Cold obsidian

“What was its name before?” Kan got curious.

“Green Hills Region”.

“Okay. Sorry for interrupting you. What happened next?”

“One of the gangs took over the region in the end. A man from Kuldagan, Crogan, was the leader. I have no idea which city he came from, but it sure wasn’t your Aren-castell. His thugs destroyed whatever future the region had. People prefer not to enter it any more. That means no trade. Everyone who could leave has left this place. Now the Burnt Region is just Crogan’s base where he returns after raiding the neighbouring regions.”

“What’s that guy like?”

“He’s a bloodthirsty monster if you ask me.”

Crogan had had hiccups for the whole day as if someone, according to a popular superstition, was thinking of him and not in a good way. His old wounds started aching, too, which made his mood even worse.

The leader of the dark horde poured himself a goblet of wine and sprawled on the sofa by the fireplace. His pet hyena, a gentle puppy to her dear owner but a vile, snappish creature to everyone else, rested her shaggy head on his feet. Crogan always had a soft spot for hyenas, preferring them to dogs. Once in a while, he let his pets tear some unfortunate prisoner apart to keep them happy. He was a kind master.

Crogan’s stone house looked quite cosy, at least until his guests learned that there was a torture chamber in the basement. Judging by all the hunting trophies and furs in the rooms you could think it belonged to an old hunter. A very religious old hunter, you might add after noticing the exquisite porcelain statuettes of the Three in the red corner. No servant was allowed to touch them. Crogan himself dusted the statues every day, before the prayer. He prayed quite often and with passion. It helped him to feel better about himself and always made his conscience, whatever left of it, shut up if it tried something.

“My lord!” someone shouted behind the door. “Your son has arrived!”

“Send him in,” ordered Crogan and took another sip from the goblet.

Young Crogan, named after his glorious father, was just twelve years old but looked like a proper thug already. His father thought the lad had a great future. He didn’t tell his son this, of course. Presumptuous kids are too much trouble.

“Well, well, son,” the crime lord smacked his lips, “I’ve got some news about your new adventures today. Would you kindly remind me what I told you to do?”

“You wanted me to collect the tax from Goldygate,” mumbled young Crogan.

“Yeees. And you did what?”

“Dad, I…”

“Shut up!” old Crogan roared. “The Three will punish you! Do you know how they punish those who disobey their parents?”

“But I…” the son tried to defend himself again.

“They will throw you into a fire pit,” he smashed his fist on the armrest, “The hottest fire pit, high in a…”

That was the moment when Crogan’s pet hyena heard a familiar word which made her jump with joy, eyes burning with hunger, teeth snapping. She thought it was that time again! Time to tear somebody apart! Fun time!

“Dad…” Young Crogan turned marble-white. “Dad, please, no hyenas…”

The crime lord stopped dead mid sermon. It took him a whole minute to realize what had just happened. All this time his son was staring at him with wide eyes, absolutely terrified, while his hyena was dancing about, yelping, snapping, waiting anxiously for the command to kill.

“You little fool!” Old Crogan roared again, this time with laughter soon followed by his son’s relieved sniggering. “Okay, you’ve learned your lesson,” said old Crogan, almost good-naturedly now, “What was that you wanted to tell me?”

“Well, about why I led the guys into the forest…” Young Crogan scratched his head thoughtfully. “I saw two strangers on the old road. Some brown man and his chick. No guns. We wanted to take them to you, but they went into the Haunted Woods before we could catch them. I can try catching them again once they’ve re-entered our territory.”

“Do this. I want those two alive and unmaimed, understood?” Crogan was grim and serious again. “I’d love to hear some news from our guests and possibly a tale about how they passed through the Haunted Woods unharmed. Go!” He paused. “No, wait! I’m coming with you. I don’t want you to screw up again.”

Old Crogan gave his orders at once. Soon, the party of twenty riders gathered in his yard. There were no chargas at his base for they didn’t get along with his favourite hyenas, so Crogan’s thugs rode taranders instead: huge, hulky beasts, horned and cloven-footed. Taranders didn’t care about the hyenas yelping and snapping before them, at all.

The weather was properly murky and foggy that morning, perfect for the manhunt. The fog filled all the lowlands like spilled milk. You could hide an army in that fog if you wanted. Old Crogan led the hunting team. He rode a white tarander harnessed in gold and silver as a glorious leader should. It’s been a long time since he went for a manhunt himself, so he felt great, the ache in his old wounds all forgotten. Once in a while, he threw a glance at his son, noticing how well the lad rode, how tall he became, how clever and shrewd his eyes were. Rebellious though he was, the young Crogan was a good son, worthy of his sire. Too bad he was so afraid of hyenas, but it couldn’t be helped: a rabid hyena tried to eat him when he was a toddler, that had apparently scarred him for life. Of course, Crogan gutted that hyena himself so all his other pets would see what awaited them if they tried to hurt his heir, but the fear remained, deep buried in the lad’s heart. Back in the house, when Crogan chastised his son for disobedience it was not the promise of burning in the hellish fire pit that made the young Crogan turn pale, it was the hyena. His father could only hope his boy would outgrow that fear one day.

“That’s where Crogan’s thugs mark the edge of the Haunted Woods,” Vlada was explaining the thin white dotted line on the map. “They’re afraid of these hills, so they don’t go there. Today we’re leaving the safe territory, Kan.”

“This is bad, right?” He sighed.

“We’ll be fine,” Vlada smiled, ruffling his hair gently. “We’ve already passed most of the Burnt Region through the safe land. Now we just have to cross the river and be off. There’s a bridge, but it is guarded, so we won’t go there. We will ford the river in its widest place where it is shallow.”

Kangassk couldn’t bring himself to read after they made their last camp on the safe land. He lay in the grass and watched the sky go dark. Lots of thoughts buzzed in his head: about Aren-castell, so distant now it could have been a dream, about the journey he got himself into, and about the purpose of everything. He envied Vlada. The girl had a clear goal ahead of her. He didn’t. He just tagged along, trying to be helpful. Not that she needed his help much…

The morning was foggy and damp. The travellers’ clothes and chargas’ fur were wet with morning dew. The beasts didn’t like being wet at all. They stopped now and again to shake the silver droplets off. Their riders didn’t have that luxury.

It was hard to tell in the fog whether they had already crossed the thin border between the Haunted Woods and old Crogan’s territory. Kangassk just assumed they were no longer safe, so he kept his bow ready. Fog made him feel uneasy, especially after the stories about sylphs, the fog dwellers, Vlada told him yesterday. They were nasty critters, those sylphs! Kan would rather meet bandits again. At least bandits were human and he knew how to deal with them.

Sasler left the hills he had been watching the strangers from. Up there he could move at a walking pace and still see them from the top thanks to the scope. Now, after they had turned to the river, away from the hills, he had to follow them closely, so he needed a ride.