5 Departure, Part 2

The mercenary walked three dozen feet away from the caravan, stopping when there was a hundred or so feet left between him and Morne.

"Stop right there, traveler!" shouted the man, a hand on his sword. His gaze spat fire, daring Morne to try something, and focused on the leather knapsack Morne was using to hold his food. "State your business!"

The training of the mercenary made itself apparent. Barring lightning or light magic, the chances of the mercenary being unable to dodge before a projectile reached him were low.

This excluded more powerful Mages, of course, but someone that could throw balls of fire at such a speed was a person the caravan stood no chance against anyway. More importantly, they'd have much more important things to do than bother a bunch of civilians.

But even with such distance between the two, the mercenary's eyes never left Morne. He was relaxed yet alert, ready to jump into action at the slightest twitch from this newcomer.

"I heard you're going to Untelneb!" Morne replied, cupping his hands over his mouth as the wind tried to carry his words in the opposite direction. "I wish to buy a place in one of your wagons!"

The mercenary's eyes narrowed as he muttered something under his breath. His eyes flashed with a gray light, then it dimmed and the hostility faded from his gaze. His hand never left the pommel of his sword, but he gestured Morne closer.

When Morne crossed the distance, the mercenary relayed the relevant information.

"It's ten small silvers for a third-class seat, twenty-five for a second-class seat, and fifty for a first-class seat," the mercenary told Morne. "The protection cost of the Crimson Gradle Company and all applicable taxes are included in the price."

"I'll take a third-class seat," Morne replied, handing the mercenary the coins.

The merc pocketed the funds and directed Morne to a wagon at the back of the convoy, saying in parting "we leave in thirty minutes. If you aren't in the wagon, we're leaving you behind with no refund."

Morne nodded and followed the mercenary's directions, climbing into the wagon pointed out to him and sitting his large frame on the rough wooden bench on the left side.

The wagon had a cloth roof and walls held up by metal poles, which started at four feet off of the floor so passengers couldn't damage it while seated, at most only able to rest their heads against it.

The wagon was currently empty save for the sounds of his own breathing, though he was sure that one of the people bustling to and fro outside would join soon enough.

He closed his eyes, aiming to get some much-needed shuteye that he had missed out on after the events with the cultists, and quickly drifted off to sleep.

.......

A jolt woke Morne, his eyes blinking open when the wagon ran over a large rock.

Sighing, he rubbed his hand over his face, glancing out of the opening in the wagon's back to see a moving dirt road surrounded by grassy fields lit by the noon sun.

He could see two more wagons behind his, though only the sides of the second were visible. The first was driven by a happy-looking elderly man in servant's clothes, his loose grip on the reins guiding the horses pulling his vehicle.

"You smell like blood and wildflowers, human," he heard to his side.

Blinking away the last of his fatigue, he turned to the source, finding a woman staring back at him with yellow, reptilian eyes with patches of dark green scales underneath them.

She wore the armor of the Crimson Gradle and kept her hair, of the same hue as her scales, in a ponytail. Every other second, a forked tongue flickered out from between her lips, tasting the air. Other than that, she appeared human.

Morne had heard tell of the Nasnami, but had never seen one himself.

He was suddenly very aware that the wagon he sat in was now filled with three armed and armored women and one similarly armed man.

Beside Morne sat one woman, and the remaining three mercenaries sat across from them, with the man on the far-left end.

"You think he's a cultist, Cretaya?" one of the other women in an Ondethalian accent.

[Author's note: Think a mixture of Scottish/Irish. I'd write her words phonetically, but I think we can all agree that would be awkward, if not offensive.]

This woman had the long, curly brown hair and gray eyes with square pupils typical of those from Ondethale, and regarded Morne with suspicion.

Her forehead was covered by a thick cloth headband dyed the same color as her crimson armor, under her right eye was a thin scar, and her gloved hands never strayed far from her sword's hilt.

Her words set the others on high alert, the two women that hadn't spoken yet adjusting themselves in their seats as they all focused their attention on Morne.

The man simply glanced at Morne before shaking his head with a chuckle. "Look at him, Essenla," he said. "He doesn't hold himself like one of them."

"He could be deceiving us, Morgy," the Nasnami, Cretaya, replied. "Though he isn't eyeing us like meat at a butcher's, I'll grant him that. Those Ilnchan freaks can't contain their bloodlust."

"You know I hate that nickname, Cretaya," "Morgy" replied. "Regardless, perhaps we should hear the man's testimony before we judge him?"

"That's fair, Morgthon," the last woman said, pulling at her glove to adjust it. Her blue eyes sparkled as she looked at Morne, and she flashed him a smile of perfect white teeth. "I'll be sure to sniff out whatever lie he tries to tell."

"Fine," the woman with the square pupils grumbled. "But if we find him out, I want to deal with him."

"So Treyflena gets to sniff him out and Essenla gets to take care of him?" frowned Cretaya. "That's hardly fair."

"You already alerted us to the possibility, Cretaya," Morgthon replied calmly. "If he is a cultist, your bonus is already earned."

That seemed to placate the snake woman, who crossed her arms with a small smile as she affixed Morne with her reptilian eyes.

"Well, then, big boy," she said. "Out with it."