Chapter 55: Business is Calling

Old Cat's desperate grip held Glen back. Glen knew it came from genuine concern, so he didn't shake him off. But this wasn't over. Once Old Cat was gone, that mercenary would pay.

"Lucky break, boy. Don't let me see you again!" The mercenary called Tusker sneered, coiling his whip before strutting after the convoy.

Maybe just kill him… Glen amended his plan instantly, his gaze flicking toward the three mages. And them too.

He'd sensed it—a familiar, oily darkness clinging to them, similar to the Black Mage. No doubt, they were poison.

"Gods above, Mr. Glen! You scared me half to death!" Old Cat gasped, finally releasing Glen's arm, his face pale. "Those are mercenaries! Dangerous, brutal men! You actually wanted to fight them?! That's madness!"

He wiped his brow. "We common folk can't afford pride. It gets you killed. I've seen it—friends who crossed powerful men… ended up broken."

"Yeah… I get it," Glen murmured. He wanted to say those men were insects to him, but knew Old Cat wouldn't believe it. Easier to agree.

Old Cat nodded, recognizing the dismissal but letting it go. Both men watched the grim procession move deeper into town.

A few other unlucky townsfolk who'd stood too close nursed fresh whip welts, their pained whimpers swallowed by fear. No one dared protest.

Glen turned to Old Cat. "Who are these mercenaries?"

Old Cat blinked in surprise. "You don't know?"

Glen shrugged helplessly.

"Right… you haven't been here long," Old Cat tapped his temple, recalling. "That's the Earl Punc's convoy. They say they hunt monsters on the borderlands, but that's just a cover. The Earl's sons… they've got a taste for exotic slaves. These teams hunt and transport their… acquisitions. They always pass through Dudd."

His eyes drifted to the cage holding the elf girl, his voice lowering. "Rumor is the Punc boys offered a king's ransom for a live Elf slave. Most beautiful race on the continent, they say. Coveted." He gestured towards the cage. "Looks like one of the young lords got impatient. Sent men deep into a Wood Elf tribe's heartland, took losses… but got his prize."

Human depravity on full display, Glen thought bitterly, taking a slow breath. "Parading an Elf slave like this… won't it provoke Saethia?"

The Kingdom of Saethia, ruled by High Elves, held dominion over Wood Elves, Night Elves, Frost Elves, and more. A major world power, its anger was not to be trifled with.

"Course it will," Old Cat agreed grimly. "My guess? The mastermind got tired of sneaking around. Decided the risk of Saethia's wrath over one 'insignificant' Wood Elf was worth flaunting his prize. Don't underestimate the arrogance of spoiled noble brats."

Glen absorbed this, surprised by Old Cat's sharp insight. The original Glen's noble acquaintances had universally scorned the lower classes—"dirty," "ignorant," "shiftless." That prejudice had seeped into the original owner's mind, blinding him to his own place within the system.

Glen knew better. This was just the corrosive fiction of superiority. His surprise stemmed from Old Cat possessing such awareness in an age of scarce information.

"What will happen to her?" Glen asked, though he could guess. He wanted to hear Old Cat's take.

Old Cat winced, reluctance etched on his face. "You really don't want to know."

"I do," Glen stated flatly.

"Ah…" Old Cat sighed, a humorless smile touching his lips. "Straight to the point, aren't you?"

He squared his shoulders, his voice turning somber. "A slave. No rights. If she's bought by a decent master? Maybe bearable. But the Puncs? Their cruelty's legendary. I've traveled; heard the stories whispered across Bathesi territory."

He glanced toward the vanished cage. "Best case? She becomes a pampered pet. Might live awhile… if her master doesn't tire of her. Usually? They get broken beyond use. Fed to the Earl's warhounds. Or…" he hesitated, "brewed."

Glen's eyebrow twitched violently. The cold fury of a soldier who'd fought for humanity ignited within him. "Brewed? Explain."

He forced the question out, stomach churning.

"Everyone knows Elves live forever," Old Cat said, his voice thick with disgust. "Sometime, somewhere, some monster got the idea that Elf parts… brewed… grant longevity. So…"

He left it hanging with a final, helpless shrug.

Heh… Business is calling. Glen's gaze snapped back to where the convoy had disappeared. His fingers flexed, itching for action.

"Let's get out of here," Old Cat urged. "Best avoid them entirely."

Glen nodded. "Time to check on my pigs. I'm heading back."

He turned and strode away swiftly, leaving Old Cat no time to reply.

———

Night draped Dudd Town. The tavern, rented out entirely, pulsed with raucous noise. Inside, the mercenaries reveled in their first chance to unwind in days.

The air hung thick—a cloying cocktail of cheap ale, stale sweat, and the iron tang of old blood.

"Tusker! That stunt of yours cost us good men!" A mercenary with a broad forehead and long nose slammed his tankard on the table, pointing at Tusker. His tone held no real anger, only drunken mockery.

"Lies!" Tusker roared, slamming his own mug down, spraying foam. "Those fools got themselves killed! Too weak! Charged blind! Elf arrows found 'em easy!"

Their argument drew in other drunken voices, swelling the tavern's din into a near-deafening roar.

A few remained apart, quieter. The leaders. Among them sat the scarred man who'd stopped Tusker earlier—the undisputed captain. His skin was like rough, grey leather. Thick hide armor, barbaric in style, covered his torso, but his face and arms were a tapestry of dense, intersecting scars. A low-ranking mage stood nearby, shifting uneasily.

"Captain… this brazen display… are we inviting trouble?" the mage named Arthan murmured, his voice barely audible over the din.

The scarred captain took a slow sip of his drink. His cold eyes drifted towards the tavern's back door, leading to the guarded courtyard where their "merchandise" was stored. The cage sat there, under watch.

Inside, the elf girl seemed to feel the weight of his gaze. She lifted her face slightly from her knees. One eye, blazing with pure, venomous hatred, locked onto the tavern window.

"Trouble is the Master's concern, Arthan," the Captain replied, a thin, predatory smile touching his scarred lips. "Our job… is simply to deliver the goods."