Chapter Two: The Road East
The next morning dawned gray and damp, the kind of day that made Eldenwood feel even smaller. Aelar had barely slept, his head buzzing with half-formed plans and the weight of what he was about to do. He'd stuffed a battered knapsack with what little he owned: a spare tunic, some hard cheese and bread Tomin had slipped him the night before, a waterskin, and the old hunting knife he'd "borrowed" from the mill years ago. It wasn't much, but it was his.
First stop was Beran's forge on the edge of town. The blacksmith was already at it, hammering away at a glowing horseshoe, sweat pouring down his bald head. Beran was built like a barrel—thick arms, a belly that strained his leather apron, and a scowl that could curdle milk.
Aelar cleared his throat. "Mornin', Beran. I, uh… I need a sword."
The hammer paused mid-swing. Beran looked up, wiped his brow with a grimy forearm, and let out a bark of laughter that echoed off the anvil. "A sword? You? Kid, the only thing you're slayin' is my patience. Go home before you cut your own damn foot off."
Aelar stood his ground, cheeks hot but voice steady. "Look, I got coin. Saved up from every odd job I ever did. As long as you're gettin' paid, why the hell do you care what I do with it?"
Beran stared at him for a long second, then rolled his eyes so hard it looked like they might fall out. "Fine. Whatever. Ain't my funeral." He rummaged through a rack of blades, muttering under his breath, and finally pulled out a slim, straight sword—nothing fancy, just good steel with a simple crossguard and a leather-wrapped hilt. It was lighter than most, balanced for someone who wasn't exactly built like a warrior. "Here. Try not to die too quick. That's twenty silver."
Aelar counted out the coins with shaking hands, took the sword, and gave it an awkward swing. It felt strange in his grip—too long, too sharp, too real. He had no idea what he was doing, but he buckled the scabbard to his belt anyway, nodded his thanks, and walked out before Beran could change his mind.
Back at the little shack he called home, he slung the pack over one shoulder, gave the dusty room one last look, and stepped out into the morning mist. No one waved goodbye. No one even noticed. Just another scrawny kid leaving town with big ideas and no sense. The gate creaked shut behind him, and Eldenwood disappeared into the trees.
He made it maybe a mile down the east road—nothing but rutted dirt flanked by thick pines—before the trouble started.
It came out of nowhere. A wet, glistening blob the size of a wagon wheel oozed from the underbrush, translucent green and jiggling like day-old jelly. A slime. Aelar had heard stories, but seeing one up close was worse. It smelled like vinegar and rot, and it moved faster than something that squishy had any right to.
"Crap—!" He yanked the new sword free, but the thing was already on him. A pseudopod shot out and slapped against his leg, burning like acid through his trousers. Aelar yelped, swinging wildly. The blade sliced into the slime with a wet schlorp, but the wound just closed right back up. Another tendril wrapped around his arm, searing pain shooting up to his shoulder. He staggered, dropping to one knee as the slime started to engulf him, its body pressing down like a living blanket of fire.
"Get off me, you goddamn—!"
He was almost under when a roar split the air.
"Hold on, kid!"
Tomin came crashing through the brush like a bull through a fence, his massive two-handed axe gleaming in the weak sunlight. One swing—thwack—and half the slime went flying in a spray of goo. Another chop, and the rest splattered across the road in twitching chunks. The acid sizzled harmlessly on the dirt.
Aelar sat there panting, arm and leg stinging, sword still clutched in a white-knuckled grip. "Tomin? What the hell are you doin' out here?"
Tomin planted the axe in the ground and wiped green slime off his beard with the back of his hand. "Knew you'd die out in these woods without me. Look at ya—five minutes past the gate and you're already gettin' hugged by a damn jelly monster."
Aelar winced as he pushed himself up, conceding with a sheepish nod. "Yeah… fair point. I ain't exactly a natural swordsman yet. But I ain't goin' back, Tom. I told you that."
Tomin's big face split into a grin, the kind that made his scars crinkle. He laughed, a deep, rolling sound that scattered a few birds from the trees. "Who said anythin' about draggin' you back? I ain't here to fetch you, kid. I'm comin' with you."
Aelar blinked. "Wait… what?"
"You heard me." Tomin shouldered his axe and gave the slime remnants a kick. "Silver Stag can run itself for a while. Got a cousin who owes me a favor. Figured you'd need someone who actually knows which end of a weapon to hold. Plus… hell, maybe I'm tired of pourin' ale for the same sorry faces every night. East sounds good. Greatness, answers about your folks, whatever. I'm in."
Aelar stared at the big man, the burn on his leg forgotten. A slow, stupid grin spread across his face. "You serious?"
"Dead serious." Tomin clapped him on the shoulder—gently, for once. "Now pick up that fancy new toothpick of yours and let's get movin'. Next slime might bring friends."
Together they started down the road again, the scrawny orphan and the kindhearted brute, two unlikely adventurers heading east into the wilds. For the first time in his life, Aelar didn't feel quite so alone.