“Are you sure that this is a good idea?” Dargan asked suspiciously as the sound of large, rattling, and creaking wagons approached them from around the bend of the road.

“This is what Hebspeth offered us, and I don’t see any better way to earn some easy experience,” Connor grumbled.

A day had passed since the events at the Witch’s hut, during which time Connor and Dargan had trained and prepared, and discussed what they were going to do next. Eventually, they decided to follow Hebspeth’s tip that there was a caravan of folks that passed by the Southern Road every full moon. It just so happened that they usually hired guards for the journey rather than strike out through the wilds unguarded.

“We need quests, and we need experience,” Connor argued. “And I suggest we keep on doing that until we’re at least Level 6. And then we go for the First Gate.”

“How do you know that will be enough to win the First Gate?” Dargan had grumbled for Connor to shrug.

“Just a guess.” He didn’t let on what he knew that there were Fey Warriors attempting to claim—or already holding—the Ring of Tantor, and that they would need to at least be a Level 6 or more to defeat them.

Either way, getting a lot more experience and not being gutted by the first Orc they ran into sounded like a good idea.

Hebspeth had agreed to help them and given them a grimoire containing three simple spells—ones that she insisted that anyone could learn.

Grimoire of Hebspeth

Spell: Light

Effect:

Creates a glowing ball of light.

Cost: 2 Vitality points

Spell: Heal

Effect:

Restores Health points.

Cost: 1 Vitality point per Health point healed

Spell: Lesser Radiance

Effect:

Creates a zone of protection. Damages any creatures or servants of the UnderWorld.

Cost: 10 Vitality points

Connor had also taken time to allocate his skill and attribute increases from advancing to Level 3. He expected to be doing a lot of fighting, so he increased his Strength and Agility attributes. The agility also helped with the skill that would help him avoid fights he couldn’t avoid: Sneak.

Name: Connor Halfelven

Profession: None

Race: Half-elf

Level: 3 (1200/2500)

Size: Medium

Health: 60 / 60

Vitality: 30 / 30

Agility: 13

Charisma: 6

Intelligence: 10

Stamina: 10

Strength: 11

Wisdom: 8

After allocating his attribute points, Connor chose to advance his Sneak skill.

Discretion is the better part of valor, after all! the half elf thought with a smile.

Sneak:

The ability to hide oneself from others. Advancing levels in this skill increases the ability to hide and unlocks special abilities. Minimum Agility and Charisma attributes must be met to advance levels.

Basic Level – No bonuses or modifiers. Novice Level – Reduce the chance of being detected while using ability by 50%. Minimum Agility of 10. Advanced Level – Reduce the chance of being detected while using ability by 75%. Minimum Agility of 10.

“You’re really going to have to start upping your abilities,” Dargan muttered as they listened to the slow-moving caravan draw closer and closer to them.

“If we’re in this for the long haul, then I think we need to start thinking about our specialties,” Dargan said.

“What do you mean?” Connor frowned. He had never really thought about it this early.

“Well, we’re too new to get a Profession, right, but I’m seriously thinking about tanking it up. That is what I originally came in here for anyway. So, I need to practice my weapon skills, upgrade my armor, learn how to use that two-handed battle hammer that I’ve been thinking about.”

“You should learn leadership magic,” Connor said impulsively, remembering how the dwarf had inspired others during the siege of the Lucky Dragon.

“What? Magic?”

“Uh huh,” Connor nodded. “You’re a natural. I bet that if you get a chance to learn how to cast fear or inspire, then you’d be unstoppable on the battlefield . . .”

“Well, as soon as we find a general willing to teach me,” Dargan said gruffly, but Connor could tell that the dwarf liked the idea.

The Caravan of Boudazz slowed as it finally approached them. The caravan turned out to be three wagons—each one the size of a two-story building, riding on six giant wheels, and pulled by creatures that looked like bulls, only twice the size.

As Connor stood up, waving to the dimunative driver who sat up front, he wondered what his own specialty should be. He had never really planned on doing anything much more than what he was doing now: bits of fighting, bits of sneaking, stealing . . .

Should he start using magic? Learning spells?

“Hey, here’s an idea,” Dargan grumbled. “You’re at least a bit of elf. You should learn to shoot or throw something. I bet you’d be a natural.”

The giant bull-type creatures finally plodded to a ground-shaking halt. The small figure on the driver’s bench turned out to be a man in a fine white shirt with suspenders, oiled black hair, and a handlebar moustache that made him look, in Connor’s eyes, a little like a 1940s cowboy villain.

“What do we have here? You fleeing or you fighting?” the little man asked, his accent heavy and nasal. “We got refugees from Woodville out back. It’s a free ride to SkyBridge if you can do the dishes.”

“We’re fighting!” Connor offered instead. “Definitely fighting! We heard you were in need of caravan guards?”

The little man above laughed and clapped a hand on his thigh.

“That we are. Even half-elves are welcome if they can keep us from being attacked in our beds! Hop on board, come on!”

Quest: The Caravan of Boudazz

Protect the Caravan on its route to SkyBridge Outpost.

Accept: Yes / No

***

“Well, things are looking up for Boudazz, that’s for sure!” The small man in the handlebar moustache, the demonstrative Boudazz, gloated to Connor and Dargan a few hours later as the great caravan slowed for the night.

They traveled slow, despite the size of the “Therion Cows” as Boudazz called the twelve-foot-high oxen that pulled them. None of the beasts picked up their hooves faster than a slow pace before setting them down again, and the size of both the beasts and the two-story, round-arched wagons dictated that they had to choose only the widest and most secure of routes.

Which meant the Southern Road, Connor thought with a sigh, recognizing the direction they were taking as the longer, looping road that he hadn’t taken the first time he had tried to get to SkyBridge.

It was going to be a long trip, the half-elf realized. He instead tried to settle himself into getting to know the caravan owner as well as he could.

“Up? What do you mean!” Dargan blurted out on the other side of Connor, both of them sitting on the same high wooden bench of the first wagon with Boudazz. “Didn’t you hear about the Goblin horde in Woodville?”

“Or the trouble at the Lack?” Connor murmured, remembering what the Ranger Marshal had said. He didn’t mention the appearance of the other realm, Annwn, yet—that still felt too chilling and too strange to talk about with strangers.

“That is exactly what I mean!” the small man laughed, flicking the reins a little as he guided the Therion Cows toward a stony field tucked under the brow of woods. This was to be their camp for the night, it appeared.

“Trouble always brings folks to Boudazz!” the self-referencing owner said gleefully. “It’s times of peace that I worry about!”

Connor frowned at the sentiment, but he could see that it was true. Their caravan was made up of three wagons, with the last one the busiest, given over to refugees and surrounded by walkers fleeing the horde or the elvish incursions. When Connor glanced around, he saw the looks of tired faces behind, and all manners of ages and creeds, from young to old, halfling to dwarf.

“When people are happy, what need do they have to travel? To leave their homes?” Boudazz said, before turning to whistle in high, piping tones to the beasts below, bringing them to a halt. There was a great creaking and shuddering from behind them as the giant wagon settled and shifted in place. Already, there were shouts and cries from the rest of their group, and people hopped down to start tying off the wagons, pulling out tarpaulins, and preparing for the night.

“And my new martial allies!” Boudazz said with a touch of a showman’s dazzle. “What need do people have of stories, of escape, if they are too happy drowsing safe by their fires?”

It was soon after this that Connor and Dargan realized that the Caravan of Boudazz wasn’t just a vehicle for protecting weary travelers. The core members of Boudazz’ crew were also a troupe of traveling players.

“I won’t deprive you the entertainment, but I expect you to keep watch at the same time!” the small caravan leader reminded them before he, too, climbed down off the high seat and got to work raising his company.

“Well,” Connor looked at Dargan. “I guess it’s time for us to do our work, then!”

***

Connor Halfelven’s eyes were sharp and lively as he once again turned slowly around, peering back up and down the road as far as he could see.

Even as good as his eyesight was, there wasn’t an awful lot to notice apart from rocks, trees, and more rocks.

Hmph. He huffed, idly swung his hand ax forward and back a bit before returning it once again to its belt loop.

Guard work is BORING! He turned back toward the standing iron brazier that he had hammered into the ground, along with several others, marking the edge of their perimeter. He was supposed to keep watch over the southern and eastern end of the camp, while Dargan was busy doing the same for the northern and western.

In the camp, past the warming light of the brazier’s flame, Connor could make out snippets of Boudazz’s performers. One entire side of the caravan had been opened, revealing that it contained a full stage. He saw that there were streamers of colored material strung to the stage floor, representing bands of colored light or flames, he didn’t know, and the troupe of humans were busy enacting a scene where a . . . Wife? Queen? Priestess? . . . was trying to creep past the pillars of light, while a host of courtiers dressed in devilish red robes was warning her of something.

“The King holds the key to my prison! The chalice and the grail! He shall give me my heart’s desire, or he shall release me from my prison!” the rather baritone-sounding woman declared. There was a clash of cymbals off stage, which Connor presumed meant thunder or earthquakes.

Creak.

There was another sound amidst the stage directions which struck Connor’s half-pointed ears strangely.

Was that a creak of wood? Connor thought. It wasn’t windy, and there were trees nearby—so why should he be worrying?

“Urk!”

This time, there was another sound from the darkness around the hulking wagons, a distinct murmur of surprise—or pain.

And it was coming from the same direction that Dargan was supposed to be patrolling.

Connor broke into a run.