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Moon's eyes opened to the sound of movement around him. It took him a short while to remember where he was. Cabris and his daughters were preparing to leave, the trader hitching their two sway-backed mares to the wagon, while his girls were stowing various items.
The Axeman got to his feet. Groaning, he bent side-to-side to ease the stiffness in his back.
Finishing his task, Cabris ambled across. “Ah, I see you are awake my friend,” he said, grinning. “That wine has a habit of doing that if you are not used to it.”
Moon grunted, shaking his head and rubbing his gritty eyes. Trudging to the stallion, he replaced his saddle, bedroll, and pack before slipping Widowmaker into its holster. When he swung back to Cabris. Lucia and Sunia were standing alongside their father.
“My gratitude to you and your daughters for your hospitality.” The words sounded strange in his ears, for he hadn't had much cause to thank anyone for anything before. Glancing at the girls, he bowed awkwardly. He seemed to remember hearing somewhere that was the custom in polite society. “Be good and look after your father. I hope you find good strong men, when the time comes for you to knot the bridle. Tell them if they are cruel or beat you, old Moon will come around and crack their skulls.” Lucia smiled, eyes bright and flashing, while Sunia blushed and giggled.
Moon swung onto the stallion and with a final nod to Cabris, rode southward.
Three days later, the Axeman crested a rise and looked down at the vista that lay before him. The land spread as far as he could see in a series of green-flanked hills studded with trees. Beyond the hills, the thin ribbon of a river wound its way southwest.
Pausing on the rise, he once again marvelled at the beauty of the country. He mused if his experience with Cabris and his daughters was anything to go by, such a beautiful land must create people of like nature. People quick to extend kindness to strangers. It was in stark contrast to the people of the Northlands, where strangers were viewed with suspicion and a wise man kept his sword or axe to hand.
On the other hand, thought Moon, perhaps Cabris was a rare man, one of a kind who trusted in the goodwill of his fellow man. He had liked the little man and felt at ease in his company. That was a new experience for him. Perhaps the land was working its magic on him too.
Cabris had told him to follow the river south-west until he saw a thick forest to the north. The older man had called this the Lysand woods. The town of Lysalis was on the south bank of the river. To the north of Lysalis was a hill dominated by an abandoned fortress. According to Cabris, it was the site of a great battle fought many years ago, and was haunted by the shades of the slain. Petralis lay a few day’s journey to the south.
Moon picked his way down the rise. The ground underfoot was loose shale, making the going slow. As they wound their way between the hills, Moon had to be wary that the stallion didn't break a leg by stepping into one of the many burrows of small animals that doted the trail.
The Axeman dismounted upon reaching the river. The stallion dipped its head to drink. Moon on a sudden whim, stripped off his jerkin and trews and plunged into the water. After splashing about and washing the grime from his body, he stepped back onto the bank. He grimaced as he looked down on his pale body, then stretched out on the grassy bank, allowing the hot sun to dry him.
The Ghost Fortress
Masrel the blacksmith twisted in his seat and looked down the long column that stretched back as far as he could see. The sad sight was made up of men and women old and young, and children; some on foot and others squeezed on wagons and carts piled high with belongings
Masrel wasn't a happy man. Somehow, he had been chosen leader of the convoy fleeing the terror of the Gualich. It didn't sit easy with him having all that responsibility. He glanced at the woman perched next to him on the wagon's uncomfortable seat. His wife Sula, a thin hatchet-faced woman kept her eyes fixed ahead.
Muttering an obscenity under his breath, he wondered how he had got himself in this situation. He had begun to question what he had seen at Petras Park. Perhaps Casca had imbibed too much of his own wares with all this talk about demons coming to drink their souls. Could be they had been nothing but wild dogs after all.
And here he was on a wagon with his wife and two children, and as much of his worldly possessions he could pack, fleeing to the mountains. He cursed again. His mistress, Lorell, sat on the other side of him. She had no one else, and he hadn't been able to bring himself to leave her behind.
Sula had poured scorn on all the talk of demons and didn't see the sense in leaving her home and belongings for an uncertain future in the mountains. Her ire had deepened when he told her Lorell would be coming with them. He had surprised himself at his insistence, for her sharp tongue had always shrivelled him.
Now, he was doubting the wisdom of his actions. He glanced at Lorell. Like Sula, she ignored him, keeping her gaze to the front. Sayler's tits, he thought, now neither of them would even acknowledge him. He’d had to put up with their icy silence since they left Petralis. Glancing at Lorell again, he couldn't help but admire the lines of her face; the pert upturned nose, flashing dark eyes and full lips. He felt a faint stirring in his groin. Sayler's tits, man, he chided himself, get a hold of yourself!
The convoy was making painfully slow process. It could only go as fast as its slowest member, and Masrel was determined none would be left behind. Someone rode up to him. It was Kalas the tracker. “I think we need to stop soon,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow. “The old ones and children are tired and need to rest. There is an abandoned fortress not too far ahead. It is an ideal place to stop for a spell.”
Masrel nodded. “Aye, we could all do with a rest. The heavens know I would love to get off this pigging wagon and ease my sore backside. Why don't you ride back and pass word we’ll be stopping soon.
Kalas grimaced in sympathy. “My backside don't feel too good neither. It's been a while since I've spent so long in the saddle. Reckon I'll be walking bow-legged for a month.” Wheeling his mount around, he rode back along the column to pass on the message.