said you could live?”

“Yes…I have to take care of my sister.”

Savage shook his head. This seemed unfair. He made no conscious choice to be evil. He just wanted to live.

“I wouldn’t go back there.” Savage said.