Horseman

Aprilis 9th.

The sky outside our luxurious carriage had shifted from pale blue to a heavy, deep gray, so dark that even the sun could not shine through. We were already quite close to the southern coast, but a massive storm rolling in from the sea had forced us to stop. The journey to the private island where The Sovereign's Gambit would take place, originally just three days away, was now indefinitely delayed due to the storm.

"Damn it," Vashtun muttered, glaring out the window as heavy rain began pounding against the glass. "I hate unplanned delays."

Our coachman, a large, quiet man assigned by The Consortium, abruptly halted the carriage under the shelter of a cluster of massive oak trees along the roadside. "We can't keep going in weather like this, sirs," he said in a deep, steady voice. "The horses will panic, and the road will turn to a river of mud. There's an old cabin across the way. We might be able to take shelter there until the storm passes."

I looked toward where he pointed. Across the muddy dirt road, right at the edge of the forest, stood a wooden cabin. It looked old but solid. A better choice than being trapped in the carriage.

Pitter, patter.

The rain fell harder now, thunder rumbling across the sky in sharp bursts. The three of us ran across the road, cloaked in our outerwear for cover. The cabin was larger than it had seemed from afar. Its walls were made of thick logs, the shingled roof mostly intact. Inside, the air was stale and heavy with dust, but at least it was dry.

As always, Vashtun surprised me. Without a word, he pulled out a strange device from his bag. It looked like a metallic orb with several tubes extending outward. When he activated it, the orb began to hum softly and sucked up all the dust and grime in the air like a miniature vortex. Within minutes, the cabin floor was remarkably clean.

"Essence-powered vacuum," Vashtun explained, catching my curious expression. "One of the latest inventions from the Artisan District. Very useful."

As the room grew clearer, I noticed something strange. In the center of this clearly abandoned cabin were three wooden chairs. They looked new. Too new. The wood was smooth, freshly polished, and entirely free of marks or stains.

"Vasht, did you notice these?" I asked quietly.

"Of course I did," he replied, patting one of the chairs. "Already checked them. No Essence traces, no mechanical traps. Safe, if my inspection is correct."

He shrugged. "No guarantees, but would you rather sit on the floor?"

The three of us sat on the odd chairs, forming a small circle in the middle of the cabin. Our coachman, who had been silent until now, finally spoke.

"My name is Rufus," he said, his deep voice sounding like someone telling a story beside the roar of a storm. "Just one word. I was assigned by your company. If you don't mind, may I join your discussion?"

Vashtun and I exchanged glances. Then, in his usual fashion, Vashtun laughed and patted Rufus on his sturdy shoulder. "Come on, why so stiff? Look at me, I'm no noble. Just a man like you. No need to be formal."

"Of course, feel free to speak. You're not a robot, are you?" I added.

"Robot?" Rufus asked, his typically sharp eyes now filled with honest confusion. "Is that some kind of food?"

I slapped my forehead. Damn. Another slip. Words from my old world still surfaced sometimes. "No, I meant... it's a term for something too mechanical, lacking emotion."

Rufus nodded slowly, as if he understood. "Then no. I am not a robot."

A comfortable silence fell over us, broken only by the sound of rain and the crackling of a small fire Vashtun had started in the stone hearth in the corner of the room.

"So," I began, deciding to use the time to gather more data. "Rufus, do you often travel long distances like this?"

"Quite often, Mr. Rothes," he replied. "My job takes me across the kingdom, sometimes beyond the borders."

"Then you must have seen a lot, I mean many types of Evolvers," I said.

"I have," he said. "Each region has its own flavor of power. In the north, many follow Channels connected to ice and resilience. Along the western coast, many are tied to the Church of Slid and the Channel of 'The Deep Current.' Here in the south, the focus is more on physical strength and tactical power."

"Including the Allmanship Path?" I asked, recalling something I had read in a book.

"Yes. The Republic of Zarovgard is its heart, but there are many practitioners here as well. They're highly sought-after mercenaries."

"What about you, Vashtun," I turned to him. "You've never really explained your Channel in detail. 'Theologian.' How does it work? How many sub-levels have you passed?"

Vashtun sighed and paused. "Every Order has seven sub-levels. I'm currently at Order 7, sub-level five. Still a long road ahead."

Seven sub-levels. That was quite a few compared to my Jester Channel, which had eight sub-levels per Order, though each advancement required a deeper understanding rather than just training. I was currently at Order 7, sub-level seven, right on the edge of Order 6.

"What about you, Rufus?" I asked, turning back to our quiet coachman. "The way you handled those horses in the storm... I doubt you're just a coachman."

Rufus gave a faint smile. "You're sharp, Mr. Rothes." He set down his cup of tea. "My Channel is 'Mountbearer.' A Path centered on pure physical strength and endurance. I'm in Order 8, 'Stonewarden,' sub-level three of six."

An eighth-level Archetype. A superhuman. No wonder The Consortium had chosen him to escort us. His physical power was clearly beyond average.

"You must be incredibly strong," Vashtun said honestly, eyeing the thick muscles on Rufus's arms.

"Physical strength has its limits," Rufus replied. "You two, with your minds and Essence, are far more dangerous in a real fight."

Our conversation halted when the cabin door burst open. A soaked, skinny figure stumbled in and collapsed to the floor. A young man, possibly my age, dressed in torn and filthy travel gear.

Vashtun immediately drew his sword, kept nearby just in case. He and I exchanged a glance. Rufus remained calm, simply watching.

The young man lifted his head. His face was pale, eyes full of panic. "Please..." he whispered. "They... they're chasing me..."

"Who's chasing you?" Vashtun asked, voice sharp.

"The... the riders..."

Before he could finish, he fainted.

I knelt beside him and checked his pulse. Weak, but steady. On the torn collar of his shirt, I spotted a small badge. The crest of a minor noble house from the western frontier.

That was when we heard it. The neighing of horses outside, deep in the storm.

Vashtun moved to the small window and peeked out cautiously. His usually calm expression turned grim.

"Damn," he cursed. "We've got a serious problem."

Rufus and I joined him. Outside, amid the pouring rain and flashes of lightning, we saw them. Three mounted figures, their horses clearly not normal. They were skeletal beasts with green fire burning in their eye sockets. The riders wore jet-black armor from head to toe, and each held a long, sharp spear.

"Death Riders of the Nashgal Theocracy," Vashtun said quietly. "What are they doing this far into our territory?"

"They're not here for us," I said, eyes drifting to the unconscious youth on the floor. "They're here for him."

One of the riders raised a hand, conjuring a pulsing orb of green fire.

"They're going to burn the cabin," Vashtun said, a hint of alarm in his voice.

"Not if I can help it," Rufus said. He stood, his massive frame nearly filling the room. He opened the door and stepped out into the storm.

"Hey, you ugly skeletons!" he shouted. "Looking for trouble?"

The riders turned toward him. The fireball in the leader's hand vanished.

The leader stared at Rufus, then motioned to the two others. They dismounted and drew jagged swords.

Rufus laughed. He cracked his knuckles. "Finally, a warm-up."

He didn't wait for them to attack. He charged. For a man his size, he moved fast. He ducked under the first slash and slammed his fist into the rider's chest.

Crack!

Even from inside the cabin, I heard ribs snap. The rider flew backward, his chestplate crushed.

The second came from the side. Rufus spun, used the attacker's momentum to grab his arm, and slammed him into the ground with incredible force.

The leader remained still atop his mount. Then he slowly dismounted and approached Rufus.

"You're strong, human," he said, voice like a whisper from a grave. "But you can't fight fate, can you?"

He raised his hand again. This time, instead of fire, a chain of pure shadow formed. It shot out and coiled around Rufus's body.

Rufus roared as the chain tightened. His muscles bulged as he struggled to break free. "This is all you've got?"

"It's more than enough," the leader replied.

That was when Vashtun and I decided to act.

"Vashtun, distract the leader," I said. "I'll take care of the chain."

Vashtun nodded. He stepped outside and used his Rite Craft to whisper a small truth. "In this storm, lies become truth."

Then he shouted at the leader. "Look behind you! Your king has come to claim you!"

The leader hesitated, glanced back. Of course, no one was there. But the moment of doubt, amplified by Vashtun's magic, weakened the chain's hold.

I seized the opportunity. I channeled Void Essence into shadow and struck the chain directly.

Crack!

The chain dissolved like iron touched by acid.

Rufus was free. He roared and slammed his fist into the leader's helmet. The metal caved, and the man was thrown from his horse.

The fight ended as quickly as it had begun. Two riders lay defeated, and their leader was unconscious.

We tied them up and brought them inside. The noble youth was regaining consciousness.

"Who are you?" he asked, eyes wide with fear. "And who... were they?"

"We're the people who just saved your life," Vashtun replied. "And they were the ones trying to take it. Now tell us, why did the Nashgal Theocracy's hunting dogs chase you all the way here?"

The boy hesitated.

"Speak," I said coldly. "Or we'll hand you back to them."

At last, he told us everything. His name was Lysander, the son of a minor diplomat stationed on the border. He had stumbled upon a map revealing the location of an ancient "god's tomb" deep within Cledestine territory. The Nashgal Theocracy wanted the map. They paid for it with blood, slaughtering his entire family. He was the only one who escaped.

Vashtun and I exchanged a glance.

The storm outside was beginning to clear.

Once the Gambit ends, perhaps a large-scale tomb raid would be in order. It could be profitable.