Marco VIII

The Pilgrim Road felt eerie and somehow foreboding the morning they departed for the Arayan capital. The sky was overcast. Rain was apparent. Not many people went out of their homes and braved the weather. For the better stretch of the journey, they would be alone.

"Have you had a good night's rest?" Before boarding the carriages, Marco had asked his brother who seemed uncomfortable in his new coat.

Lucas had only one luggage to his possession. By its weight, it wasn't even stuffed to the brim. Marco on the other hand had three. He needed that much to be away from home for almost half a year.

"I had," Lucas had replied, palpably fighting back a yawn. The dark circles under his eyes told Marco he did not sleep much.

"I told you the trip will take at least three days. You've got to be well-rested for it." He once took the Road after having pulled an all-nighter for a royal ball. He feared his head was about to explode from the aftermath. And the heat in the plains of Gallagher had only made it worse.

"I'm very sorry," Lucas had said, eyes to the ground again. He was always quick to apologize. Marco did not know if it made one humble or submissive.

Mother stepped out of the main door in her velvet. She pulled Marco into a hug, pecking a kiss on the unmarked side of his cheeks. "Take care. Rest if you can. Don't get into trouble. You understand."

"I understand, Mother," he had answered, reciprocating her affection. Marco glanced at his back to find Lucas gone. Like a ghost, he would always disappear without notice when Mother was about.

His little brother was already inside his carriage when Marco checked. He carried a trusty gas lamp with him.

Marco had told him, "You'll always be right behind me. Ser Gerald will be leading the entourage. But Ser Harol would be right behind you. You'll be perfectly safe. You should sleep if you feel like it. Alice here will take care of you."

Alice did not look like she would. Despite the fairly cold morning, she was covered in sweat, her lips pale, her face a mask of dread.

"Can I count on you, Alice?" he had asked her, just to steel her nerves.

"Certainly, young master," she had nodded, boarding Lucas's carriage on trembling toes.

Now as their cavalcade trundled down the Pilgrim Road, Marco kept peeking out the window, looking back past the small band of mounted escorts between them, checking Lucas's coach was still there. He opened a book to pass time but the clickety clack of wooden wheels and the clop of hooves rendered focusing impossible. He talked with his guardian instead.

"Where is the first rest stop going to be?"

Dunce, squire to Ser Gerald, seemed to ponder before answering, "With the pace we are going, my lord, we can make it to the Cobalt Passing by midday to give the horses respite. That is if the rain catches us not."

Soon they were past Vermil and the wheatfields beside it. The greater part of the Pilgrim Road in Gallagher cut through rolling plains, flanked on both sides by a line of elms and birch trees, although not completely. At around midday, they reached the beginning of the Ashwood Forest, where the trees grew denser as they neared it. It meant they were nearly at the Cobalt Passing - a short bridge that arched over the Cobalt Stream, one of the tributaries that fed the Gallagher River and irrigated part of the Ashwood manor.

Somebody suddenly shouted, "WOLVES!"

Dunce drew his nameless sword, "Everything is well, my lord, Ser Gerald will deal with them."

"I know, but I'm curious."

"If you say so, my lord."

The cavalcade was halted. Marco looked behind them to check again that Lucas's carriage was there. He stepped out too. Alice walked behind him, eyes rounded, alert.

"Do not worry. They're just wolves," Marco assured them.

They walked to the front of the entourage, where they found about seven wolf carcasses scattered at the foot of the Cobalt Passing.

"You made short work of them, Ser Gerald. Worthy of praise."

Ser Gerald turned to him, "My lord, they were already dead when we found them."

"Is that so? Curious. But it seems that these are fresh kill. Looks to be the work of a blade." Indeed, blood pooled clearly beneath their bodies, from long slashes that ought to have been inflected by a sword — skilfully. It had not been long since they were killed and scattered right across the Passing.

"It is so," the old knight answered. Then he commanded one of the soldiers, "Ser Felix, reconnaissance. There might be fiends waiting in ambush."

"On it, Ser," the soldier obliged. Felix was one of the few soldiers gifted with innate talent. It meant he did not need to train and pray for his blessing. He was born with it. The dark-haired soldier stripped his gloves and pulled out a wooden box from his leather pouch. Buzz. Buzz. A sound came from inside it. He prayed, holding the box close to his heart.

"THREAD OF NATURE!" Felix chanted. A halo of light enveloped him before forming into thin wispy threads that reached into the box as he opened it. A small warm of bees scattered from it, each one connected to Felix's palm by a thread of light. "Into the woods," he mouthed. Buzzing, the bees flitted into the trees, the threads right on their trails.

"We should bury them," Lucas uttered, touching the fur of one dead wolf.

"I'm sorry, Lucas, but that would a waste of time. Ser Gerald, please order your men to move them from the middle of the road, then burn them. Meanwhile, water the horses." It is better to burn the dead, lest they come back to life. That was one of the lessons taught early in Demach.

Lucas looked forlorn. Marco stepped closer to him. "How does it feel to be way beyond Vermil? Have you been to the Ashwood Forest before?"

"I hadn't. The lands here are much greener."

"This is the fief of Catherine's family."

"Oh, they own those plantations that we passed?"

"Indeed, they do."

Soon a pyre was set around the pile of wolf cadavers. As the smell of wood and fur and flesh burned, bees started returning to Felix one by one.

"Nothing suspicious within a hundred yards, Ser," he reported to the Captain Knight after the last insect flew into the box, all threads cut and fading.

Somebody is playing a gruesome prank, or is intending to delay us.

"We should move along now," Marco yelled over the group.

"But the horses had not had their fill, my lord. They also need to eat more," Dunce argued.

"We will find another chance. We should cross the Ashwood Forest before night fall. We rest at Incador. Make haste."

Despite their grumblings, they tied the horses back to the carriages and not long after, they were lumbering down the Pilgrim Road again.

An uprooted tree blocked their way a few minutes later. Bees were sent but found no traces of the perpetrators. After the log was moved aside, they wasted no time in resuming their journey. The apprehension in Marco's heart grew as the sky darkened, and before they made it past half the Forest, the storm poured. It made Felix's bees useless in detecting danger. Still, they pushed forward even as the rain delayed their advance.

The sound of pattering water drowned out the clatter of horses. When Marco looked behind to check on Lucas, the blanket of downpour limited his sight. He could only make out a little silhouette in the distance. But at least, they ran into no more obstacles.

Dusk found them in the Ashwood Forest. Night fell and the Pilgrim Road turned pitch black. The forest was usually safe. Only a pack of wolves occasionally stalked in the shadows. Their howls could be heard even now. But they did not generally approach travelers who carried fire and sharp iron. There were places to camp beside the Road in the Ashwood Forest, Ser Gerald advised so, but Marco did not want to risk it.

He was not afraid of wolves. He was even confident in defeating average cursed beasts. But there was something about today that kept him on guard. 

The storm did not show signs of stopping. It only kept pouring heavier instead. Once outside the Forest at last, they stopped at the small village of Incador. During his travels, Marco would always stay at the Tattling Wife — an inn that could accommodate their small party of two carriages and ten mounted escorts.

"Where is Lucas's carriage?" Marco asked Ser Gerald as they stepped out into the rain. In the thick downpour in the night, it was hard to discern any shape or light. The smattering of trees at the fringe of the forest also blocked their view.

"They should be here soon," the captain answered.

"I'll wait outside, go see the innkeeper," Marco ordered. Did something happen?

Incador was a town of loggers, managed by a relative to the Ashwoods. The town fed wood and timber to the Arayan Crown Land of West Bismuth. It was fast growing, but like Vermil when the southern monsoons were quiet and the sea was fair, Incador also saw little energy. Thus tonight, the town was nearly empty, with only a few residents about, a third of them inebriated.

Something is wrong. Half an hour passed, and Lucas's carriage was still nowhere to be seen. "Give me your horse, Ser Gerald," he commanded hastily.

"The rain is dense, and the forest is unkind. Better to wait. They will be here soon." The captain tried to stop him.

Marco glared at him, producing a tendril of holy power from his fingertip that turned into a huge orb of light, illuminating the facade of Tattling Wife. He declared sternly, "Give me your horse. Or I'll suspect that it is you sabotaging this journey."

"My apologies, I stepped out of line. But I'm only concerned for my lord's safety."

"Follow me then." He climbed onto the horse that Dunce brought. With the light orb in front of him, he rode into the black of night back to the Ashwood Forest.