There was a little rodent on a bump in the road up ahead, a beige fox that quirked its disproportionately-sized ears in the direction of the travellers, watched for a moment, and then scurried into the tall grass. Aralim looked north, where the fields stretched down the slightest slope and toward the arid horizon. The clear blue sky let him see far. Copses of trees dotted the savanna in the nearest region, but then ceased. It was only to the south, at Aralim’s right shoulder, that the forests to which he had become so accustomed spanned.
“I’m troubled,” Devran confessed, his first words aside from logistic ones in days. He quickened his pace to reach Aralim’s right side.
One of the Highwaymen snorted. Without any significant issues, their occasional leering comments had let Aralim know they found the religious-political procession a little strange. Dullah, walking at Aralim’s left gave a glare over her shoulder, but then looked at Devran as he continued.
“But I don’t know all that you do. Can you answer me this, at least? Why would the Emperor send you, a doubter, to represent him in this world?” The thoughtful man’s brow was furrowed. He really had been dwelling on this for days.
“I suppose that is what the ambassadorship is, isn’t it…?” Aralim mumbled. The Walker looked back at the smooth vista. “Perhaps, it’s because you would just tell him what he wants to hear, and not dare to interpret what we see out here in some way he might dislike.”
His lantern staff clipped the loosely tiled road-stones. Devran didn’t reply, simply listened to the sound in lieu of Aralim’s voice. “Or maybe,” he said after a moment, “It is because, despite my status as a doubter, you are the one questioning his judgement.”
“Careful Devran,” Dullah said, grinning. Her loose travelling shirt was stained with sweat—unlike those humid jungle days on the river, she didn’t shed the garment in the presence of these Highwaymen. When Devran looked up from his thoughts, she went on: “You’ll soon be a heathen just like me.”
He retaliated with a sarcastic glare, but then kept walking introspectively. “I don’t question his judgement,” he muttered after a moment. “No matter what the case is, he chose you for a reason that will benefit him. He’s been doing this for too long to make mistakes. If these thoughts have led me to question anything, it’s exactly the same doubts expressed at the start of this. I don’t desire to give voice to such words, but… if, by sending you, he intended not to spread his religion, perhaps he isn’t what I believe him to be.”
“You believe him to be the human incarnation of the Great Smith, correct?” Aralim asked.
Ahead of them, Grendar nodded. Aralim had not consciously considered the religion of his guards until that moment.
“I do,” Devran said, though he still frowned. “In Rema, we believe that the gods come and go from the world as they see fit. It was our discovery of iron that caused the return of the Great Smith, once known as Nazraliim.”
Aralim nodded. “The Great Smith was already all-powerful. Returning in physical form has purpose. Exploring the cultures of other lands also serves a purpose. But a devout person might approach with too much dominance, so perhaps that is why I was chosen. I don’t know anything for certain. Would it raise your spirits to know I don’t consider the Eye of Maga a deity? In truth, Maga was likely a mage less powerful than Rattar.”
“Well then we can agree on one thing, at least,” Devran said, smiling a little. After a few steps of silence, he looked at Aralim grinning. “Dullah’s a heathen.”
“Ah!” Dullah exclaimed, and awkwardly tried to step past Aralim to playfully hit Devran in the arm. Because of their pace, she had to stumble back to his left side where she had been walking before.
An arm appeared on Aralim’s shoulder—Mulio wrapped his hands around Dullah’s opposite arm and Aralim’s. The leader of their unintended Crimson Highway company reeked of beer and sweat, as he looked at Aralim’s forehead, then his eyes, and then his staff, all-the-while huddling the two travellers close to him with his posture. “That staff of yours is just so unique,” Mulio drawled. “Tell me, uh… Arlin?—where’s that smooth wood from? Your western jungle where there are no red roads? I think I’d like that staff. Yes, I’d like it very much.”
Grendar, a few steps ahead, immediately tensed, and started to slow his pace nearly imperceptibly.
Aralim scrunched his nose. His explosive dust, the gift from Rattar, was still inside his cloak, but reaching it would be tricky with his shoulder clenched in such a way. “I made it,” he told Mulio. “Nothing but sentimental value, really.”
“So you can make another one, right?” Mulio asked.
Dullah shrugged off his arm, but the Highwayman grabbed her by the back of the neck and kept her walking alongside him. Aralim pushed his eyes toward his peripherals. The other two red-badges walked closely behind, along with Lerela and Carrak. Ahead of Grendar walked Yovin and the Aura, still mostly oblivious to what was going on.
“Heh?” Mulio questioned, shaking Aralim’s shoulder.
Aralim inhaled deeply. “Absolutely, but there’s a bit of a ceremony to hand over a staff, if you’d care to humour me. It would just take a moment?”
Mulio stopped walking, but didn’t release his grip. Everyone in their party stopped, with Grendar somehow already facing them. The guard’s eyes probed Aralim’s waiting for the smallest order of action, while Dullah squirmed against the bandit’s hold. Mulio cursed under his breath and shoved her aside. With that hand, he held out his free one. “The gods can damn ceremony. Right now, you’re going to give me that staff or you’re going to give me your crimson coin.”
The tight fingers on Aralim’s shoulder were going to leave bruises soon, and he certainly wasn’t going to give up his staff. With a swift swing, he smashed the lantern into Mulio’s face, sending him reeling. The tall grass whispered as he stumbled through it, cupping his temple and spewing profanities. Everyone who had weapons drew them, including the Highwaymen, with Dullah stumbling to the safety of Grendar with Devran.
“We paid our money,” Aralim said, after clearing his throat. “Save yourself the trouble and rob someone with fewer swords.”
Mulio, quivering in fury and wiping blood away from his forehead, yanked two throwing knives from his belt. “Is your damned staff worth lives to you?” he screeched.
“Just give him the staff,” Dullah said. Everyone was looking at Aralim.
Aralim shrugged. “Today a staff, tomorrow our robes.”
“You’ve got so much nerve…” Mulio murmured. He swung one hand over his shoulder and a blur streaked between them. The knife hit Aralim’s leg, hard. He clenched his knee and cried out. As everyone started to move, Mulio threw again.
The second blade skittered off Grendar’s armour as the guard threw himself in front of Aralim. Aralim ended up sitting on his backside, somehow, dazed. The small dagger was stuck in his thigh, bleeding, but not bleeding out. Ringing blades echoed the slate-blue sky as the Highwaymen and Aralim’s other guards clashed.
Mulio drew his sword, but the Aura was there, striding off the cobblestones to obstruct the bandit’s path. Though the sounds of combat continued, Aralim’s limited focus was locked on the Aura. Mulio cursed, swinging his sword toward the Aura’s side, but the quiet man took a step to the side and caught the man’s hand. With a forceful strike of his palm, the Aura snapped Mulio’s wrist and let the sword fall from the bandit’s contorted fingers.
Even the screech of pain-caused didn’t slow the Aura down. He advanced a silent pace for every stumble Mulio took back. The Highwayman tried to punch with his off hand, but the Aura shifted his posture down on folding knees and grabbed the man’s forearm. A strike to the armpit dislodged the joint from its socket and Mulio tripped over his ankle, tumbling into the tall grass.
Aralim watched, with blurry vision, as the Aura grabbed Mulio by the collar, and slammed knuckles into the windpipe hard enough to collapse it.
“Let me help,” Grendar repeated. Aralim hadn’t even heard him, but was sitting there with his hands holding his thigh and watching. The pain wasn’t so bad, but everything had left him a little dazed. Grendar grabbed the knife and yanked it out, immediately pressing a strip of cloth onto the wound.
Aralim ground his teeth together until it was bandaged. Dullah knelt and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Confused, Aralim glanced back along the road. Carrak and Lerela had put down both Crimson Highwaymen. A bloody axe was lying between them, but there was no sign of other injury besides Aralim’s.
“We’ll need a cane of some kind,” Dullah said. “And maybe a day or two of rest?”
The Aura was walking back toward them after straightening his robes. Aralim nodded to him, and pushed his lantern staff across the roadway. It wouldn’t suffice. The Aura returned his nod, and quietly picked up the blue-tinted staff.