Riley had travelled until the sun began to set, casting rays of murky sunlight through the treeline. It had been easy enough to find a clearing to set up camp in, mercifully safe, and he quickly set up a tent and fire after he’d hitched Scarlet to a tree.

  He still wasn’t much for hunting, but Scarlet’s saddlebags had been filled with preserved rations. The Strays were generous to newcomers, fortunately, but he knew he’d have to be careful not to eat too much before he could restock.

  His campfire was a small and furtive thing, eating away at the branches he’d pulled from the dead ciern. Arubis sat quietly, her hands in her lap, while Mesquard nibbled on a chunk of jerky.

  I say, noble emissary, Mesquard said in between furious nibbles. I didn’t realise the climate could be so pleasant beyond the mountains. A shame my siblings are not here to see it.

  Riley shrugged. “Dunno if pleasant is the word to use.”

  He sat with his mask in his lap and slowly gnawed at the jerky he’d taken. It wasn’t the most pleasant thing to eat, certainly lacked the flavourings he’d enjoyed back in is old life. But he couldn’t afford to be hasty. He knew he’d have to learn to hunt at some point, practicing his aim with a crossbow. For now the best he could do was set out snared and hope for the best. Even if eating nothing but rabbit meat was hardly healthy.

  He went to take another bite, only to halt as a sound hit his ear: Whistling. And as the sound grew closer, it became punctuated by singing.

  “Oh hayayay, diddle-diddle-diddle! The cat played the fiddle! Oh hayayay, barum-barum-barum! The dog played the drum!”

  Riley furrowed his brow. Was someone seriously singing in a wasteland like this? They had to be either brave or insane if they didn’t fear drawing attention. He’d had to kill another ciern before he could even set up camp, and had cast Sense Life more than once just to see if anything else was nearby.

  He and Mesquard moved in silence and peered over a fallen log that had acted as a bench for them. A figure was moving through the fog of the road ahead of them, faintly illuminated by a hanging oil lantern. By now he could hear wagon wheels creaking and rocking through the singing, and the shape of a wagon laden with supplies came steadily into view.

  The creature pulling it looked vaguely like a black donkey. But the neck was too long and the face too droopy to be like any human species of mule.

  But for as odd as the beast looked, he had nothing on the man leading it. A tall and gangly fellow wearing a raggedy and torn suit, his face covered by a blank white mask that had nothing on it beyond a pair of eye holes. He rocked and swayed as he walked, singing his merry tune.

  “What in the world?” Riley mumbled.

  A madfellow, clearly, said Mesquard.

  “Oh hayhayay, kalute-kalute-kalute! The cow played the flute! Oh hayayay, jangle-jangle-jangle! The duck played the triangle!”

  Riley stared at the masked man, who looked almost like a scarecrow that had been brought to life. He supposed such a thing would hardly be impossible in Kerberos.

  “Just let him pass, I guess,” Riley mumbled.

  Then he halted in place, his head snapping in the general direction of Riley’s voice. The wizard froze. “I say, is someone there? Hello? Hello!”

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  “What the hell?” Riley murmured. His voice had barely been above a whisper!

  “I mean you no harm, I assure you! Fagan the Sweetman is but a humble merchant! Come forth, I can gladly do deals with you!”

  Riley gripped his shotel tightly. “How do I know I can trust you!”

  The lanky man tittered. “Good man! Attackers are rarely so generous as to announce their presence like me! Come, I am but a trader! Fagan the Sweetman is beloved far and wide for his offers!”

  Riley narrowed his eyes. He focused on the cart and could glimpse some of the wares poking through. “Okay,” he said. “You can come up and we can trade.” He could do with trading in his hatchet, and he was curious to know what was available.

  He glanced to Arubis, who produced the pouch of electrum coins he had been gathering up to this point. Time to see if they had any worth.

  Fagan made his way up. Once they were close to each other, Riley could see how tall the man was. They were eye level, but that was only from how the lanky man stooped his posture.

  Riley looked into the bloodshot eyes behind the mask, and at the shock of grey hair on his head. Would people really let a man like that into their town?

  “Oooh. A Warden, are you?” Fagan asked, cocking his head. “Oh yes, Fagan can tell. Your kind have an... aura to them. Fascinating.”

  “And you’re... not a Warden?”

  I’m not sure that one is even human to start with! said Mesquard.

  “This sweetman you see before you is but a humble pedlar of wares. I could not take the burden you carry, ahaha.” He could almost picture a very ugly smile behind that mask. “But this humble sweetman takes pride in aiding those in need. Mayhaps I can equip you for your journey?”

  “Uh... Mayhaps, yeah,” Riley said. “What do you have?”

  Chuckling in that eerie way of his, Fagan capered to his wagon and opened a few latches. The wooden panels that unfolded were laden with an assortment of bags, mason jars, and weapons. “Gravewood is harsh territory my friend. The cieren make meat of many men. And they say there are things far nastier lurking in the woods.”

  He reached over and lifted a wooden torch, housing a strange reddish stone in its steely prongs. “But ciern are trees, and trees have one natural enemy. Fire.” He stroked a blade across the reddish rock, and a plume of fire instantly spread across it. “This, young chum, is a torch fitted with emberstone. A rare rock plucked from underground magma caverns. It carries the heat of the earth within itself.”

  He held it aloft, illuminating the surrounding trees. The branches of the trees cast shadows that took on a life of their own, contorting into a slew of alien shapes. “You can douse the flame whenever you please. And, once the emberstone dries again, it can be relit. So long as if is not broken apart, it can be eternally reused.”

  “Sounds... pretty useful.” He would have said impossible, but he now lived in a world where magic and monsters were very real things. Why not rocks that never burned out? “Take it this sort of thing is rare?”

  “Few men dare to brave such depths. The heat searing your face and scorching air in your lungs aside, the salamanders and magma golems would give even a seasoned adventurer pause.” Fagan flicked a hand up, producing a bottle of water seemingly from thin air. He doused the torch, the flames hissing away to be replaced with wisps of smoke. Even after being doused, the stone still glowed like a scorched coal.

  “How much for it?”

  “How much do you have?”

  Riley frowned and rummaged in the bag he had accrued. For all he knew, he was carrying a sack of worthless pennies around. Regardless he lifted a small handful of electrum coins and held them out.

  Fagan clicked his tongue. “A bit of a light sum, for such a wonder.”

  “I could throw in a hatchet if that sweetens the pot?”

  He considered this, cocking his head. “And another coin?”

  Sighing, Riley fished an extra one out, and then retrieved the hatchet from his inventory. It had served him well, but the shotel had it beat in every way. No sense in going back.

  And the torch would be useful for things other than lighting up evil trees.

  “I take it you’re light on funds, my young chum?”

  Riley nodded. “Haven’t had much of a chance to scoop up money.”

  “Well, I may be able to guide you to a place housing riches. If you think you can handle a spot of danger.” He felt Fagan’s eyes on him, the intensity of his gaze sending a shudder down Riley’s spine. “This land was not always ruled by Vergoll. It was, for a time, a haven for a race no longer among us. A tribe who lived and communed with nature, and kept the dangers of the Gravewood content.”

  Riley shifted from one foot to the other. He had a good idea where Fagan was going with this.

  “The Picts once ruled this land. They built temples and catacombs, and filled them with precious metals and jewels they pried from the earth. Vergoll plundered many of them, as is their way, but the danger of the Gravewood has kept some untouched. One catacomb, as it happens, is not too far from here.”

  “You want me to walk deeper into this foggy, monster-infested wood to rob a tomb that’s probably haunted? Just to get some money?”

  Fagan leaned closer. A rasping sound, partway between a laugh and a wheeze, rose in his throat. “It’s dangerous, my young friend, but the prize of the Pict’s treasure? You’ll find it quite worth the risk, of that I have no doubt.”