Summer, year 568 of the Varakarian Cycle

  Kharg arrived early the following morning, eager to begin his first assignment. The cool morning air carried a promise of a clear day, and the rising sun cast long shadows across the Guild courtyard. Jore Longbow greeted him near the entrance. To Kharg, he appeared to be the epitome of an experienced adventurer in practical attire. His brown leather armor was worn but well maintained, and his green cotton tunic looked sturdy yet well-kept. A broadsword with a worn hilt hung from his belt with a long dagger on the opposing side. His impressive red beard complemented his piercing green eyes and lent him an air of rugged wisdom. Kharg estimated him to be in his early thirties, though the weather-worn face could indicate years more.

  “Good to see you on time,” Jore said with a brief smile and gestured for Kharg to follow. They walked together through the guild’s main grounds, passing the mansion and the stables, before reaching a large yard at the rear of the compound. Kharg marveled at the space, a sprawling area with sections designated for sparring, archery, and spell practice. Targets of various shapes and sizes lined one end, while a sandpit at the center was clearly designated for melee combat.

  Jore introduced the other recruits as they arrived. Aster was an energetic young man with an infectious grin. His sandy blond hair and bright brown eyes seemed to radiate optimism. Jahram, by contrast, was quieter and more serious, with short-cropped dark hair and a guarded expression. Both wore chainmail shirts that appeared to be repurposed from their time as city guards and carried broadswords and shields.

  “We’ll be spending the day getting a sense of your skills and seeing how you work as a team,” Jore explained. “This isn’t the city guard anymore. Out there, you’ll be relying on each other in ways you’ve never imagined.”

  The drills began with individual assessments. Jore had each recruit demonstrate their proficiency with weapons and, in Kharg’s case, magic. Aster showcased quick, efficient strikes with his broadsword, though his enthusiasm occasionally led to overextending. Jahram, by contrast, displayed steady and calculated movements, focusing on defense and precision. When it was Kharg’s turn, he demonstrated his rapier skills with a series of fluid thrusts and parries, earning an approving nod from Jore.

  “Now, show me what you can do with your magic,” Jore said, stepping back to give Kharg room.

  Kharg conjured arrows of hardened air, striking distant targets with precision. The familiar pull on his alexandrite ring made him sigh inwardly. Since leaving home, the stone had lost nearly a third of its capacity. It could be recharged eventually, but he did not know the spells to do it himself. Replacing it would likely cost around ten pounds, and that was before paying a silversmith to set a new gem into a ring. With a gesture, he formed a force-block that flashed into existence for an instant and was gone. He even demonstrated a small illusion, a knight stepping forward in gleaming armor. “I should maybe refrain from showing my fireball,” he remarked with a faint smirk.

  Jore chuckled. “That might be for the best.”

  Kharg answered with a shrug and a glint of mischief before letting the illusion fade. Jore raised an eyebrow, impressed. “You’re versatile. That’ll be useful.”

  Next came group drills. Jore set up scenarios requiring teamwork, such as defending a makeshift barricade against imaginary attackers or coordinating an ambush. While the recruits initially struggled to sync their efforts, Jore’s patient guidance helped them improve. Aster’s enthusiasm became an asset when channeled into bold maneuvers, and Jahram’s measured approach provided stability. Kharg’s magic added a massive strategic advantage, allowing them to obliterate most opposition as long as the two warriors could hold a defensive front and give him the time he needed for a fireball or more precise attacks with his arrows.

  The afternoon wore on, and the sun dipped lower in the sky, painting the training yard in hues of gold and amber. Eventually, Jore called a halt to the activities, and by then the recruits were sweating and exhausted but noticeably more cohesive. He clapped his hands, the sound cutting through the yard’s quieting bustle. “That’s enough for today,” he said, his voice carrying authority and a hint of approval. “You’ve all shown me what you’re capable of, and I’m satisfied with your efforts. Now it’s time to prepare for the journey ahead.” He then handed out water and a simple meal, outlining their assignment while they ate. “A village to the south has reported goblins lurking in the nearby woods. They haven’t attacked yet, but the villagers are understandably nervous. Your task is to eliminate the threat. The bounty is two pounds for the job, plus a shilling per goblin ear.”

  The two guards exchanged satisfied grins at the mention of the promised riches, though their excitement was tempered by the weight of the mission. Jore continued, “We’ll leave tomorrow morning. It’s about a week’s ride to the village. Once there, we’ll assess the situation and plan our approach. Goblins can be tricky. They’re small, fast, and nasty, so don’t underestimate them.”

  He gestured toward the group, his green eyes sharp and calculating. “We’ll be meeting at the Guild before sunrise tomorrow. The Guild will provide horses and trail rations for a ten-day, so make sure you’re ready. No excuses for tardiness.”

  Jore looked at Kharg, his attention lingering on his finely tailored outfit, and a quick smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “And you,” he said, crossing his arms, “might want to consider something a bit more practical for the road. That outfit of yours might impress at court, but out there, it’ll just get torn to shreds. There’s a tailor nearby, Algot’s Nail and Thread. Tell him I sent you. He’ll set you up with something that won’t fall apart the first time you take a tumble.”

  Kharg gave a gracious nod, though inwardly he braced himself for the inevitable assault on his sense of style. “Understood,” he said, his tone measured.

  Jore gave the group one final look, as if to impress the seriousness of their undertaking on each of them. “Rest well, pack wisely, and be here on time. The road ahead won’t be forgiving.” With that, he turned and strode toward the guild hall, leaving the recruits to contemplate the coming journey.

  Kharg watched him depart, then set off toward Algot’s. As he navigated the increasingly narrow alleys and side streets toward Algot's Nail and Thread, he slowed briefly before the shopfront. The window display held garments in sober, practical hues, including browns, grays, and muted greens, none of which came close to his favored color. The jangle of a bell announced his arrival as he entered the modest shop. The tailor was a short, stocky man with a balding head and a thick mustache that seemed to compensate for the lack of hair above. He gave Kharg a discerning glance as he entered, a quick smile flashing across his face.

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  “Another recruit from Jore?” Algot said, his voice a deep rumble of cheer. “What’s he done to you, eh? Sent you in those fancy duds to trudge through the muck? Let me guess, you need something ‘practical.’”

  Kharg offered a polite smile, suppressing the urge to defend his attire. “Indeed, Jore said you’d know what I need.”

  Algot clapped his hands together, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Oh, I know exactly what you need! None of that puffed-up nobility nonsense. Let’s see here.” He disappeared behind a curtain, his muttering punctuated by the occasional clatter of bolts of fabric.

  Moments later, Algot emerged, his arms laden with drab-colored materials. He set them down on a table with a triumphant flourish. “Brown. Sturdy. Double-stitched seams. Reinforced elbows and knees. The works.”

  Kharg frowned slightly, inspecting the proffered coat. “Brown? Do you have anything in blue?”

  Algot let out a bark of laughter that echoed in the small shop. “Blue? Lad, you want to scare off the goblins with your fashion sense, or do you want clothes that’ll survive the trip? Brown is your friend, it hides dirt, blood, and the fact you’ve worn it three days straight.”

  Defeated by practicality, Kharg nodded, and Algot set to work. The tailor took measurements at lightning speed, making comments all the while. “Nice muscular frame. Don’t worry, these’ll give full freedom of movement.” He held up the coat and pants with pride, clearly delighted by their rugged utility. “You could fall off a cliff in these and walk away without a scratch. Well, your clothes would be fine, at least.”

  Kharg sighed as Algot fitted the ensemble, the snug, reinforced fabric feeling far too sturdy for his liking. The pants were heavy but allowed for decent movement and the coat, though utterly devoid of style, was undeniably functional. Algot even added a wide-brimmed hat of oil-treated leather, ensuring Kharg was ready for rain or shine.

  “You’re missing something,” Algot declared as he scurried to the back again. When he returned, he carried a practical leather backpack. “Trail-ready, plenty of pockets, and adjustable straps. You can’t traipse around with a fancy satchel, lad.”

  Kharg accepted the bag with a resigned smile. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”

  Algot winked. “That’s why Jore sends ’em to me. You’re set now, lad. Go make Jore proud, and try not to fall in love with the brown. It happens to the best of us.”

  He gave Algot a long, unimpressed look, the sort that suggested he was silently weighing whether the man was joking or genuinely insane. Then he stepped out of the shop with his coin purse lighter by five shillings, a pittance compared to what a week at the Academy had cost, and his pride slightly bruised, though he could not deny the craftsmanship. As he adjusted his new coat, he silently vowed to find a blue scarf, practicality be damned. When he thought about the trail rations, he cringed and began planning for a more comfortable journey.

  * * *

  Kharg awoke well before dawn in his room at the Silverwolf headquarters, the faint glow of predawn light barely peeking through his window. He stretched, feeling the stiffness in his limbs from the simple straw-stuffed mattress. Unlike chairs and smaller objects, his air-weaving skills were not yet refined enough to sustain a spell-woven bed throughout the night. Still, he murmured a number of cleansing spells, and any lingering traces of sweat, dust, or sleep vanished in an instant and his hair took on a sheen as though freshly washed.

  He carefully stowed away his rich garments in the modest cabinet of his trading house room. With an inward sigh, he eyed the sturdy adventuring attire Algot had outfitted him with. Pulling on the plain shirt and his brown, reinforced coat, he reached for his knee-high boots with the turned-down tops. They were well-fitted and sturdy, treated the night before with the last of his impregnating fluid. Thank the spirits he had learned to make more, for the alchemist in Sitch Nar who had sold him the original batch was far away now. He slung his belt and rapier into place with seasoned grace. His gaze fell on the oil-treated hat Algot had insisted upon. He picked it up, turned it in his hands, and shook his head with a faint grimace. “That’s going too far,” he muttered, setting it aside before floating his own plumed hat onto his head with a flick of his fingers. Fafne, already alert, gave a soft trill from his perch near the window before fluttering to Kharg’s shoulder. Together they stepped out into the cool, quiet streets of the still-slumbering city.

  The path to the Guild was calm and peaceful, the cobblestones slick with dew. Kharg walked with strong steps and enjoyed himself with a weave that muffled the sounds of his steps, telling himself it was good practice. As he was no longer enlisted in the Academy, he was free to use magic outside its perimeter. The first stirrings of stable hands and guild workers had already begun when he arrived, their muffled conversations blending with the distant clang of metal and rustling hay.

  Aster and Jahram arrived shortly thereafter, the former greeting Kharg with his typical cheerful demeanor, while Jahram gave a reserved but polite nod. After exchanging brief pleasantries, Kharg approached a stablehand with his most charming smile. A brief conversation and some tactful persuasion convinced the young man to bring out their mounts. The horses were a splendid sight, chestnut quarterhorses with sleek coats and bright, intelligent eyes. Kharg worked his shamanic magic as subtly as he could and noticed with a self-satisfied smile that his companions had not seen anything, though one of the stablehands looked at him strangely. When he reached out to the horses he found their drowsy thoughts were a mixture of hunger, anticipation, and a longing back to the comfort of their stalls.

  “This one’s named Blackfeet,” the stablehand said, patting the horse’s neck. Kharg took a moment to quietly invoke his shamanic magic, binding his spirit to the horse with a soft, almost imperceptible hum of energy. Blackfeet snorted softly, as though acknowledging the bond, and nuzzled Kharg’s shoulder. The connection would make riding smoother, his instructions clearer, and his horse’s needs as apparent as spoken words.

  As the three recruits busied themselves adjusting saddles, securing saddlebags, and ensuring their gear was balanced, Aster muttered loud enough to be heard. “Ah, the smell of leather, hay, and manure. Truly, the perfume of heroes.” His grin was wide, and Kharg chuckled, appreciating the camaraderie that was already forming.

  By the time Jore arrived, dressed in practical riding gear and looking every bit the experienced ranger, the group was ready. His eyes swept over them, pausing on Kharg. The sturdy brown coat and trousers from Algot’s shop met his approval, but the wide-brimmed blue hat perched jauntily on Kharg’s head drew a slow, audible sigh.

  “I see you took Algot’s advice to heart,” Jore said, his tone dry. “At least parts of it.” His gaze lingered on the hat.

  Kharg’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, though his tone stayed light. “There are limits, Jore. You start taking my hat, and next thing you’ll be picking my boots.”

  The corner of Jore’s mouth twitched, but he let it pass with a shake of his head. Satisfied enough, he took in the prepared horses and the recruits dressed for travel. “Good. You’re learning. Saves us from wasting daylight.”

  They mounted their horses as the first rays of sunlight crested the city walls, casting the courtyard in a warm glow. Kharg barely needed to grip the reins as his connection with Blackfeet made guiding effortless. The sound of hooves echoed against the stone as the group rode out, navigating the quiet city streets with ease before the morning bustle began. The city gates loomed ahead, and the guards, recognizing Jore, waved them through without delay.