Free Farmers & Mercenaries by Maxwell Alexander Drake

yourself, even though we all think you are bound for something more. Yet what do I have to look forward to, huh? I do not have a famous brother gallivanting around the Plane! I did not pass the Test when I took it! Remember! I am a fielder, plain and simple. Do not try and…” Kicking dirt at Arderi, Riln stormed off toward the other fielders. “Nix, forget it.”
    Arderi watched Riln stride toward the other men, the remainder of his food held tight in hand. “It is not that…” He spoke under his breath, then raised his voice. “Riln, I am sorry!”
    Riln simply waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder and hopped into a wagon with a few other men.
    Rolling over on his back, Arderi stared up into the clear-blue sky.
    It is not that! It is this… gnawing in the back of my mind that something is not right. And it scares me. I do not understand why, yet by the Twelve, I am scared!

T he day had turned out to be a good one for Clytus Rillion. He had spent much of the morning in the bazaar procuring the last of the items needed for his trip—filling some five or six wagonloads of supplies for himself and his men. Very little else needed to be done. All stood in readiness.
    “I will give you three Pynes per stone, Grilmire, and I will take all you have.” Clytus waited for the fat merchant sitting in front of him, sweating even in the cool breeze of spring, to mull over the offer.
    “Three Pynes is a bit shy. Still, if you take the full two hundred stones worth…” Grilmire whipped a multicolored cloth across his brow. A grunt escaped his lips causing his multiple chins to jiggle. “I do not even know why I bother haggling with you, Master Rillion! You come to me knowing what you will pay. Fine, all will be ready come morn. Everything we have agreed on will be loaded and waiting for you outside my warehouse in Gatetown.”
    Shaking the merchant’s ringed hand, Clytus pulled out a small sack containing coins and bounced it in the palm of his hand. “Aye, mayhaps you lose the ability to haggle. Still, you know where you stand with me.” He tossed the bag onto the wooden counter between them. “And I always come to you first for my supplies.”
    The merchant, Grilmire, eyed the list of items he had written down. The sleeve of his tent-like silken robe—red covered in green and yellow embroidery in swirling patterns—billowed in the slight breeze of the Bazaar. “I think it will all fit on two wagons. You say you also need dayhires to drive them?”
    “Aye. I have four wagons already loaded at my villa. I have men that can drive them to Gatetown, yet only one of those will be accompanying me on my journey north, so I will need five men to drive up to the Wartin’alan stead. I will pay for their lodging there and they can return home on the morrow.”
    “Who will drive them on the morrow after that?” The merchant squinted at Clytus.
    “My merc troop is camped near Wartin’alan. I will pull men from their ranks to drive the rest of the way.”
    “Two hundred stones of dried beef, half hundred of salt, a veritable wagon load of dried fruit, and the list goes on. All this will last even your troop of hungry men for quite some time. I have never known you to travel out so far.” Grilmire did not bother counting the coin and simply moved the bag from the table to a lockbox on the floor.
    “Aye, this one is personal. We will be heading off into the Nektine.” At the puzzled look from his old friend, Clytus sighed. “The Nektine Mountains. North, past the Artoc River.”
    “What? Up near Stillwater way?” Grilmire looked shocked.
    “Aye, we will be crossing the Artoc at Stillwater.”
    “What in the name of the Eternals would drag you up there? Are not those the lands of the wild O’Arkins?”
    “Aye, yet it is not O’Arkin we hunt, it is something much, much worse. And more precious to me than you will ever know, my old friend.”
    The fat merchant grunted. “I hear the ruckus in the coliseum has