Chapter 75: The Journey Begins

The morning mists carried the pungent scent of wet earth and splintered pine as Valen Villiage gates groaned on their iron hinges.

Just two hours removed from when he’d first pitched the suggestion, Garris found the village square ready to deploy the expedition.

Four great lumber cased wagons waited in a neat row close to the southern gate.

Within them lay the choicest pick of Valen’s wares;

grain stores, bundled animal furs, and fragrant herbal cures from the misty western foothills.

The trade guards gave the wagons, and their passengers, one final hurried inspection.

One prodded a wooden wheel, listening to the deep thrum of its axle.

Another tested the tensed ropes binding the wagon’s load.

And a third squatted at the back to ensure the iron wheel bearings had been greased for the mountainous journey ahead.

Garris alone made his own assessment, his face tight and unreadable as he passed along the lines of wagons.

The trade guards, in turn, offered only murmured nods and the occasional reassured glance as he examined the harnessing and bridling of the waiting horses.

It wasn’t until Garris’ stern gaze had passed over every wagon that he finally turned away from the lead vehicle.

He paused then, and looked over the gathered train.

A long pause.

Garris’ arm shot out suddenly.

The line of trade guards instinctively stiffened.

With a sweeping movement, Garris brought his outstretched arm down.

"Allright, boys!"

He shouted.

"Mount up! Eyes wide and stay sharp! We’re moving out!"

Immediately the horses began to fidget.

A beat later and the lead wagon’s wheels groaned and ground against the dirt as it rolled forward.

One by one the vehicles followed until the train was underway, the wheels creaking in protest over the winding road.

The gray dust billowed out behind the wagons, and soon Valen would disappear from sight.

Half a dozen paces in the rear, Shadow One calmly stepped up to the rearmost wagon.

Without a word he swung himself aboard, seating himself between two great bags of grain.

The instant he settled into a seat the old vehicle groaned beneath him. The wood of the wagon’s frame sagged under the Shadow’s weight.

Several mounted guards along the road turned curious eyes toward the figure seated in the rear.

They’d heard stories of him in Valen, had seen the man’s lean, muscled frame and the impossible strength in his arms and shoulders.

But they weren’t prepared for the feeling of uneasiness Arthur gave the guards in passing.

It was one thing to hear of a man who could snap an ironwood limb with a single snap.

It was quite another to actually see him seated in a common trading wagon, as if it were made to carry his bulk.

Their glances passed back along the line of wagons.

The last thing the trade guards took in before returning their attention to the road was the stoic and silent figure seated in the rearmost vehicle.

Shadow One didn’t move.

Nor did he speak.

As if the young guards needed any more reason to fidget, the new wagon master, Jory, suddenly slowed his riding pace until he was alongside the rear wagon.

He risked a curious look at the hooded giant inside.

The young hunter hesitated for only a moment before he carefully turned to face the massive mercenary.

There for once, was a face unadorned by any shadow.

A grizzled, furrowed visage with eyes the color of burning copper. That’s how Jory would describe him to his friend Elias back in Valen.

He didn’t notice the other’s eyes narrowing slightly.

"Hey, so what were your name if I might ask?" A young hunter asked.

At the lack of response he merely shrugged it off.

"The name’s Arthur,"

He added with a nervous smile.

"The whole town’s been talking about it for the past few days. You’re not much of a talker, are you?"

Still Shadow One said little as he gazed past the small opening of the canvas cover to the land ahead.

He was silent even as several other hunters passed him by.

Jory sighed.

"Understandable really. There always seems to be types like that with a name, but rarely with something to go by."

He gave a nervous chuckle and glanced towards the mercenary.

"I just can’t help finding your looks a little...surprising.

Not that there’s anything wrong with it,"

Jory quickly added,

"But that doesn’t seem like your usual type.

A fighting man such as yourself would’ve first seen service with one of the northern military guilds. Yet even back in Valen, I’ve never seen a man built like you—someone who could snap an iron branch with nothing but a single yank of his hand."

A second long pause settled between the hunter and the mercenary, broken only when the young hunter turned back to the road to gaze out over the western hills.

"Maybe he doesn’t have anything to say.

I understand it, really.

Not all individuals seem to enjoy conversation."

Jory’s fingers absently fidgeted on the reins until he felt a presence near him.

"Jory,"

a rough voice spoke.

The young hunter turned his head to regard the older hunter that had pulled up alongside of him.

"Leave the man be.

He seems like the type that wouldn’t talk even if he was being skewered."

Jory blinked at the words.

"He isn’t in any kind of condition to talk I suppose."

muttered Kern, pulling up alongside the youth.

"If he was then he’s certainly not willing to.

Doesn’t matter.

I see talkative fighters that get bored, and sometimes ones that try so hard for the ladies it’s almost comical.

Still,"

Kern gave a rough chuckle,

"do you really think a man that could snap an iron branch would talk much?"

Jory shivered.

He felt that the older warrior meant every word.

Again he turned to regard the lone mercenary in the rear.

The giant still held his steady gaze forwards on the road.

The look hadn’t changed since the young hunter had joined up with him.

That was when Jory knew that the rearmost wagon had become a living embodiment of unwavering silence.

He could feel eyes on him like a dog sensing prey to hunt.

And the more he turned to glance backwards, the longer this particular "prey" stood his ground.

With a grunt to clear the sudden tightness in his throat, Jory turned forward.

"Right,"

he mumbled, nudging his horse forwards to fall in alongside the other wagons.

The truth would soon enough become apparent to all the guards.

No matter how hard they fidgeted or mumbled, Arthur wouldn’t talk to them.

Not at all.

This presented an odd sensation to the men as they rode.

A strange detachment, and the uncanny feeling that Arthur didn’t really notice them at all.

Even as the group broke for a midday meal by a mountain spring the young mercenary sat with his usual blank expression.

A few of the guards, like Kern, had learned not to worry or question someone like Arthur.

But the others could only stare at the strangely silent giant.

Was he just a man of few words?

Did he hate his fellow man because of some past betrayal or abuse suffered?

Or maybe, just maybe, had Arthur no interest in them at all besides the coin the paid him?

Whatever the reason, and whatever his feelings may have been on the matter, after Jory’s earlier attempt nobody else was willing to try and strike up a conversation with Arthur.

By midday the caravan had broken for a rest by a nearby freshwater spring.

The horses were led to drink, and several trade guards took the opportunity to relax their stiff backs and sore necks.

Garris was the first to arrive at the end wagon.

After wiping the sweat from his brow onto his tunic sleeve he stepped up onto the wagon’s wooden steps and surveyed the silent figure inside.

"Arthur,"

called the leader.