Chapter One—Jeanbleau de Parise en Ōkina Basho

Standing with shoulders held high, he said not a word as his sentence was pronounced upon him. The crowd looked on with a mixture of disgust, hostility, vulgar curiosity and even some with a measure of sympathy.

“For your crimes, Jeanbleau de Parise, you are hereby stripped of your noble title, of all lands and knighthoods. You are disgraced and without home or honor. You are to be hereby executed immediately—save should you choose exile to the lands of Ōkina Basho where you will report to the local adventurer’s guild where you will adventure in the name of Ribeauvillé, and by extension, Machezelle. What say you?”

Jeanbleau looked at the high magistrate—a withered old man with a hawkish nose, narrow eyes and without empathy. His cranky demeanor bespoke his inability to defecate regularly.

The man about to be sentenced scanned the crowd, searching for his friends and allies. His family had not come—had been too ashamed or too cowardly to appear before all these noble lords and ladies looking down on Jeanbleau de Parise with awe and contempt.

“I choose…”—the onlookers quieted—“I choose Ōkina Basho.”

Members of the jury stood and booed, shouting angrily that his sentence was too lenient, while others bellowed at their objecting in defense of Jeanbleu. For this he was grateful that at least not all of the crowd had a searing distaste and hatred for him.

“Kill him!” a red faced gentleman in his middle years screamed.

“Be quiet, you fool! Don’t you think his punishment is enough?” another retorted as he glared at the man and waved his arms in frustration.

A woman cupped her hands around her mouth and to all the jury proclaimed, “The punishment does not fit the crime!”

“SILENCE!” the high magistrate screamed, his face reddening as a purple vain stood out on his forehead. His gavel was made ample use of as he repeatedly hammered to no avail.

Heart pounding, Jeanbleau had just narrowly escaped execution and now he was to be exiled to a barbarous land far to the east where warmongering savages intermingled with monsters to breed inhuman abominations of horror and disgust awaited him.

To know he would be out there, adventuring in the name of his country, and not dead—his family probably wished the latter, as it would have simply put an abrupt end to the scandal they were so eager to avoid as far as they could—gave him some tiny measure of hope. But it also filled him with a whole new dread.

With a practiced grin, Jeanbleu de Parise—once of a noble family of high lineage and prestige, was now a pauper, exile and cast off.

But at least his family would continue to suffer for not supporting him in his trial.

And then be burst out laughing like a maniacal murderer who had just escaped justice. It was not generally his manner to act so, but in his exultant state of having missed death, and at this wonderful opportunity to wheedle at his family’s good name forever more, pleased him greatly.

It was not moments later that the guards who had hauled him into the magisterium hours before, clapped hands upon him again—to take him to his dank cell, no doubt.

Jeanbleau attempted to hear what the High Magistrate was saying regarding his remanding to the proper authorities. They would transport him to his new home in exile. The jury’s eruption swelled to even new heights after his outburst.

Luckily for him, he had not been married—had sired no children. Though he had lost everything, he lost everything but the most precious thing in his possession—his life.

The travel was horrible and all the while Jeanbleau was followed about by his guards, who enjoyed remanding him to his final destination even less than he did. The rains of early autumn were constant.

Each night Jeanbleau went to sleep with a chill, his clothes damp from the incessant moisture. They had travelled like this for some time, stopping only to provision the wagon or sleep for the night.

Often they slept on the side of road, but sometimes on a good night—and these were the good nights—a farmer would agree to allow them to sleep in his hay loft. The straw was often dry and comfortable—which said a lot in comparison to the hard cobbles of the wet roads.

This travel persisted for over two months until they had reached the Embrum Mountains. The passes were cold, and though a frost had not yet arrived in the night, Jeanbleau at times thought he might lose a finger to the cold.

“Can’t feel my toes,” Sir De Shan said.

He was one of Jeanbleau’s guards—an angry fellow at least ten years his senior. But Ballzac, the younger guard, nearer to Jeanbleau’s own age and of a noble house of some small repute, had treated him well and had—in a way as may befit prisoner and his jailor—become his friend, to the utter rankling of De Shan, his demeanor of which was rarely one of good-naturedness.

But even so, whenever De Shan was not about—when he was pissing in the bushes or out on some errand, such as when they had gotten lost in the pass of the Longuire, Ballzac had turned to him with things to say, questions and a general air of friendliness.

Perhaps it was because he did not receive that companionship from his dour ally Sir De Shan. But even so, that time had mostly passed.

Mostly, because they had come out of the mountains and into the port town of Kordier where they boarded a ship across the Bleau Sea and in another two weeks had reached the warm straights of the mer peoples—though Jeanbleau saw no mer peoples at all.

The troll’s teeth had been worrying. It was a relatively thin stretch of waters covering the southern coast just off of Ōkina Basho. But after sailing through these turbulent straights where rocks jutting up—like dull troll’s teeth filed at the points—they had landed in Braseille where they had wasted no time in taking horse and wagon up the mountain roads in the direction of their destination city, Ribeauvillé.

The weather was far different here. The sun was out more, the weather was generally warmer and less rainy, though a chill still persisted.

Jeanbleau wondered if there wasn’t some magic at work. These lands were far too mild in temperament.

In the fields, wonderful flowers covered the ground as the mountains climbed farther north along the road, their peaks often obscured by white and grey mists.

It was now that Jeanbleau and his two guards had stopped for lunch and were pleasantly devouring a meal of tasty but strange vegetables called bamboo, drizzled with fried pork fat. With that they also had rice—a common food in their own country, though this had a strangely pungent and salty flavor to it—and of course, fish, cooked over the open fire.

Braseille was abundant with fresh fish, and what’s more it was cheap! Jeanbleau suspected his guards, but more particularly De Shan, were saving most of the funds given them to escort Jeanbleau to his place of exile—which was here—with a plan to pocket the remainder.

No, Jeanbleau decided. Ballzac has no idea.

Too green.

“I am ready to be done with this!” De Shan complained. “Almost three months of travel and we’re barely getting paid.”

“But the hills here in Ōkina Basho are nice,” Ballzac said brightly.

Jeanbleau glanced about and nodded. They were quite nice—beautiful, actually.

“Perhaps your exile won’t be so terrible after all,” Ballzac continued.

De Shan grunted skeptically, though Jeanbleau was unsure how much contempt was laden in that grunt. He didn’t seem to bear any special ill will toward Jeanbleau, other than the ill will that it was he who was making De Shan’s existence a miserable one—a matter of which Jeanbleau could not change and neither did he attempt to use logical explanation to change De Shan’s mind.

With that sort of low brow intelligence, any explanation would surely set the man even further against Jeanbleau.

No, he had allowed Ballzac to ease De Shan’s bad tempers.

A chill breeze seeped into Jeanbleau’s tunic and he shivered at the fire. He put his hands forward, enjoying the warm heat of the crackling flames. Over the fire boiled water for tea. Sir Ballzac got up and added the dried leaves before pouring himself and Jeanbleau a cup.

He drank it gratefully.

Jeanbleau did not have particularly sturdy clothes. He would need to buy some, and had kept safe his tiny pouch of gold coins the High Magistrate had allowed him to retain, since it was the general understanding that one exiled into an adventurer’s life must actually do adventuring.

And without equipment, one could adventure so far as to die from the first would-be attacker.

This told Jeanbleau that his old country of Machezelle was serious about sending adventurers to this waste. He had grown up hearing stories about Ōkina Basho—about how vile and barbarous these lands were, and how the Kokumin had to be stopped from overtaking this land.

Machezelle and the Kokumin had arrived in these previously untamed lands centuries ago, had fought and had died, expending their resources and manpower until neither side had anymore wish to fight.

The territory of Ōkina Basho was declared a neutral zone with control of Ribeauvillé left in the hands of the Machezellians and Kita-ku Shinai left to the Kokumin. In their tongue, Jeanbleau had heard that the words “Kita-ku shinai” literally meant “Northward City.”

He quaffed his hot tea, burning his tongue and throat a little, but Jeanbleau didn’t care. The warmth filled him and took the chill away.

“Now that we’re done,” De Shan said as he gestured to all their plates and pots, “you can clean this up so we can be on our way. I’m well ready to be rid of you.”

“And I am well ready to be rid of you as well,” Jeanbleau said.

De Shan glanced up at him, his eyes widened. “What did you just say?!”

Ballzac laughed nervously and added, “I am certain he only means that he is ready to be on his way. It has been a long journey. I only regret that Jeanbleau will have arrived at his final destination while we, Sir De Shan must travel all the way back to Machezelle.” He chuckled again nervously to cap off his attempt to deescalate what he must have perceived to be a scuffle in the making.

Sir De Shan, a heavyset knight with multiple chins, sat back down, but then after a moment he gestured jerkily toward Jeanbleau and spat, “We could leave you here for dead and no one would be the wiser.”

Cleaning the plates with water and sand they had brought back from Braseille, Jeanbleau decided not to make further comment. He had decided that Ballzac was correct—that he was almost arrived at his final destination, unlike them.

Perhaps the surly knight, Sir De Shan, had a reason for his quick temper and ill manner during the whole of this trip.

He glanced off over the hills as he scraped the dishes and thought back to three months before. Jeanbleau had been terrified at first as they set out on their journey to reach Ōkina Basho. But the alternative, he did not forget, was in fact, death. Death was forever on this physical plane of existence—or at least, as far as Jeanbleau knew. He wasn’t an unreligious man.

The gods and goddesses had seen fit to set forth all of creation, but probably only because they were bored in their otherworldly existence. The life of those on this world was rich and fascinating, filled with gold and turmoil and war.

An interesting place to be sure.

But those were matters far too complex and unknowing for Jeanbleau to worry about. His worry was for the here and now, and as he had contemplated on his dread of this supposedly awful place, the beautiful morning with its sunshine, fragrant fields of flowers and a promise of a new beginning—even if not one he would have chosen for himself—a kind of curiosity and anticipation had taken the place of his fear.

In fact, Jeanbleau might have gone gone so far as to say he was excited for what was to come. But he was yet to make a decision, as he had not seen Ōkina Basho by any extent yet.

With everything packed and in the wagon, De Shan and Ballzac got up on the seat while Jeanbleau moved toward the back of the wagon, but before he could get in, Ballzac lifted his head, and in a slightly alarmed fashion, said, “Do you hear that?”

“What?” De Shan asked. “I hear nothing!”

“No, listen.”

He did as he was instructed by the younger knight, though not without a sense of annoyance that Jeanbleau could see on his older features. “Hmm. You are right. Then en garde we shall be. Jeanbleau?”

“I will watch for any signs of—“

A rabble of pikes crested the hill of flowers to their left.

“I see them!” Ballzac cried.

Sir De Shan turned. “Yes,” he said gruffly. “And they are headed this way. What a discordant knot of barbarous creatures indeed. Ballzac, with haste!”

“Oui!” he cried, and smacked the reigns against the horse. The animal whinnied, kicked and the wagon began to nosily trundle across the bumpy road as the creatures De Shan had spotted from his standing position atop the seat had come into view more fully.

They were short, armored and bedraggled with ripped cloth and shattered armor. They jumped about as they strode, their bodies angled to the side. Their weapons pumped up and down—none of which matched any kind of uniformity of purpose or organization.

A rabble as De Shan had called them.

And they were moving fast, at least twenty of them. As they caught up to the wagon, De Shan cried for Ballzac to increase their speed.

The poor young knight must have been straining his muscles as he lifted his armored arms and flicked his wrists down over and over. And that would be nothing compared to getting mauled by these little heathens.

A thrill and a fear crawled up Jeanbleau’s spine. Should these creatures catch them—Jeanbleau had no weapons from which to defend himself.

As he was jolted and jounced about inside the back of the wagon, he searched for any means to possible protect himself with and spotted the thickly-metaled black skillet atop Ballzac’s pack.

He bent, was jounced from a particularly high rock in the path and fell on his side, pushing his palm out to catch himself. Without armor, he was able to keep himself righted with one arm relatively easily as he attempted to untie the skillet, which was fasted by way of the oval hole inside the handle, a frayed twine of rough rope holding it there.

“Faster!” De Shan cried. “Faster, or they will catch us!”

With all the bouncing, Jeanbleau could not untie the skillet, so instead he grasped it by the handle and ripped it free. Just as he did so, Ballzac bellowed something he did not want to hear.

“More on the ridge!”

“Damnation!” De Shan cursed angrily. “Whatever you do—DO NOT STOP THE WAGON!”

Jeanbleau watched as—even in his breastplate, De Shan stood from the seat and swiveled backward so his feet came into the back of the wagon. He pulled his sword free from its sheath and glanced at the skillet.

He said nothing about that weapon in Jeanbleau’s hand because he must have known that should they be attacked, all three of them would necessarily need to fight to escape this small horde of green-skinned goblins.

“Ahhh!” Ballzac screamed. “They are fanning out into the road, Sir De Shan!”

“Do not stop!” the older knight shouted as he turned to the younger. Then turning back to Jeanbleau, he said, “Are you ready to fight?”

Jeanbleau nodded.

Though up until now he had been a noble, he was not unaccustomed to handling weapons or even fighting in armed conflicts. But without the family honor guard, a battle would be far different than what he was used to. Especially since the fighting would actually reach within length of his sword!

Sir De Shan growled. “Here they come!” He turned and snarled some epithet that Jeanbleau did not catch clearly as he held onto the lip of the wagon with his right hand and swung down with his sword outside of the wagon with his other.

A goblin came up with a short sword and swiped at them, his blade clearly hitting wood as De Shan cut him down amidst the goblin’s wild inhuman cry that came out as more of a snarling shriek.

Jeanbleau’s heart thundered inside his chest and the knot in his stomach prevented him from reacting as best as he might, but like De Shan—who was evidentially a seasoned fighter, and to Jeanbleau’s eyes, impressive—he moved to the other side of the wagon and held his skillet up high.

“Watch out!” De Shan said as another goblin on their right with a pole arm of some kind, stood in the path. “Hit him!”

Ballzac jerked the reigns and the wagon angled over toward that goblin, who must have seen the path of their intent and whirled to run away, but wasn’t fast enough. The wagon jounced and the goblin died underneath with a wet-sounding crunch.

“En garde!” De Shan said. “Archer!”

Instead of ducking like De Shan, Jeanbleau swung his skillet like a fool, the arrow clinking loudly off of the metal.

When De Shan stood back up, he glanced at Jeanbleau with a wide-eyed stare that said “luck” and shrugged. Truly, it had been an accident, but the knight didn’t know that.

They crested the hill, the wagon bouncing so badly Jeanbleau was concerned they might lose a wheel and then become stranded to be swarmed from all sides.

But what came into view was a tall structure with blue tiles on the roof.

Many roofs, as there were multiple levels that climbed high into the sky with overhanging eaves as the hills that quickly fell away as they crested them, revealed. The edges of the roofs curved up strangely and in the fields half a dozen men dressed in robes with curved swords sprinted through the grass, their blades held high with their hilts close to chests.

One of the warriors came into the road and put his hand up. Ballzac pulled on the reigns and they slowed

“Don’t stop, you fool!” De Shan cried.

But it was too late, the warrior took hold of the horse’s reigns and they were stopped. The man looked up at them. “Where do you come from?” he asked quickly, his language that of Machazelle but with a thick accent.

“What?” Balzac asked, glancing to the older knight, then back to the lead warrior.

“I said, where do you come from?!”

De Shan stammered for a moment and Jeanbleau answered for him. “Braseille!”

The warrior nodded. “You are needed for defense.” He then let go of the reigns and ran after his allies.

Jeanbleau followed him with his gaze as the discordant horde of goblins crested the hill, screaming and shrieking. One of them beat a drum, though Jeanbleau knew not from where, as he saw no drummer.

He jumped off the wagon, ready to use his skillet as the warriors with curved swords set into the goblins, which were far too spread out to simply attack in a lined formation.

Metal scrapped metal and cries of pain and death went up, though none of them were human. Every single one was a goblin cry, some of which screamed angrily as they pushed past the warriors toward the wagon.

Jeanbleau’s eyes widened.

“Oh my gods!” Ballzac cried, and unsheathed his sword. He jumped off the wagon seat and met the first goblin. He cut it down without even first having to block or parry the filthy creature’s blade.

And they were filthy, as Jeanbleau wrinkled his nose at the small on the wind—like rotting meat and piss.

A goblin came directly for him, screaming and slathering. He jumped back to avoid its blade and then swung the skillet down, keeping the pan angled to the side for a smaller area of impact.

With a loud metallic konk, the goblin convulsed as the shattered piece of metal on its head—some relic of a past war, surely—crunched down over his eyes.

It went down in the path and didn’t move after that.

Jeanbleau stared down at it with wide eyes.

His first kill in this new land.

Sir De Shan lunged forward, taking one goblin, then another as a third came up at his side. “Look out!” Jeanbleau shouted, and rushed the goblin, but it was too late.

De Shan cried out as the goblin struck him across the arm. He grasped at the wound and backed away when Ballzac pushed up and stuck his blade into the attacker’s stomach.

It grunted and died there on the path.

As Jeanbleau glanced up in search for any more goblins, the last vestiges of their party were either retreating back over the hill while being pursued, or were getting cut down over the flowers.

All went quiet as the warriors—clearly Kokumin—called out to one another. None of them had been killed or wounded.

“Are you all right?” Ballzac asked as Sir De Shan inspected his wound.

“Only grazed me—but the blade went right through the leather!” he said angrily. He glanced at Jeanbleau, a look of murder on his face. “Thanks for calling that out.”

He nodded, then his eyes widened when De Shan stalked forward and swung at him.

Jeanbleau dodged the blow and stepped back.

“Next time,” De Shan shouted, “kill the damn thing before it has a chance to drag its damn blade over me!”

“It’s not his fault,” Ballzac said. “He’s our prisoner until we reach Ribeauvillé.”

They were distracted when the warrior who had stopped them before came striding forward, his long mustache fluttering in the breeze as he clenched at his scabbard sticking out of his sash.

“Thank you for your assistance,” Ballzac said, and bowed to the warrior.

Jeanbleau was instantly fascinating with their tribal-like apparel and lack of steel armor. In fact, their robes and sandals were impressive, clean and of high quality cut.

These men were no barbarians.

White socks with sandals, though…

Jeanbleau had been half expecting men on horseback with bows, their armor and cloaks soiled and stinking of monster milk while they grinned with half-rotted teeth filled with gold.

“Yes,” the warrior said with a nod. “But you must be more careful. This outpost is not here for the likes of Mechezellians. Do you understand?”

“Oui!” Ballzac said. “I mean—“

“Next time you can kill them all yourself, De Shan said.”

“And we shall. Now you must leave.”

“Fine!” De Shan spat, and actually bent to spit on the road, though he spat far from the feet of these dangerous-looking warriors who outnumbered them. “Let’s go, Ballzac.”

As De Shan stepped up to the driver’s seat, Jeanbleau moved toward the back of the wagon. The warriors with their blue robes and sandaled feet coalesced together as they moved back toward their outpost atop a rocky cleft in the hill.

By the time Jeanbleau situated himself, he was surprised when De Shan got up from the driver seat and into the back of the wagon.

He lifted his boot up to Jeanbleau, and he jumped out of the wagon, his eyes wide and his cheeks heating.

Had he meant to strike, Jeanbleu?

“Ballzac!” De Shan called. “Turn us around. We’re going back to Braseille. Without Jeanbleau!”

“But De Shan—“ Ballzac protested, and was fiercely cut off by the other man.

“NO! I said we are going back. We have suffered enough on this damned trip! Rains, storms! AND NOW GOBLINS! No more!”

Jeanbleau narrowed his eyes, feeling quite insulted that he would be expected to make it to Ribeauvillé and without even being allowed to say goodbye to Ballzac.

“You coward!”

“No,” De Shan said. “I’ve had enough.” He grasped the younger knight’s arm. “No more. We are through. Turn around, Ballzac.”

The man up front paused and Jeanbleau stalked up to him. He put out an arm to the sorry-looking young knight. “Thank you,” he said.

Ballzac took his hand and they shook, the way friends would part. “Take care of yourself, Jeanbleau.”

He nodded. “And you. Don’t let this surly old fool push you about.”

Ballzac grinned.

“That’s enough. Ballzac?”

With a sigh, the younger knight nodded. “Oui!”

He turned the wagon about and they trundled back up the hill. Once they were out of sight and the sound of the wagon’s wheels had completely receded, Jeanbleau turned about, glancing at the dirt road, at the patches of white flowers in the fields.

It was only now that he saw pink pedals falling through the air, carried along by the wind from the trees up on the hill behind the Kokumin outpost.

There were more of them out in the fields now, though these were dressed differently. Most of them wore white garments. They spread out, searching for the bodies of the goblins.

They began dragging the dead into a pile where Jeanbleau thought they would probably be burnt.

“Machezellian!”

Jeanbleau turned around.

“Why did you not go with your friends?”

“They…” He glanced down at his feet, then back up to the man. “They left me here to make it to Ribeauvillé on my own.”

The warrior lifted a quizzical eyebrow. “It is still half a day away.”

Jeanbleau wanted to snarl out of frustration, but of course he did not—not in front of this man—this warrior. He glanced about, thinking he might take one of the swords left behind by the goblins. At least he would find some small measure of personal safety then.

And on foot, the journey would still be close to half a day, so long as he didn’t slow too often.

With a heavy sigh, the warrior put his hands on his hips. “I am called Akahiro Kota. And these”—he gestured to the others in the field—“are my men.”

“I am lor—“ Jeanbleau cleared his throat. He had almost said “lord.” “I am Jeanbleau de Parise.”

Akahiro nodded with a grunt, a grunt that didn’t sound particularly inviting. “More Machezelian adventurers, I see. I suppose we do have a shortage of adventurers, still…”

“What?” Jeanbleau asked, his eyes widening. “A shortage? Surely you are jesting with me. Do you not mean there are too many here in this place?”

“No,” Akahiro said, shaking his head. “This land—it is a wild place—a dangerous place of monsters and adventurers.” He turned back to Jeanbleau and smiled, that smile one of dark humor. “We’re always in need of more adventurers.”

He seemed to know about Jeanbleau, knew that he was a convicted felon—sent here to Ōkina Basho to become an adventurer—and by his tone, probably die?

Jeanbleau hummed skeptically to himself.

“Now, help us with these stinking bodies,” Akahiro said. Then a smile—a genuine one—appeared on his face. “You must earn your keep, if you are to stay here with us tonight. Come.” He stalked forward and gestured for Jeanbleau to follow. “When we are finished, we will eat a meal and tomorrow I will take you to Ribeauvillé!”

Nodding, Jeanbleau followed, happy for this fortunate turn of luck. But despite that, he was wary, on guard. These Kokumin were supposed to be barbaric by all accounts.

“Thank you,” he finally said and bent down to pick up a dead goblin almost completely obscured by a thick patch of flowers.