The sun had long set. The frigid breeze passing through signaled the forthcoming winter season. The few leaves still clutching onto their branches would soon be gingerly pulled away from the trees, and the farmhands still growing barley have all but concluded their business. To the scant few villagers living along the riverbank of Czarnia, country of magick, this landscape had become part of the autumn routine. However today, their children would excitedly shake the parents awake in the middle of the night. Most adults were quick to dismiss their sons and daughters’ pleas to get out of bed, but a handful chose to entertain the young ones, albeit knowing that what they were saying was impossible.

“The fireflies came back!”

And yet… There they were. At the opposite bank of the river, swarms of lightning bugs seemed to be riding the gusts of air in droves, reflecting off the rippling water before disappearing into the night. Immediately, the villagers wondered what the fireflies were doing here now. These bugs all die out in the late summer season – none should be able to survive this late into the year. The children watched as their parents’ faces turned from those of whimsy to confusion, and shortly thereafter, to alarm. Looking for answers, everyone’s gaze eventually wandered onto an ominous red glow, just barely peeking out from over the horizon. Even from such an immense distance, the villagers could tell that the black smoke billowing from over the hills was far too viscous to be coming from an ordinary fire.

These weren’t fireflies – it was wooden ash, and embers.

At the epicenter of the red glow was a sprawling mercenary camp of not insignificant proportions. Nestled by the riverbank, hidden amongst the lush forest of Czarnia were The Five Thousand – soldiers of fortune notorious not so much for their skill or brutality, but for the overwhelming numbers their group commanded. To the right buyer, the mercenary band was less a weapon-for-hire, and more a jack-of-all-trades – after all, a group of five thousand magick-wielding soldiers ought to have at least one with the skillset you require. The small army had dug in for the night, unaware of the calamity that hung over their heads. 

For most of the soldiers, it was either the scalding heat, or the distant screams of comrades-in-arms that woke them up. Tar-like smoke poured from every direction, obfuscating what little light the strung-up torches could provide. The mercenaries could feel as their lungs and throats swelled from breathing in the ash, and many began retching as the smell of soured, burned flesh permeated the pockets of breathable air. Trying to peer past their teary eyes, the soldiers searched for assistance from the lookout towers, from the sentries that were supposed to prevent this disaster. All were missing from their posts. The wind began to howl, dragging the already ashen trees from the surrounding forest down onto the mercenary encampment. Seeking refuge in the raging river nearby, most victims had neither the strength nor the physical fortitude to swim through the ice-cold water, drowning in the process. Men tore their throats apart calling for help. Corpses turned to charcoal. The encampment mirrored Pandæmonium – the capital of Hell. A handful of soldiers still conscious felt their eyelids burn away, forced to spend their last moments searching for the devil responsible.

Only one would catch a glimpse.

The amount of space our smuggler spared for the three of us beneath the false bottom of his wagon teetered on being insulting. The musty smell of his usual stock, root vegetables and unbaked clay, had permeated the entire wooden compartment, and the meager few breathing holes he’d burred into it did little to ventilate, much less illuminate the cramped space. Not to mention, every time the smuggler decides to ride straight across a ditch in the–

*thud*

“Asswipe! Keep your eyes on the road!”

Before I was even able to bang my fist against the compartment’s ceiling, a kick to my chest pushed all the air out from my lungs. The woman sitting ahead snarled at me:

“Shut yer trap, shitheel. Some of us are trying to get shut-eye.”

“Or what – you’ll hit me over the head with your stub?”

For the next few minutes, the cart swerved intermittently to the left and right, each turn accompanied by muffled profanities. There was a lot of kicking, biting, and strangling involved.

“For the record, you’d be sprawled out on the ground if we were throwing punches, amput- “

I couldn’t quite get the last word out on account of the amputee tightening her chokehold.

“For the last time, it’s Rum!” the villain snarled back. “R-U-M! Rum! It’s three letters; bullshit you can’t remember three letters!”

“Hrrrrrk… Ghhhrrk” I valiantly retorted. Unfortunately, before I was able to push off of the floor and smash Rum into the compartment wall, our third cohabiter decided to step in.

“Alright, knock it off you two.”

“Get back to sleep Wulfram!” the girl snapped back, “If you need peace and quiet, then consider this a favor!”

What followed was a drawn-out tug-of-war between the amputee and the tattooist – a fight which, thankfully, was heavily stacked against Rum’s favor, seeing as how I was the rope. We were all awake now, but too tired to voice our complaints for the moment. In between haggard breaths, I spoke first.

“It’s a miracle I even found anyone willing to smuggle us out of Fleurand, and this is the thanks I get?”

“Are you seriously saying that after you got the three of us declared wanted by the state?!” Rum retorted. “The baroness didn’t even seem mean-spirited! Did you say something to her?”

“Actually, it turns out that was a Countess,” Wulfram chimed in, making the situation sound worse than it probably was.

“We scammed a Countess?!”

I moved in to deftly diffuse the situation.

“I just want to make it known that my plan would’ve worked perfectly if I also knew that we were scamming a Countess and not a Baroness.”

As if possessed, Rum again tried flinging herself at me feet-first – her evil plan only thwarted thanks to Wulfram still holding her tightly. Before she was able to let off a whirlwind of insults, the tattooist moved his hand to cover her mouth.

“I’m just saying, small-time Baron-ranked nobles have too much pride to admit they were cheated, and not enough connections to properly retaliate. How the hell was I supposed to know this particular noblewoman also knew some people in the Fleurand Royal family?”

Although he wasn’t letting it show on his face, Wulfram’s hand was probably getting gnashed on by Rum, who seemed to have started foaming at the mouth after hearing my reasoning.

“Let’s just take this as a lesson learnt.” Wulfram mediated, “We should probably look for more legitimate ways to make money once we arrive in Ferroth, maybe at some guild– ”

The tattooist suddenly moved his hand off of Rum’s mouth.

“Did you just lick my hand?”

“I’m profoundly impressed that’s all she did to you.” I quickly added.

“I don’t bite people who have good ideas.”

I could feel a vein pop out from the side of my forehead.

“And who has time for legitimate work? A gentle reminder that our only marketable experience is being mercenaries – people who famously avoid legitimate work. Or did you both want to open a tattoo parlor?”

Wulfram remained stoic, although it was too dark in the compartment for me to discern what face he was making. Rum answered in his defense.

“Asshole, we’re just asking that our next job doesn’t get us blacklisted from a third country. Wulfram can cast magick – that should be enough to find some steadier work.”

“Right, the pre-eminent tattoo magus. Wait ‘till you see the finesse with which he moves the tattoos on his body!”

“You don’t even know what kind of magick you’re able to use!”

“And you can’t use any!”

If the air in the smuggler’s cart had been any less thin, I’m sure myself and Rum would’ve tussled again then and there. Instead, all three of us marinated in uncomfortable silence, all bitter over the fact that somehow, we’re even more useless working alone. After organizing my thoughts, I spoke again.

“Wulfram, how much money do we have left?”

I could hear the delicate clinking of coins as the tattooist counted our haul by feel.

“6 gold coins, and some handfuls of silver and bronze,” he said, almost dejectedly, “the smuggler charged 3 golds, so the most we can do right now is each take a ship from Ferroth to the island nation.”

That’s terrible.

“That’s great, but do you both really think we can scrounge up 5 more golds through ‘legitimate means’ before Fleurand starts asking their neighbors whether they’ve seen us?”

Rum interjected before Wulfram was able to answer.

“Those 5 golds are your problem. My side of the deal ends the moment I set foot on Helvia, and we have enough money to do that right now. The only reason for us to stay in Ferroth at all is to help the tattooist look for his friend.”

Wulfram didn’t add anything, but he was probably nodding along with Rum’s declaration. Still, even if she’s hot-headed, Rum isn’t dense – she knows we don’t have funds to spare for hiring a higher-level magus as a bodyguard, and three useless mercenaries are always safer than two.

“We’re not in any rush.” She started speaking in a softer tone. “And you know as well as I that claiming we’re members of The Five Thousand will eventually bite us in the ass.”

“We technically are members, you know.”

“Don’t play coy. Once news spreads that the band is missing, or worse, turned to fucking ash, anyone who’s ever had a problem with The Five Thousand gets the green light to do whatever they want to us.”

I couldn’t think of any rebuttal. Wulfram finally spoke up again:

“There’s always someone in these villages with a tattoo they want gone, and they don’t pay me peanuts either. Besides, local guilds always have odd jobs leftover.” He leaned in closer. “But if we cut you in, no more scams, and no more dealings with nobles.”

Both he and Rum now got close enough to me that I could make out their individual faces.

“That clear, Erland?” They both said in unison.

“Crystal.”