The Traveller, by Dan Mapleston

3870.CE

The wind-swept town of Dar-Esa was a sleepy place on most days. A convenient trading centre along the Great Grainway, nestled peacefully on the border of Estacarr. Between a steady flow of merchants and wanderers, the town got by; its people road-weary, quiet, and rarely looking for trouble.

Today, however, was market day. Once a week, the place burst to life with noise, colour, and the mingled scents of spiced meat, ripe fruit, and livestock thick in the air.

An old Yan traveller in a long dustcoat wove through the crowds with a quiet urgency. He paused at a wooden jewellery stall to exchange a few words with the young girl behind the counter. She greeted him with a smile and an outstretched arm. He reached to shake hands, but the moment their palms met, the warmth vanished from her face. Trying to remain calm, she discreetly slipped the carved stone disc he had passed her into a pouch.

Wordlessly, the man offered her a sad smile and a small, reassuring nod, then moved on. He had barely taken three steps past a fig vendor when the Men-at-Arms appeared.

Two of them, disguised in drab outfits, had swept through the crowd. A firm hand clamped over his mouth before he could cry out, and cold metal pressed hard against his ribs.

A voice at his ear spoke flatly and without emotion, “Walk.”

He recognised the Basilean accent, and did not resist. Looking back towards the jewellery stall, he was relieved to see that the young woman was gone, having melted away into the bustling crowd.

They steered him down a narrow alley and into the timbered belly of the village tavern. Dwarfen cooks looked up but said nothing. The elven barmaid didn’t flinch. They all knew better than to ask questions of their guests.

Down they went through the cellar door, into a cool stone room lit by flickering torchlight. The traveller was dumped bodily into a wooden chair, his wrists bound in place, and his escorts then departed without a word.

A bald man in clean blue robes emerged from the gloom. Beside him stepped a young woman in travel-worn leathers, scratched armour, and a faded cloak. He recognised her from one of their local briefings: Alanis. She led a growing company of trusted companions, using Dar-Esa as a safe town from which to investigate the increasing presence of goblins and ratkin in the region. He suspected that they had not discovered the cause, as they had already begun preparations to depart for Samarik now that Winter was giving way to Spring.

She certainly didn’t waste any time. From a satchel, she drew a stone fragment bearing part of a carved symbol and rested it on the wooden table beside him, angled so he could see it clearly.

“Word is,” she said, her voice calm, yet with a hint of steel, “that you have something like this. Only complete.”

The traveller’s eyes flicked to the piece of stone. Then he shrugged and laid on an exaggerated accent.

“I did,” he said. “Traded it to an ogre huntress on the Mammoth Steppe, north of Zarak. She swapped it for a silk handkerchief and a - ”

The slap cut him short.

Alanis had stepped close, her voice low and steady. “I spot liars at a hundred paces. I found this piece myself and thought nothing of it, until more started turning up. Then I began to wonder if they’re part of something bigger. A message, maybe?”

She narrowed her eyes. “We’ve been tracking you, you know. Watched you sketching town layouts, palisades, defensive lines. You’re not just trading silks and spices. So tell me, these fragments. What are they?”

He hesitated, weighing the odds. Things were already in motion, so there was little need to test what this young woman and her quiet companion might be capable of.

“My mission,” he said at last, “is on one face, and the other reminds me always of my allegiance.” He gave a casual shrug. “We break the tablets when our task is complete. If we are compromised, we pass it onto another to act in our place. And I have been careful.”

The wizard approached, his palm crackling with blue flame.

“Not careful enough, spy,” he said.

The traveller studied the fire and raised an eyebrow.

“You are a witch?”, he asked. “It seems there will be some justice done here after all.”

Alanis’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

There was a long pause.

“You are the ones being hunted, even if you do not realise it.” A sneer passed over the traveller’s previously calm face, just for a heartbeat. “But you will.”

The wizard’s flame flared as his gaze hardened.

The Yan's still demeanour returned, and he continued. “It has already begun, you see.”

Alanis gripped his shoulder hard, and her eyes bored into his as her mind landed on the right question. “Just where are you from?”

“An empire defied by a town,” the traveller said. There was a long pause, and he continued.

“We made our customary three offers to comply, and Dar-Esa refused them all. My masters are honourable however. The elders here were informed what would happen, and even when we would arrive.”

Alanis blinked. “I never heard about this. This is a trading town, everyone is still here!”

“Indeed. It seems the elders don't want to accept what is happening, nor risk unrest. And yet...”

The ground gave a low tremor, there was a sound of falling stone, and the torchlight flickered. The prisoner’s chair shuddered, and the Basileans looked up sharply to see if the cellar was collapsing. Long-empty bottles tumbled from their shelves and shattered. Realising that they had heard the town wall crumbling, Alanis reached down into the cellar’s dim corner, collecting her mace with a practised motion.

“What do they want with us?” she barked, staring intently into her prisoner’s eyes.

Another shudder passed through the earth around them, there was the sound of more destruction above, and the torch went out with a hiss. The traveller’s voice echoed faintly in the pitch darkness.

“I believe, my friends, that you are out of time.”

The war wizard’s palm flared, casting everything into a ghostly blue light.

A scream tore through the tavern, echoing down the stairwell. It was sharp, wet, and abruptly cut off. Then came the growls, inhuman and hungry. Feet pounded. Chairs scraped. A final crash, followed by stillness.

The tavern floorboards groaned. Something stepped heavily across the floor above.

Then came the slow, unmistakable creak of the cellar door opening.

Alanis reached out and, to her prisoner’s surprise, cut him free.

He stared at her. “Why?”

“You said they’re honourable,” she replied. “Maybe you can buy us time.”

The traveller watched, eyebrows raised, as Alanis turned to the stairs.

“You’re my translator now,” she told him. “Steel yourself, because I’m certainly not dying down here.”

And with that, the strange trio climbed up into the dark, toward the growling, gnashing roars waiting above.

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