Chapter 29

December 16th, 2020

“You know that when I said, 'if you can convince Angra', I didn't expect the convincing to be quite so violent.” Zechariah said as he drove the wagon pulled by two horses along the quiet forest road. In the back, laying down due to his wounded leg, Gerb grunted in agreement. Looking over his shoulder, Zechariah could just see markings of five graves, and an unmarked one. He watched them, until they were swallowed up by the forest. He wondered how long it might be before they were missed, before they were found. All at once, an entire family was gone, and his hands were red.

“You think they'll be alright?” Zechariah asked.

“Do you really care?” Gerb replied.

Zechariah turned back and snapped the reigns, encouraging the horses to trot as they made their way Edgeward. “I suppose a part of me wants to, and another part is relieved that I don't.”

“Why do you want to care? What's the point of that?” Gerb asked.

“Weren't you the one who, not three days ago, was trying to tell me to care?” Zechariah retorted.

“About innocent lives yeah, sure. Them? Us? Not one bit.”

“Fine, whatever. Then I don't care, but I'm just curious.” conceded Zechariah.

“Well,” pondered Gerb, “Lalita will be fine, and probably make a good whore and that madman, Dáithí, will overestimate his crew's abilities, and get them killed, and then he'll probably ride alone.”

“Madman?” Zechariah asked shifting on the bench of the wagon. “Dáithí seemed the most level of all of you.”

“You never really saw him in combat. There's a reason Angra kept him on guard and watch. He's lethal, and loves his bow too much.”

“How so?”

Frowning and laying back in the wagon, Gerb tucked his hands beneath his head. “It was after a rather intense fight. We were raiding a caravan, killing the guards taking what we could, and we needed help. Dáithí wasn't interested in helping. He climbed on top of one of the caravans and started unloading his quiver into fleeing children. Said they were, 'better targets cause they were small and harder to hit.'

Zechariah felt a deep revulsion and a tension rise through his bones. The feeling made him glad. Glad that he could still feel such disgust.

April 2nd, 2021

They traveled in silence for much of the time. Gerb...being a quiet man by nature, and Zechariah having spent most of his time in the company of his tools, neither was particularly keen or interested in striking up conversation. Rises came and Fall went, and the moments passed into days, and they road in peace, avoiding travelers on the roads by traversing closer to the Barrens then most. It was quieter, but also slower, as the untainted land was difficult for the horse to navigate safely, and the wagon jostled violently across the clumps of dirt and grass that joyfully potted the grasslands. This joy was not particularly welcomed by Gerb who's leg pained him greatly. At night they could see the distant lights of villages and hamlets, the firepits and chimneys smoking merrily in the bleak dark, mocking them as they kept their fires tamped low to avoid as much attention as they could manage.

Zechariah helped Gerb off the wagon, and gave him the crutch he had fashioned out of a sapling, and watched as Gerb hobbled over to the fire, and set himself down with some effort. Zechariah scratched his chin, brow furrowed before climbing into the wagon and opening the barrel of water they carried with them.

"We're running low." Zechariah commented as he filled a small pot with water and grabbing a loaf of pemmican, an onion and some spices. Bringing the ingredients over, he set the bowl on a rock almost right in the fire, and into it he began to break off pieces of the pemmican.

"More lovely rations for supper?" Gerb grumbled in his usual dour fashion.

"We've been over this...we're not eating the other food." Zechariah said not looking up from his work.

Gerb nodded, groaning as he stretched his leg, and pulled off his breeches. He unwrapped the bandage from his wound. Puss filled, oozing and swollen, it was not healing well. "By Gorgoth's Bastards..." Gerb cursed as he covered his nose, and then Zechariah smelled the stench of decaying flesh. His wound was infected and dying.

"Shit." Zechariah said putting aside his preparations and coming over to inspect the wound more closely. After some poking and prodding much to Gerb's frustration, Zechariah sat back and ran a hand through his hair. "We need to find an apothecary." He concluded, brow furrowed in worry. "I have no idea how to heal an infection."

"An apothecary? Are you serious?" Gerb asked incredulously. "We're lucky to find a handy widow out here who'd be willing to help us, much less a recognized apothecary."

"Got a better idea other than dying? Cause I can't amputate if gangrene sets in, I'd just make it worse."

"Apothecaries mean guards. Guards means city watch. City watch means bounties." Gerb growled in frustration.

"And not facing those bounties means death." Zechariah said as he stood back up and resumed cooking. Taking out a knife, he began to cut the onion into the now steaming pot of water. "Do you know the nearest town big enough that might house one?"

Gerb was silent for a moment, before Zechariah shot him a glare. Rolling his eyes he answered, "Stormridge. It's a town...or...small city...something like that. Most of the villages out here are farmlands. Stormridge is the center of trade for these small towns. Not big or very important to anyone beyond the hamlets out here, but if anywhere will have a physician, it'll be Stormridge."

"Good." Zechariah said as he got up and retrieved a few biscuits of tack, and tossed them into the pot to soften. "How far away is it?"

Gerb looked around in the rapidly dimming light of the Sunpeak trying to get an accurate guess of his baring's. "Probably two days ride For-Edge, on the coast."

"Then that's where we'll go." Zechariah said nodding as he stirred the pot, adding in some salt and pepper.

"Zech..." Gerb said in a firm voice. "I can't go in to Stormridge. I will be arrested and killed. Or just killed."

"Sure. Maybe. But if we don't you'll die out here for certain."

"I'm willing to die for my family Zech. But I'm not just going to hand myself in anywhere! I'd rather die out here, than at the hands of some random, little bounty hungry shite!"

"Wouldn't you rather have the chance to see your family again! Instead of just resigning yourself to Gorgoths Maw!" Zechariah shouted back angrily. Gerb sat silent, grinding his teeth. "Look," Zechariah continued more calmly rubbing his eyes, "We'll go to Stormridge. I'll take the horse into town, with some stuff to sell, and see if I can't hire a physician. Then, I'll bring the physician to you, so you don't have to go in. Alright?"

"And if I get found by patrols? Or other bandits? Or a wild animal?"

"Then I guess you'll fucking die like you're so desperate to do, and I'll finally be rid of your sorry ass!" Zechariah exclaimed before taking a sip of the watery stew.

There was a moment of silence, before Zechariah looked over his shoulder at the sound of low chuckling. He shook his head in disbelief, ignoring the crazed ex-raider. "Infections not in your leg, it's in your brain." He muttered grabbing two bowels. He scooped a biscuit into each bowl, and ladled a portion of the stew over each, handing one to Gerb. "I'll be better off once your head's high on a pike."

"Undoubtedly." Gerb said with a wry grin. "Been what I've been trying to help you with all along."

Zechariah snorted a laugh shaking his head. "I don't get why I like you Gerb. You're a wet blanket on a cold morning."

Gerb grunted in amused agreement, and they ate their stew in silence.

April 4th, 2021

The next morning, Zechariah packed up most of the camp, tried to was Gerb's wound with some boiled water, rebandaged it, and then, turned the horse Fore, heading towards the coast, and further into populated lands. Thinking it prudent, he stashed his scimitar in the wagon, instead of carrying it on his belt. Not a lot of people carried weapons on them. They were usually worn by the trained, the ambitious, or the criminal. So anyone who carried a weapon and did not wear an immediately identifiable sigil, were always viewed with suspicion. So, it sat, not buried, but tucked away behind Zechariah, above Gerb's head who, at this moment, lay sweating in the bed of the wagon, breathing becoming shallow, as a fever was beginning to set in. With a quick snap of the reigns, Zechariah urged the horses on, for time was not on their side.

Onwards they went, and they began to cross trails, that turned to paths, that soon became roads, and their journey was quicker for it, though notably more dangerous. The occasional farmer entourage of wagons and workers was of little worry. To them, Zechariah and Gerb would be little more than a couple of workers on their way to or from a homestead, one who suffered an injury on a farm.

Caravan guards, mercenaries or other such hired hands of the violent variety however, were a different matter. Men of that disposition always had their eyes out for ways to earn extra draws and, were often sharp of eye for the bounty boards. Rather than two worn farm hands, swords for hire would see the long cycles of dirt. They would see the scars that might be born, they would see the watchful tense eye, and they would look for hidden weapons.

So it was, that Zechariah pulled on a cloak and kept its hood up. Suspicious? Perhaps, but he'd rather be a passing question, than a remembered or recognized face. Much to Gerb's discomfort, Zechariah tossed a blanket over him and the other goods, to keep the inquisitive eyes at bay. By the end of that first day however, Gerb could no longer bare the heat, and he was deathly thirsty, having sweated profusely, and constantly. His eyes had trouble focusing, and his breath was becoming labored. He barely ate that night, though Zechariah forced him to drink plenty of water, and wrapped him up as Gerb shivered against the heat.
Nov 1st, 2021
Some portions of text have been written on paper. Will be uploaded at a later date. Following chapter (30) is picking up where NaNoWriMo 2021 starts in my physical texts.