Jeremy was freezing. The wagon they were in had nothing more than a flimsy wooden roof, and the walls were thick prison bars, spread far enough apart to barely fit a fist through. Elisia, ever the cruel woman she was, took delight in having the prisoners on the verge of having the frost eat away at their toes, ears and fingers.

  Her satisfaction was greatly diminished by Clyde, who gave his large piece of cloth to Jeremy and Marcel so the two could stave off the cold, while he seemed pretty unaffected. Clyde was a human tank, that description even being written in his official records, so Mother Nature's cold and other elemental effects didn’t seem to faze him. Everyone who ever shared a room with the mercenary back home claimed the place always felt as cold as a meat locker, he didn’t like to endure heat unless he had to.

  Several days into their journey to the Vatur kingdom, Elisia took it upon herself to try to break the goliath, all attempts failing miserably. He no longer rode in the wagon with the other two, instead walking from morning to sundown, hands and legs bound in heavy cuffs held together by thick chains used for the strongest cattle the kingdom had to offer. His outfit consisted of thin pants made from simple cloth and nothing else.

  The knight was as furious as she was fascinated by the monster of a man. This exasperation was only facilitated by his upbeat attitude and the near constant snowballs the man would throw at her or the other guards, to the point two men were assigned to make sure Clyde never got a chance to bend down and pick up a single snowflake while outside the cart.

  Beating him did not seem to work either, most guards lacked the strength to deal any actual damage to the Warhound. One poor soul, a younger man from the group of guards assigned as escort, ended up with his head stuck through the thick bars of the wagon after attempting to kick the otherworlder in the balls while Clyde was bending down to grab a handful of snow. It took the remaining guards an entire afternoon to pull the man’s head from between the bars, as bending them was nearly impossible.

  When left alone, Clyde wasn’t as disruptive, so Elisia had to make the decision to simply ignore his existence, which his large stature made quite a challenge, and silently pray that the elves of Vatur would take their sweet time in killing him.

  The difficulty of ignoring him only grew by the day, as the guards slowly began warming up to the prisoners, their friendly nature disarming the Marbella soldiers rather easily. It was evident to her now how Savik got swindled by the three otherworlders. By the fourth day, the atmosphere of hatred and contempt that the guards felt for the otherworlders was completely gone, replaced by silent mistrust and curiosity.

  Elisia remained adamant in her feelings, she would not let herself be swayed as easily as others. Even Layla, despite everything she went through in Perriman’s duchy, has come out of her shell, talking more and more frequently with Marcel and Jeremy.

  Away from the main roads did not mean the wagon was not drawing attention. Less attention, most certainly, but from all the wrong kind of people. The road they took was rumoured to be frequented by all sorts of ill-charactered folk, such as hired swords, cutthroats, smugglers and worst of all, slavers.

  Leaving the snow-covered fields behind and entering a more wooded area of the countryside, Elisia frowned when she spotted a rather large unmarked caravan heading in their direction. The caravan leader wore a disinterested expression until his eyes fell upon Clyde and widened in shock.

  “Good day, my lady!” He shouted from up the road, before the two groups even got close to each other.

  The caravan had three wagons, each much larger than the prison cell on wheels that Jeremy and Marcel were in, and was accompanied by thrice as many men as Elisia had under her command.

  “That’s a very fine specimen you have there. What is that? An ogre?” The caravan leader continued, riding faster to meet the knight’s group and get a better look at Clyde, who was walking next to the wagon. Once more, the look of surprise sprang on the man’s face when he realised he wasn’t looking at an ogre but a human.

  “My gods, look at the size of him!”

  Elisia groaned and rolled her eyes.

  “Move along, nothing to see here.”

  “Oh, on the contrary. I’ve travelled the world a dozen times over and have never seen such a sight. How much? Three bags of lobaz. No! Four!” The slaver insisted, getting as close as he could to the object of his fascination without upsetting the guards.

  “He is not for sale. Move along.” However, the caravan leader ignored Elisia’s warning, raising his hand to his shoulder, signalling for his group to stop. He dismounted to get an even closer look.

  Clyde didn’t seem to mind, even playing along and flexing, striking various poses as much as the chains allowed. Jeremy laughed from inside the wagon, and Elisia felt like pulling her hair out.

  “Shame he is inked. Is that the mark of your guild?” The slaver asked Elisia, pointing to the tattoo on Clyde’s right bicep. An upside-down triangle with an image of beastly jaws biting down on a .50 cal bullet, several numbers beneath it.

  “No. I am oblivious to what the ink represents. And he is not a slave for trade. These are prisoners of Her Majesty, Queen Kyara Ikaris Marbella.” The knight dismounted as well, approaching the man and placing a hand on his chest, moving him gently back towards his horse.

  The slave caravan stopped right next to them, the merchant walking over to the large wagons and pulling off the covers, revealing 20 women, ranging in skin tone from a soft caramel note to being as dark skinned as Marcel. Desert folk slaves, an incredible rarity to see in the western kingdoms, so far north from the Great Desert, which was their home.

  “A trade, then, perhaps? I am more than certain that Her Majesty would appreciate some young and exotic maids at her palace. I will give you eight of these beauties for that brute of yours.”

  Elisia sighed as the man’s insistent pestering tested the limits of her patience.

  “Ten! Final offer. Merchandise such as this is impossible to find this far north.” Persisted the slaver. The women huddled together for warmth, as they had little more clothes than the otherworlders, and winter was cruel to their sun-touched skin. Elisia cursed her situation. Here before her stood the most notorious slave trader in the western regions, yet she was unable to apprehend him due to her mission.

  Clyde whistled loudly at the sight of the women, catching the slaver to chuckle.

  “Seems even he understands quality when it is presented before him.”

  “You may as well be speaking to a tree, Augustis, sir.” Two more men dismounted and walked over to the merchant, eyeing up the opposing guards.

  “There is no chance that she will part with such a bull. I doubt any woman would pass on a chance to own something that could fill her up that much.”

  The knight gasped audibly, left hand flying to grip the hilt of her blade, which hung from her left hip, a burning sensation spreading across her face, the accusation that she was refusing to parlay with the slaver because she bedded the huge Warhound.

  Several of the slave caravan guards cackled, only pushing Elisia further over the edge of patience, fuelling her desire to cut them down. Before her hand pulled the sword from its scabbard, Augustus turned on his heels and delivered a hefty slap across the man’s left cheek.

  “Has your mother not taught you to tie your tongue when speaking to a lady?!” He hissed, glaring at the man he had just slapped with murderous intent.

  “No, I… My apologies, Sir Augustus, madam.” The guard mumbled, rubbing the stinging sensation from his cheek.

  Augustus, despite his small stature, had a surprisingly heavy hand, large as if he were a blacksmith. And he, evident by the guard’s pink cheek and ear, hit like a blacksmith too.

  “Shut up. Get back on your horse and fuck out of my sight. You will be guarding the rear until we drop off our cargo.”

  Without another word, the men hopped back on their horses and rode to the back of the caravan, their employer still staring daggers at them.

  “I apologise, my Lady. It seems that any potential prospect for a deal has been soured by unsavoury comments.” He said to Elisia, signalling for the caravan to start moving again.

  “Another time, I hope we arrive at a different outcome, should our paths cross again. Till then, I bid you a good day.”

  The three prisoners exchanged confused looks, not able to understand a single word that was being spoken between Elisia and the slaver men.

  As Augustus hopped back into the saddle, he gave the knight one piece of advice.

  “Do be careful, my Lady, this road is a dangerous one. Many bandits and the like.”

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  Elisia waved him off, getting back up on her horse and signalling for the group to continue moving. Passing by the slave caravan, she ignored the glares of the caravan’s guards.

  ***

  “My fucking feet are sore from all the walking,” Clyde complained to his comrades.

  Jeremy sighed.

  “Seems Elisia has a particular pick on you.”

  In truth, Jeremy and Marcel were glad that they got to ride inside the wagon.

  The sun that was shining throughout the day had now begun to be swallowed up by grey clouds. There would be more snowfall that night. After their encounter with the slave caravan, everyone was uncharacteristically quiet. Augustus’s warning hung in the air even as the slaver and his group were long gone. Guards were on alert, keeping their eyes on both sides of the road, watching out for movement in the treeline. Be it bandits or monsters, they would not allow themselves to be caught by surprise.

  Elisia was in a sour mood all afternoon. Augustus Gromwell, the slaver who eluded capture by the Marbella kingdom for years, was right in front of her. On any other occasion, she would be delighted with the encounter and arrest the man on the spot. But her mission to deliver the prisoners had her hands bound to inaction.

  “That guy was a slave trader, right?” Jeremy asked Layla, who rode next to the wagon, as she was the only one who wore a translator stone.

  She nodded, holding the reins with one hand and Mitsy with the other.

  “Yes. One of the more notorious slavers in the region.”

  “One? Augustus is the most notorious slaver in this region. I remember working with my old superior on his capture, long ago, when I first enlisted.” Elisia added loudly from the front of the group.

  “They talked for quite a while. What did he want?” the otherworlder asked.

  “He wanted to buy your friend.”

  “Clyde?” Jeremy laughed at the idea.

  “Meeeoow!” Mitsy sounded off from Layla’s arms, giving the group just enough time to react as a spell-charged arrow whistled through the air and struck the back right wheel of the wagon. The guards dispersed as the spell was released with a small explosion, sending pieces of wood that were once the wheel flying in every direction.

  The wagon tilted to one side, Marcel and Jeremy tumbling inside it. Several guards rushed to calm the horses so they wouldn’t cause further damage.

  Several more arrows whistled from the treeline, aimed with deadly accuracy at the guards. Those that struck their mark did so without much effect, as they couldn’t pierce the thick, plated armour that Elisia’s men wore. One struck Clyde in the shoulder, getting no reaction from the Warhound.

  “What are you doing, you idiot? The boss said not to damage the merchandise!” Argued the unseen assailants, their voices revealing how close they were to Elisia’s group.

  The knight turned in the direction of the noise and shouted.

  “Come out! We have a mage and won’t hesitate to scorch the forest to drive you out.”

  Nothing. The argument from the woods suddenly went silent. Elisia drew her sword, standing in front of the rest of the guards, gripping the hilt of her sword tightly.

  “Kill them all! We only need the big one.” Armed men rushed from the treeline. There were twice as many of them as there were soldiers guarding the wagon with the prisoners.

  Some of the attackers stayed in the back, bows raised. Elisia signalled for her men to stay back and protect Layla and the prisoners. She alone was enough to deal with the men Augustus had sent, and the knight relished the opportunity to blow off some steam.

  Clyde pulled the arrow from his shoulder with a grunt and leaned against the wagon to observe everything that was going on. He contemplated breaking out Marcel and Jeremy, but between the thick chains that restrained him and the thick bars of the wagon, it would take far too long to do it.

  Elisia disappeared from where she stood, appearing next to one of the archers and dispatching the man with a single swing of her black sword. He was dead before any of his comrades could react, let alone loose their arrows at her. She took a step forward and disappeared again, teleporting from enemy to enemy as she walked, each step teleporting her to a different location, leaving only bodies in her wake.

  Her blade, forged from doramite, knew of no armour that it couldn’t cut through. The leather armour of the ruffians was no more than simple cloth compared to her sword, cutting through it and the flesh beneath as she was cutting through snow.

  Hastily, the remaining attackers banded together into a half-baked formation, making sure their backs were pressed against each other so Elisia couldn’t just appear from behind them. It made little difference, as the black blade of the knight cut through sword and leather as if the two were equal. Parrying and blocking were useless, something that Augustus’s men found out in the worst way possible.

  Still, they were not completely defenceless. As the majority of the remaining brutes were now solely focused on Elisia and keeping their backs and sides guarded, the royal knight had to adapt her strategy as well. She would dash in, taking out one of them and quickly dash away before the others could retaliate, which meant she was using her spell twice as much for only half the work. Fatigue was quickly building up, the time between each of her attacks growing.

  “Holy shit. You guys seeing this?” Jeremy pressed his head against the bars.

  “Yeah. Wasn’t that the same move she used in Perriman’s duchy when the wyverns were driven off?” Clyde asked.

  “I think so. Seeing it like this, it’s terrifying. She’s just teleporting around.”

  The only non-Warhound in the group turned to Layla.

  “How’s she moving like that? Is she a mage too?”

  “Well, no and yes. What you’re seeing is a short-range mobility spell called ‘Step’. Despite the simplicity of its name, it is an incredibly difficult skill to master.”

  She paused, watching Elisia take care of the enemy backline with ease, cutting down foe after foe until the number of enemies was equal to the number of guards under her command.

  “And no, Lady Elisia is a combat mage. Not fully fledged mage.”

  “Yeah? What’s the difference?” Clyde turned around to look at Layla, the bleeding from his wound had already stopped, much to the woman’s surprise.

  “Mana control. The amount of mana it takes to achieve resonance and cast a spell. Those with high enough mana to be classified as mages, but who lack the necessary control, are called combat mages. They can be warriors, archers, knights, assassins and rogues, and paladins. But a mage is a mage.”

  “So, if a combat mage and a mage of equal mana levels fought…” Jeremy paused, rubbing his chin, trying to think of all the mages he had seen before.

  “Let’s say Kargalan against Elisia, since they’re both Queen’s guard, who would win?”

  Layla gave him a dirty look, as if offended that the man dared compare Elisia, despite her evident skill, to someone like Queen Kyara’s brother.

  “If the amount of mana is equal, then the mage should win every time, simply due to the fact that a combat mage would exhaust themselves much faster, if they were both casting the same spells. Mana control is the key component of any good or great mage.”

  Jeremy nodded, satisfied with the answer, before Layla continued.

  “Combat mages compensate their lack of mana control with other skills, like swordplay, archery and overall fighting prowess. Hence the name. Sometimes a combat mage might outperform a mage if the mage is less experienced, but such cases are very rare.”

  “You’re a mage. Would you win against Elisia?” Clyde grinned.

  Layla frowned again, turning her attention towards the mountain of a man who leaned against the cart.

  “No. I am a good mage, Lady Elisia is an excellent combat mage. The difference in ability is too wide.”

  “But can she beat…?” Clyde started, but Layla cut him off, not wanting to hear any more matchup ideas.

  “Enough.”

  While they chatted, the rest of the wagon guards held their own pretty easily, trained soldiers proving a hard challenge for Augustus’s men. Their numbers were dropping rapidly, panic setting in. Realising that capturing Clyde for their employer was no longer an option, one of the attackers rushed towards the massive man, determined to dispatch him. If his boss could not own such a slave, then he might as well kill him so no one else could either.

  His speed caught the guards by surprise, as the man moved past them looking like a blur, swung his sword at the Warhound who was facing away from him, bringing the weapon down with all his might.

  “Layla!” Elisia growled, glaring at the mage while her sword impaled the man who attacked Clyde before he could finish his swing.

  “Are you enjoying your little chat? Want me to set up a picnic table too? Get the four of you all nice and comfy while we finish off the hard work?”

  She pulled her blade from the man’s head, letting his body drop to the floor. Elisia was breathing heavier now, but not out of frustration. Clyde looked at the knight, quickly piecing together that using her little teleporting spell drained a good amount of her stamina. He wondered if using such a trick was really necessary, seeing how the rest of the guards held Augustus’s men off with relative ease even without the use of such moves.

  “She likes to show off, doesn’t she?” He asked Layla.

  Layla glanced at Elisia, who still stood in front of the Warhound, catching her breath, and said nothing. Not even a nod or headshake. Elisia couldn’t understand the prisoners, and they couldn’t understand her. Layla being the only one who actively wore her translator stone, which made conversing with the otherworlders possible for her. Still, Elisia wasn’t stupid, and Clyde wasn’t discreet.

  The knight knew she was the topic of the conversation just from the way the prisoners were looking at her.

  What was once a band of over twenty-five men was now reduced to only five. Realising the futility of continuing to fight, the remaining Augustus’s men swore and ran away down the road, not even trying to maintain any semblance of dignity.

  Elisia took a deep breath, taking off her helmet and leaning against the tilted wagon, filling her lungs with the cold winter air. Her short, blond hair was stuck to her sweat-soaked forehead as one of the guards offered her a piece of linen to wipe her face and neck with.