The Slime Farmer - 58 The Missing Caravans 11

The Groaning Gliff was a structure that hunters hated.

It was a sentinel visible throughout the Shaking Barrens, one that stood eternally laughing at the misfortune that hunters met.

And there was always misfortune in the Barrens.

And yet, when that mocking pillar started to fall the hunters paled in alarm and a sort of grief.

There was comfort in hate and unchanging things. The Cliff had been a comfort of many years, a loved and cursed existence.

Unfortunately it was a precarious sentinel, balanced only by the whims of gods. Despite the sturdiness of the melted rock that formed the glass-smooth façade, the rock underneath was rotten and weak.

What a battle it must have been, that long ago clash between two titans, that the power of mystic beasts, usually harmonized with nature, ruined the life and integrity of the land to such an extent.

The seeming strength of the Groaning Cliff was only five mar deep, and by all sense should not have survived that first explosion. The second explosion, closer and larger than the first, had been the final ring that broke the bell.

Raun rushed through the tunnels, a child in his arms and the mother on his heels. They breached the sunshine and nearly collided with the blue and red uniforms of the imperial footsoldiers.

“What are you blocking the way for,” he snarled. “Run! The whole thing’s coming down!”

One of the soldiers quickly took the child from him, another offered his back to the already limping mother. He glanced around to see similar scenes as soldiers met the weakened caravan members. The group that split from them before entering the cliff rushed to help as well.

They ran, the cliff not just groaning anymore, but dully roaring as it crumbled.

Raun glanced up at the teetering cliff, and felt something indescribable in his chest.

He was a man who preferred a light and carefree life. It was why he chose to be a hunter, to hone his skills to the extent of being able to support himself easily and without trouble.

The Groaning Cliff stood over his childhood and adolescence, watching as he grew in its shadow.

With such a stoic ‘parent’, how could he grow differently?

He laughed lightly, jested constantly, drank honestly.

The crystal lizards and the stone ferns that lived around the cliff were prized in the markets of the cities, and he was one of the few that dared chance the curse of the Groaning Cliff.

It was a good life that this cliff had raised him to.

And now he was running from it before it crushed the life from him and all with him.

He paused at the top of a small rise.

The thin shield of melted rock, unable to stand on its own without support, fell in a tremendous crash of shimmering dust.

Around him, the sound of the fall had everyone stop to watch the dust settle. Some were crying – at the close encounter with death, at the freedom that was returned to them, at the pain in their bodies.

At the moment, Raun didn’t care.

There was something in him that threatened to burst out.

A flash of infantry blue and red caught his eye.

The main force of the soldiers was not far from where they were.

Raun started walking in that direction. He reached into the boar-lizard-skin bag he always had strapped diagonally across his back.

His biggest secret, something no one knew, was the seven-color bag he’d painstakingly made to look like ordinary boar-lizard skin.

If anyone knew that the reason he could stay in the wilderness for days and weeks at a time was because he found an extremely-rare dimensional storage item on a skeleton in the mountains, his carefree life would quickly become a distant memory.

A person who could control all seven Shades was rare. Any person who could manage it could walk into the imperial court and receive a title and a manse in the capital as well as a lifelong suspension of all taxes as long as they worked for the emperor.

Portal-doors, seven-color bags, mage-boxes that could shrink and expand for convenience – all of them could only be created by people who had the ability to control the seven Shades of power.

A mere hunter possessing a seven-color bag, how would it even be possible?

He retrieved his bow, strapped the quiver on securely. His arrows were ordinary, not even carved with the emblem that made the shaft smoother, the point sharper, and preserved the feathers.

But he had many.

He made the arrows himself. The seven-color bag preserved inanimate objects, so he did not need to worry about the delicate feathers of the mine-grouse having to rot.

He eeled up a large crack between two boulders and scrambled across the plateau that had helped support the Groaning Cliff for years.

His shoulders relaxed at being on high ground again, he stretched his fingers in and out. He really didn’t like those tunnels.

Below him, the Gamber Blades broke from cover to save themselves from the falling cliff. They surged forward, knowing they could not turn back.

They were met unflinchingly by the army and another band of locals.

Raun thought they’d been the only group to do something so reckless.

Truthfully, he’d accepted Ral’s proposal to guide the group on a whim. Years ago, the retired soldier saw him shoot out the eye of a threehorn deer from two hundred paces away, and kept pestering him to join the hunters’ guild.

He thought he’d done well enough for himself even without the guild, thanks.

Why would he join them when he could just evade their rules and ceremonies in the mountains? He was a hunter even without a guild license.

Besides, he’d seen how towners treated people from the villages.

The army was holding their own below, but they were outnumbered. The Gamber Blades had taken a ridge for their own.

Their mercenaries knew the area better than the soldiers did – an advantage mitigated by the army’s hunter guides. But still, the Blades had time to craft their strategies. They were picking off the soldiers piece by piece.

Another thing that added rage to his already roiling hot insides.

He nocked an arrow.

“Since when,” he growled, “did the Blades take to banditry?��

He paused as movement caught his eye.

Raun had always possessed good eyes. Too good, his remembered his aunt ruefully saying. He saw things he shouldn’t see. His grandfather’s eyes.

The group of ragged fake-bandits nearing the mercenaries from the rear looked odd.

He tracked them with his arrowhead, then let his Shade enhance his vision. His Shade was moonlight, one of the reasons he chose archery. Most moonlight-shade related mage-gifts were related to vision, like his enhancement or seeing in the dark.

The group became clearer to him. That was Tamal, wasn’t it? And the boy from the group he guided.

His lips curled into vicious smirk, unfamiliar when compared to the usual mischievous smile.

A break in the line.

That was all the army needed.

A single break, and that major would probably see it, wouldn’t he? Did anyone get to major without seeing battle in the colonies these days?

If not, the army was more senseless than he thought they already were.

He watched as Tamal’s group crashed into the rear of the Blades formation, right on the spot where they could cause the most havoc.

He moved his aim away from them and loosed the arrow.

A messenger toppled out of the rocks and ran up to the Blades’ leader. He took Raun’s arrow in the eye. The leadership dove for cover.

“Chelua damn me!”

Raun nocked and loosed again and again.

What was his luck today?

Below, the group pretending to be fake-bandits broke through the line. The boy had taken point, the halberd in his hands almost like a hail of striking arrows, swift and accurate.

Nock, draw, loose was the only rhythm Raun could ever dance to.

He thinned the enraged Blades mercenaries that wanted to overwhelm the group, changing positions quickly, arrows hammering into the weakpoints of the mercenaris’ armor.

The army crashed through the Blades formation, shouts and cries reached Raun’s position. Anger, pain, grief, exultation – so many happenings in the small ravine below.

Even Raun could not help but howl his emotions out, overwhelmed.

“You twoheaded swanlicking grebes! You sons of witchers, you daughters of Chel! Damn it! Damn it! Why is today like this?!”

**

Chapter End

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Notes:

Stone fern – not a plant but a type of shelled snail that grows by building small tunnels of nacre against stone. The nacre shell tunnels look like delicate fern designs. The shell nacre is used in decorative inlays, much like mother of pearl, and the animal is edible.

Crystal lizard – named because it exudes a substance that hardens in air, which gathers in spikes or small balls at the tip of the lizard’s tail like a crystal ornament. The lizard uses it for self defense. The crystal is mainly used for cheap beads, but the meat of the crystal lizard is delicious when deep fried in spiced oil.

Pace – a descriptive length between one and two mar. Two hundred paces would be more or less a hundred and fifty mar.