Men's hard-working voices filled the air as Kestrel and Eyleen, following Cirasso, approached a company of carriages, surrounded by workers stomping around in the mud and outriders gearing up to escort the convoy. The half-dirt half-cobble road was littered with horse dung, which had Kestrel taking tiny detours to avoid walking in the filth. In all there were three carriages; in the front there were two iron-rimmed stagecoaches, and in the back was a large behemoth of a wooden vehicle resembling that of a wartime siege engine. It had tall stacks of wooden logs packed in the back, and was reinforced on all sides with large plates of iron. Torn red and yellow banners hung from the sides, and at the top was positioned some sort of oversized crossbow that looked to have been forged in the fires of hell itself. It had intricate pointed shapes, but looked weathered and rusty.
"The dragonbow," said Cirasso dramatically. "It is said that it was created hundreds of years ago to slay dragons. It was so effective that all kings and emperors had them mounted on every wall in every kingdom in every land, but they are few now. The dragonbow smiths' lineage disappeared into time, and now only these relics remain."
"Dragons? Why would you need to kill dragons when there's so few of them?" mused Kestrel.
"Why do you think there are so few of them in the first place, eh?" said Cirasso.
"I hope they're effective against werewolves and the undead..." said Eyleen, a distant look in her eyes.
Kestrel was well-fed from the feast earlier in the morning. He was warmed up from the training, and by his side he had a firm grasp on Marquis' golden pommel of his golden sword, Evynzhul. Yet he felt no strength in his legs. No conviction in his heart. He was here to find his family, but the curse began at the lands of his home. Were they alive? The chances were slim. Not to mention, he had no leads. No insight. And now, he was off to fight undead in some far-away castle ruin to reclaim territory. Perhaps, he thought, that he should refocus his efforts to fight for his homeland instead of finding his family. That, at the very least, was a very reasonable duty. Not to mention, a noble cause. But the thoughts of his mother, Oriole. His big brothers, Trogon and Heron. And his spoiled dog. Oh how he loved his spoiled nervous little Filo. He couldn't let these thoughts go. Or rather, they wouldn't leave him. He didn't want them to leave.
"Cirasso, oil check on gear four, then rally your men! We're leaving!" called a woman with salty red hair and a worn face across the filthy cobble. That must be Krola. Cirasso hurried off out of sight behind the repurposed siege engine. Then, Krola spoke up at the larger crowd of people.
"Heed, heed! I've received important information from Commander Richard! Last night, a dispatch run carrying new faces was brutally attacked and ravaged. That marks the second time this has happened now."
The worker's murmur died down, and worried voices exchanged mutterings among the crowd.
"But this time, there were survivors. Survivors with knowledge on the cause of the attack. We know now what attacked our dispatch," said Krola, before gesturing sarcastically. "An accursed creature!"
The crowd laughed ruggedly, some grumbled. "Get to the point!" shouted a man in an eyepatch.
"Tis a beast of ferocious temperament. It claws, it bites. And the men it bites? They turn into accursed creatures themselves! But fear not, men! This creature is not one of the undead. According to reports, it bleeds!"
The crowd cheered.
"It fears fire!"
The crowd cheered again.
"It may be out there. It may want to attack us, claw us, bite us, eat us, turn us into its ugly abominations, but we'll be ready! Fire up the Wyvern!"
Kestrel saw movements inside the siege engine, 'the Wyvern'. A warm red light began emanating from the inside, and soon smoke bellowed out of thin metal pipes jutting out haphazardly. Thick, durable sconces that lined the roof of the engine fired up like bonfires in the night, and all the horses neighed. The Wyvern lurched forward as it began rolling slowly.
Kestrel felt a tap on his shoulder and looked back.
"Our carriage is in the front. We are group one. Remember that," said Cirasso, his tanned face now smudged slightly black from soot. "Let us hurry."
They jogged past the slowly advancing convoy, and made their way inside the open doors of the carriage in the front. This one looked like the one he had arrived in, but it was much larger, clearly meant to carry larger groups for larger business. The inside was not of moldy wood and old velvet like the last one, but rather mirrored the outside—iron plated and sturdy. He hurriedly sat down on one of four benches, the hard surface battling uncomfortably against his rear. Eyleen sat down next to him, but Cirasso remained outside, still following along. The carriage was only half-full, but more hardy men poured in. Eventually the last man entered, and Cirasso hopped gracefully inside and shut the doors, darkening the interior. About a dozen men sat in the cabin, and soon their grumbles and murmurs began.
"Cirasso, is it true? That thingy turns people into one of 'em?" asked an unkempt man with icy white eyes.
"I don't know, I didn't see it in person," said Cirasso, as a matter of fact.
"It does. I was there in person," said an older gentleman with a cut ear and a leather eyepatch. "On the night of the first attack, we arrived to find the coach demolished. Sprawled around it were... I don't even know how to describe them. Evil things. Resembling the men they once were."
"Werewolves," said Eyleen chiming in. "It must be lycanthropy."
A younger man, clean shaven and with long black hair scoffed. "Werewolves. Listen to this girl. They couldn't have been werewolves. Everyone knows there are no beast curses west of Yorboran."
"Well, I grew up east of Yorboran. I know how werewolves look like. They were werewolves," said Eyleen furrowing her brow.
"Look, lass. I'm sure you know how werewolves look like. But I'm also sure I didn't see no girl there on the night we found them," said the man with the eyepatch. "You weren't there. You never saw them. Stop lying."
Kestrel had read about lycanthropy in one of his bestiary study classes. The creature that Marquis had turned into, it matched a lot of what defines a werewolf. But what the man said: there is no beast curses west of Yorboran. This is common knowledge. Everyone does know this. So why would there be werewolves in the Swarth? Certainly, the lands are cursed, but the curse is supposed to be that of undeath, not of beasthropy.
"What is this about werewolves?" asked Cirasso. "How could they have come to the Swarth?"
The young man groaned. "Don't tell me you believe this girl!"
"It is not just some girl," began Cirasso. "She was there. You're speaking to one possessing a lion's heart."
Murmurs were whispered in the caravan.
"You're really one of the survivors of last night? Where's the other survivor?" asked a short, stocky man in the back.
Eyleen did not answer, and instead focused on Cirasso's question. "I suppose there's no good explanation to why there are now werewolves in the Swarth, but it doesn't matter. We just have to pull the source of the problem by its root. The beast that bleeds."
"Is the beast itself a werewolf, then?" asked Cirasso.
"I don't know what it is. All I know is that it's not of this world," said Eyleen. "But it can die."
"And die it will!" roared the ice-eyes, and the other dirty men agreed in unison. As if the carriage had turned into a rowdy menagerie.
Kestrel tried laughing along before his mind eventually melted into the rowdiness, the chatter and the grumbles, and soon he was lost in his fruitless thoughts again. Thoughts about his family. His future. Life and death. The werewolves. They came and went like the shadows on the wall. Hours passed, and morning turned to noon, warm sunlight seeping determinedly through the thin cracks of the iron plated boards.
"You scared?" A bearded man, square of jaw and bald sat across him.
Kestrel woke from his thoughts like waking from a deep sleep. "Huh?"
"Scared of the beast?" he asked.
"Oh... I suppose I am," said Kestrel, grasping his pommel.
"Who wouldn't be, aye? You're no fighter, I can tell. But don't let these lads have you thinking they're not absolutely terrified of what's out there."
"Oh shut yer trap, Raghnar, ya wimp. Rest of us don't wee our drawers at the sight of an overgrown dog," said the ice-eyes, and a couple of men laughed hoarsely.
"To be fair, I've seen a couple of you fall to such a fate," said Cirasso jokingly. "Multiple times."
Kestrel felt a jolliness tugging at the corner of his lips, and he couldn't help but smile. He looked over to Eyleen who carried a still expression, and his smile suddenly grew tamer. He had felt as if he could belong among these types of people, the way they laughed so easily at the meagerest of things. But they were so different from him. It felt like the bridge to friendship spanned infinitely onwards—impossible to cross. In this regard, Eyleen was far more relatable. She was gentler than these ruffians. Cleaner, prettier, more regal. Like a princess. Kestrel felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment at the thought. Since he was a prince, and if she was a princess, then-
A heavy knocking on the doors reverberated the inside of the carriage, and everyone grew silent. Not a muscle moved at first, then Cirasso slowly made his way to the carriage doors and creaked them open just enough to poke his head out. Someone on a horse reported something unintelligible to the captain, and it didn't take long before Cirasso shut the doors again. His green eyes gleamed in the light for a moment before it was half-dark again.
"Scouts found tracks ahead. Told me it was not from a natural creature," said Cirasso with a serious expression.
"When's there been a natural damned creature in the Swarth as of recent anyway, aye?" asked the ice-eyes.
"What meat do you think is roasted and chucked onto your dinner plate, you big buffoon," said the young man with long black hair.
The ice-eyes stroked his long rugged beard. "Ach, ya know what I mean."
"The point being made here is not that we've been eating cursed meat, but rather that tracks unknown to our scouts have been spotted," said Cirasso sitting back down. "But it numbers only in one trail. We're not in danger, you can relax."
Some men let go of the grip they had on the handles of their swords. Even Eyleen seemed to have anticipated combat as she discreetly returned a sheening dagger back into the darkness of her coat, and the tension lifted.
Kestrel inspected the 'ice-eyes', who were folk stemming from northern Midland. Their eyes were supposedly a gift from the cold itself—to unite them with it. Their culture is, to Kestrel, rather barbaric. No famous scholar ever came from Revaskovis. They do not like reading, and they do not like magic. Perhaps it is because they live among glaciers and pray to the cold. That's like praying to the rains themselves rather than praying for it to rain. I certainly mustn't deal with an ice-eyed brute during the Year of the Grain, Kestrel thought.
A deep guttural horned blared from behind their carriage, followed up by a commanding voice from outside, "we have arrived! All men, ready to disembark!"