Cold obsidian

Sasler didn’t care about the old road, but he did care about his forest. Those two had just left the road and entered his territory! He grabbed his rifle, ripped the cloth off the scope, and took a closer look at the intruders.

He was glad he hadn't rushed to pull the trigger. The strangers looked very much like old Crogan's bandits, kevlar cloaks and all. It took him a whole minute to realize they weren't a part of the gang.

These two carried no guns with them, just three swords and a short bow. Plus, their chargas were heavily laden, obviously for travelling purposes.

Fools. Two young fools either seeking adventures or trying to make a shortcut through the Burnt Region despite all the warnings they no doubt got. Or, maybe, they are not fools at all, but in fact, someone much worse than Crogan’s thugs are…

Sasler tarried, balancing in indecision. The riders, two tiny black specks on the yellowish-green grassy carpet of the valley, were slowly moving in his direction. He couldn’t just kill them, not while them being i

Sasler’s family was used to him being absent from home for days when he hunted, so he was in no hurry. He kept his distance, he stayed in shadows, he observed his targets from the higher ground.

From time to time he removed the cloth from the scope and took a closer look at the strangers. The scope’s high-power lens, a technological marvel no less wonderful than magic, allowed him to see their faces if he wanted and learn what they talked about. During the decades of hunting Crogan’s thugs, Sasler became quite good at lip-reading. This alone made him a threat to be feared enough to stay away from his forest. He was a local dark legend, an evil spirit reading people’s minds, striking from nowhere, unseen, unreachable, too precise to be human. Unknown to the outer world, the lonely hunter with a scope on his rifle kept Crogan's gang away from the south road and the towns it led to.

Sasler’s family knew his secret, but nobody else did. Crogan, who was way too religious for a bandit, saw the “ghost shooter” as a punishment from gods, always wondering what would they punish him for. Didn’t he pray often enough? Weren’t his sacrifices generous?

Old Crogan had killed a lot of people during his lifetime, loved a good torture too. If you had asked him whether he remembered a boy he had tortured to death for pure fun in his youth he’d just say, “Which one?” for there were many. Sasler did remember, though. The boy was his firstborn son…

“No, these two are neither Crogan’s thugs nor some other threat,” concluded Sasler by the end of the day.

The strangers, a girl and a boy, had young, honest faces. They smiled and laughed often, making jokes and sharing stories as they walked. Sasler himself couldn’t help an occasional chuckle while lip-reading their conversations.

“Adventurers,” he thought, “Young and stupid, brave and defenceless… The boy looks a bit like my late son. He must be about the same age… Sure, I’ll let them pass through my lands, but what then? What will happen when they enter Crogan’s territory?” Sasler squinted. He didn’t like the choice he faced. His family, wife and little son waiting for him at home, were on his mind, they always were, but now his late boy was too.

“No! No, damn it!” he whispered angrily waving the dark thoughts away. “I’ll look after the kids. I’ll keep them safe if I can.”

The evening came, gentle and breezy, so unlike the harsh desert nights Kangassk knew. It was time to camp, to everyone’s joy, chargas included. The beasts got tired too. Once freed from their burden they got themselves busy stripping the young trees from bark which was obviously a treat for them. Chargas are omnivorous, so they could go hunting if they wanted. These two weren’t in the mood for the hunt, though.

Vlada sent Kangassk to gather brushwood. By the time he had returned she had built a proper fire pit, with a little cauldron hanging on a hook above the neat ring of stones. The cauldron was filled with water, bits of salted meat and dried bread – the simplest wayfarer food. All that was missing was fire.

“Isn’t it dangerous to build a fire here?” asked Kangassk who felt uneasy in the forest. “What if somebody finds us?”

“I think it’s quite safe,” Vlada assured him. “As far as I know, the local bandits avoid this forest. They believe it to be haunted or something…”

“Oh, wonderful!” Kangassk gulped. “Then I’d better build the fire right away. At least I’ll feel safer.”

He didn’t even look at the tinderbox. Most likely he didn’t even know what a tinderbox was. Why would a Kuldagan dweller even need such a thing to make a fire? They have dragonlighters for that.

Kan promptly fished the dragonlighter out of his pocket. The pocket dragon was squeaking, clawing at his jacket, and trying to squirm out of his grasp. The little thing had just eaten all the tasty crumbles Kan poured into the pocket, so it was too full and sleepy to work, no wonder it was fighting back.

“See, this is a lighter,” said Kangassk, showing the dragon to Vlada. “Just squeeze it in your hand and – whoosh! – you have fire.”

Then he did squeeze the little dragon in his hand and moved its snout above the brushwood. The branches were a bit damp, so it took them some time to catch fire.

“See!” said Kan, clearly proud of himself. “Lighters are cool! We…”

There came a thin farting sound… Kan stopped dead mid-sentence, swore, and opened his hand. There was a grey foul-smelling spot on his palm.

“You little shit!” he roared.

Vlada had several minutes of good laugh as she watched Kangassk chase the rebellious dragon in the tall grass. The nimble little creature apparently had a lot of fun as well. After its owner had tired himself out and dropped the chase it quietly returned to its nest in the jacket.

It took way longer for Vlada to calm down. She burst out laughing every time she looked at Kangassk.

“He either has a rear valve defect like half of the lighters have or maybe he’s just an uppish beast…” Kan tried to explain, so hilariously embarrassed it only made Vlada’s fits of laughter worse.

Sasler didn’t quite understand what had just happened down there but seeing the kids laugh he couldn’t help but smile himself. He wished he could warn them somehow.

The young adventurers went to sleep without leaving a lookout. They trusted their chargas to keep them safe. The beasts had keen hearing and could see in the dark as well as cats do. On top of all that they were huge, sharp-toothed, long-clawed, and insanely fast. The kids carelessly used them as fluffy pillows at the moment, but if Sasler had attempted to approach the camp the beasts would be at his throat in no time. Approaching the kids in the daytime was a no go as well. This way he’d have to deal with the nervous young archer as well as chargas.

That night Sasler went to sleep with a heavy heart.

Riding a charga is like riding a wind. Kan read about the nomads who lived on the edge of the civilized parts of Omnis and rode the tall beasts with cloven feet. The nomads’ legs bent in as a result of so much harsh riding, their backs suffered as well. No charga rider ever faced such problems. Chargas run as lightly as they walk.

The day went well. Nobody bothered the travellers, the ancient woods didn’t slow chargas much. Kangassk, a desert dweller to the bone as he was, finally put up with the forest. It didn’t seem so “haunted” in the bright sunlight, after all. Also, Vlada’s unruffled composure reassured him every time his fears tried to return.