Just over two weeks passed, as Dago wandered the road. A week was considered five days, a sixth of a month… and Dago counted them each morning as he awoke on top of a hill or against an old tree trunk. He’d stand up and dust off the bugs and dirt and keep walking. He could not afford the Crimson Highway, and didn’t have the patience anymore to work for them. In the Radregar Highlands, he ventured with a keen eye, for bandits roamed the countryside and beasts hid under the hills. Dago remembered when he had fought a stormsilder in the old jungles south of the Great Lake. He had earned himself a long scrape scar on the back of his legs and one shoulder that day; the scaly bear-like beast had rushed him, tossing him effortlessly against a tree.
Thankfully, the hill lands were safer than the old forest, and Dago made it to one of Vagren’s mining villages on his eleventh day out of Ith without seeing another human. He was following a small brook for a while, but saw smoke and the sharp corners of buildings in the distance. It looked naught more than a dark outline of the land against the bright afternoon sky, but he could tell it was a sizeable town and set out in that direction.
Spanning the valley between two rocky hills, the mining town seemed to be in the midst of an expansion. A whole yard had been built up just inside the palisade walls, visible as Dago wandered down the adjacent slope toward the town, where large bricks, wooden logs, and all manner of building material had been collected. He could see half finished homes across the town from him, but soon the lay of the land blocked most of his view as he approached the opening in the spiky boundary of the town.
“Welcome to Olston,” the guard said, as Dago approached. He could see others watching from the open door of a nearby guard house. The man who spoke to him wore a leather jerkin around his wide torso. His brown hair hung behind his head in a cloth-bound braid. “You don’t have the look of a refugee to you, despite your… clothes.”
Dago’s clothes were old and worn, and he probably stank. “I’m not a refugee. A sellsword.”
The guard frowned. “We’ve no need of more mercenaries here,” he said. “Our benefactors from Vagren brought enough of them.”
“I’m not here for work,” Dago said.
“Then head to the Old Granite Inn,” the guard said. “It’s just at the foot of that hill, there, the North Rise. It’s nearest the mine, and will be affordable.”
Dago forced a sarcastic smile. “So helpful,” he said.
“Another traveller?”
Dago looked to his right. A young woman came walking up toward the opening; she had rabbits bound by the feet slung over her shoulder and a handful of dead birds at her belt. The guard grinned and said, “Another merc,” to the girl.
“It’s alright, Sten,” she said. She had soft features, despite her apparent experience in the hills, and her brown hair was bound behind her head in a tight, efficient knot. “Welcome to Olston, stranger.”
“I’ll buy one of those,” Dago said, eying her hunting claims. “But I shouldn’t take it to an inn. Can I buy from you first thing in the morning?”
She nodded. “I’ll be heading out for another hunt. I’m Raya, by the way. Just meet me here and I’ll bring something for you.” She bobbed her head as she passed him, unstringing her bow as she strode past Sten the guard and into the village.
It was easy to find the Old Granite Inn. Many would say that the rock building was sharp-edged, cold, and inhospitable, but to Dago, it was a safe, sturdy place. He felt tired as soon as he got inside, and eagerly paid a tall sweaty innkeeper for a cheap bed in a cramped room. Before retiring, he sat down on a rickety wooden bar stool and purchased a stout ale. He didn’t talk to the bartender or his neighbours, but listened to the conversation of Olston.
A boy named Novar had murdered his betrothed. A group of refugees had been caught stealing in the market and had been sent away from the town. The displaced people of Elpan seemed to be the topic on everyone’s tongues, and their friends from Vagren too. Just as Dago was finishing his ale, he heard a great sight pass through the room, and looked to the door.
A woman of medium height, with short brown hair lines with violet dye and some lines of makeup painted below her eyes. She wore a stiff red military jacket, but Dago could see how her body curved beneath it. He realized, just as suddenly, that her appearance was not the reason the atmosphere of the drinking den had changed. A handful of miners offered her their table, and she graciously took it with a nod.
“Stay,” she said. She didn’t need to strain her voice for everyone in the room to hear her words. “Ask me what you want to know. I’d enjoy the company.”
The miners grinned and sat back down next to her. Their first few questions answered Dago’s question—she was one of their benefactors, come from Vagren to assist with the refugee problem.
“Another?” the barkeeper asked, nodded to Dago’s empty cup.
He was intrigued by this newcomer. It had been a long time since Dago had had company in his bed, but that was all he could think about now. He put another coin on the bar, and the tender filled him another ale.
“No, Viker and I are not… involved.” The woman, with a smile, answered another of her guest’s questions.
“Mistress Lotha,” another said. “Can I ask you a question about… your talents?”
Her smile faded, but she nodded to the brave man. “Of course,” she said. “But I may not be able to answer it.”
“Can you ensure our safety, with a blessing or spell of some kind?” the man asked.
Now she grinned, and Dago died a little inside. His thoughts of her curves disintegrated into a seething furnace. Mistress Lotha answered the question with a political clarity. “I already have, dear man.”
Dago finished his ale in one gulp and turned full around on his stool. The magician continued answering their questions, but Dago heard little more. Close to half an hour passed before she finished her own drink and stood up to leave. Dago followed her out of doors when it was safe to do so.
Outside, darkness had started to fall. He could see the red coated sorceress walking down the slope from the mine’s entrance, back into the streets of Olston. She had a guard at her flank, following a few steps behind.
Dago drew his sword and followed.
The streets in this part of town had smoothed stone steps to handle the elevation, but was trodden dirt aside from that. Dago approached briskly—the streets were almost abandoned. No one looked at him twice, despite his sword. Above, the rising moon cast a blue light against the sandstone, mud, and wooden buildings.
Tightening his grip on the blade, he surged down the last few steps.
With a gasp, he stopped. The air was thicker, or he was weaker. He started to lift his sword, it moved sluggishly upwards.
“Now,” said Lotha, and the guard spun. His sword rasped out of his sheath. He had a dark, grungy beard, and a wide nose. Bronze caught the moonlight and glowed red.
Despite the pull against his movements, Dago was already moving forward in a thrust. His sword almost caught the man’s newly turned torso before he realized Dago’s position and stepped back. Then he rotated away, and swung at Dago’s exposed side. Dago was moving too slowly to avoid it, he knew; as he braced for the slash, he swung his left arm, as hard as he could across his torso toward his right arm.
Pain cut through his skin, dragging against his ribs with a bump-bump-bump. Then his fist passed under his armpit and struck the man’s inertia with a staggering slam. The guard found himself caught with a forward movement, his feet sliding out from beneath him. Though he moved at normal speed, Dago’s slowed motion still dropped him to the mud.
As blood spread across his belly, Dago’s twisted torso straightened out and his right arm—sword and all—arced toward the guard. The man rolled to the side as Dago’s sword scratched the earth. He reclaimed his feet, while Dago was still trying to regain his balance. He decided to lean into his spin as he saw the next move that the guard would make. The man took an upward swipe at the mercenary, but Dago was stumbling back, trying to catch his footing. He could barely even walk.
“Curse—” he cut off his curse with a raised sword, warily guarding the next attack. Cursed magic! he wanted to say. That blighted sorceress…
The man slashed at him, his sword moving twice as fast. Dago parried, then parried again, each of his movements lagging behind what his mind thought they should do. His muscles screamed at him, as he blocked a third blow. With each aggression, he withdrew a pace.
And then he saw it coming. A thrust. He slashed his own sword down, driving the man’s sword out of the way, but leaving his sword arm unprotected again. The agony in his side burned as his opened skin stretched. The man slapped his armoured forearm down at Dago’s wrist, and his copper blade from Elpan was knocked from his nearly broken hand.
As easily as could be, Dago reached out his left hand and grabbed the man’s throat. Their arms were all locked up now, their torso’s close together. Behind the man’s snarling face, Dago could see Lotha standing underneath nearby trees, watching their life and death struggle. “Damned spellcaster—”
His words stopped, against his volition, and his breath seized. He looked down.
The guard, unable to move his sword, had grabbed a knife from his belt. Dago couldn’t see the blade. Just the hilt in his chest. Then, the pain, an rod of molten fire jabbed above his heart. He gasped, and tasted blood. His fingernails were digging bloody holes into the guard’s neck. Dago lifted his right hand, and grabbed the knife. When he yanked the blade out, a stream of blood was ready to follow it. The guard, choking against his left hand watched in horror. Dago slowly pushed the knife into the man’s heart, and then released him.
For a moment, Dago stood there, blood soaking his shirt and his breath gagging on the blood in his throat. He coughed, but took one step forward, toward the magician. She was shaking her head; the violet lines under her eyes were white in the light of the rising moon.
“You’re a fool, Dago,” she said.
Dago opened his mouth and rasped out a phrase as he took a second step. “Was it you in Ith?”
Lotha shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’ve been here. Probably Ollua, or Axar. You cost us Puzzle, you fool. Her obsession that you could win the stage in Yarik… You should have ignored us when we let you.”
“All of you? All the magicians?” he asked, falling to his knees. His shirt was slick and the air felt cold. Those cedar trees above her were twisting their branches like the twisting arms of a squid. Dago felt so tired.
She chuckled. “No. Of course not,” she said. “But we’re focused here, right now. Ith, Elpan… How did you find me?”
Dago sighed. “I should have just taken her job…” he whispered. He rested his backside on his feet and looked down. Red drizzle was starting to pool beneath him. He’d have been Job Dago, even if Miss Puzzle didn’t hire him… Had that been his mistake? His choice of words to describe his divided mind?
“Well, Viker will want an explanation about all this…” she sighed. “And my overseers too.”
Dago was staring at the cedars, the first stars beginning to twinkle behind it. He didn’t care about Lotha anymore. He wanted to be home, that village in the hills… he couldn’t even remember where it was. He closed his eyes and exhaled.