Without so much as a word in reply, the barbarian plucked it from his fingers. Unlike the brigands—whose eyes had been drawn to the silver lettering on the side—his fingers immediately moved over the seal and brushed the wax lightly. There was no sign of the pain the other man had felt, but the furrowed brow vanished. It looked almost like the barbarian hadn’t expected him to tell the truth.
He handed the scroll to the old man. "Mark it."
Turvall was no longer surprised that the stranger knew how to deal with contract scrolls. From his appearance, it seemed likely that he’d been employed by the guild at some point in his life. The old man scowled but did as instructed, pricked his thumb with the pin on his coat, and pressed it to the scroll. The bloody mark remained for a few seconds before it faded almost immediately, the sign that it had been given up voluntarily while he was still alive.
"Inside, you'll find a map that will lead you to the dungeon and enable you to navigate its depths. If you can reach the bottom, there will be enough gold for you to live in any city in Rhuengeld for three years without having to lift another finger to support yourself. There will also be the bounty on the contract to collect from the guild, as well as enough of a reputation for you to gain any work you choose from this point forward in your life. It won't be easy, of course, but nothing worth having in this world is."
The wind brushed across the open farmland and made the only sound that could be heard for miles as the barbarian paused to think about what he’d said. The fact that he wasn't one to rush into an engagement of this nature and away from the farm he had built showed more wisdom than most others the old man had met from the Western Clans.
Finally, the large man cleared his throat and brushed his fingers across his brow to clear the sweat that dripped into his eyes. "The farm. But not the horse. DeathEaters do not walk."
Turvall's eyebrows raised sharply. The name was familiar, of course. It would have been to any man, woman, or child east of the Youran mountains. Of the fifty Western Clans, DeathEaters were the most famous for the warriors they produced in the northern mountains where a living was unlikely to be made any other way.
"I thought your people mostly raided or sold their services to the highest bidder to sustain The Clan."
The man's face softened. Not many people knew to address the DeathEaters correctly and in their chosen fashion. All other clans had names but theirs was The Clan—above the rest.
"Myths. DeathEaters farm as well. Difficult to farm in the mountains. Easy here."
"Interesting. It is quite cold up there. They produce good food, though. The Clan certainly know their spices."
"Summer sun shines all day. Food grows quickly. Winter is time to war and raid. Planting here is easy. For food and spice."
Old memories returned to Turvall of the last time he'd seen the DeathEaters raiding. Battle cries had echoed chillingly through canyons while arrows the size of spears rained from above and men scaled the rocks like scorpicores.
Winter was certainly not a good time to travel among the Western Clans.
"And what about the forest?" Turvall asked finally and shook the memories off like a bad dream.
"I hope something comes out. I can fight. If they stay in, I go after them myself."
Which explained a few things about the uneventful nature of his trip through the woods—regarding the beasts that generally prowled there, at least.
"Well, then." He nodded and folded his arms in front of his chest. "Do we have a deal, barbarian? The farm for the contract and you keep your horse, of course."
The man nodded and extended his hand to take the scroll. "Skharr. To activate?"
"Simply break the seal. If it is broken by another without your mark, it will disappear and make it appear to be a fake. If you retrieve it, all you need do is seal it again and the map will show once more. I'm sorry—your name is Skharr?"
"Yes. Very well. I will collect my things and the farm will be yours."
Again, the deep voice and foreign accent made it difficult to place him as anything but a brutish barbarian, but the clear and concise sentences spoke otherwise.
The easy slide from one to the other was intriguing, but it would have to remain a mystery. He had already unhitched his horse from the plow and clicked his fingers. Now free, the beast followed him willingly to the house and waited when he went inside. Turvall meandered after them, if only to get out of the heat, and Yern did as well to graze happily under the shade of the farm.
It wasn't long before the warrior exited the house, carrying a few packs. One looked like it held all the food he had, along with a few sacks of oats. Everything in the barn was to remain, of course, but the rest belonged to him.
He had weapons and armor too—a war bow almost as tall as Turvall himself while unstrung along with a quiver of long arrows were items he almost expected to see among the man's possessions. A simple leather and bronze helm, as well as a leather gambeson, a battle-ax, and a simple wooden shield were all strapped to the saddlebags he slung expertly over the horse's back once a plain saddle was in place.
The bridle and reins were neither elegant nor expertly made but simple and effective—as long as the horse and rider knew each other well.
Turvall could see no sign of the scroll. It was most likely tucked into the shirt or traveling cloak the man had acquired while inside.
"You think you can survive the beasts from the forest?" the barbarian asked while he strapped his belongings to the saddle. "Old'uns prefer living where no fighting is required for survival."
He scowled and tried yet again to reconcile the image of the massive, curt barbarian with the sudden verbosity he displayed.
The seemingly effortless changes from one to the other remained intriguing, but he resigned himself to the fact that he would never know the story behind it. The scroll was out of his hands and into those that looked exceedingly capable, which left him little else to do but to see what else he had to live off.
"I can take care of myself," Turvall answered and snapped his fingers to call Yern closer. "I've learned a few tricks over the years to keep myself safe without needing to engage in violence, even with beasts from the woodlands."
The expression on the barbarian’s face revealed his doubt, but he seemed to decide that whatever happened next had little to do with him. If the old man had a mind to try to succeed against the beasts of the forest, so be it.
"Fare thee well on your journeys, Skharr," Turvall called as he watched him and his horse leave.
Interestingly, despite the reason given for keeping the animal, he did not see the man mount up. Nor did he hold it by the reins. It followed him willingly, which made the old man wonder why the barbarian had yelled bloody murder at it before.
Maybe they had been in an argument?
Turvall shook his head, chuckled, and tugged his beard gently. "No. That's only you and me, Yern. Speaking of which, how do you feel about our new home?"
The donkey showed no reaction and continued to graze the lush, green grass in the shade of the barn.
"Yes," the old man muttered. "I feel the same."
Chapter Three
No one wanted to live close to the cursed woodlands. That was a well-known fact, the kind that would probably never change for the next couple of hundred years.