Death's End

Epilogue

The horse-drawn wagon guided by the tall, coarse-looking coachman took the old paths around the Tahoa region. Between split paths, he had no hesitation tugging the reins, manipulating the system of straps to guide the horses down one of them. He demonstrated a clear familiarity with the lay of the land.

When a pack of wolves were sighted, the clippety-clop of the horse hooves against the old pavements gave way to thunderous galloping. The loping wolves chased the wagon but as it was under the expert navigation of the coachman, the hunting pack ultimately failed to keep pace, vanishing in the cold mist of the woods.

The hooded character with a half-mask sat inside, while another with a black mask over her laid, unmoving.

"We're almost here," said the coachman, pointing at a small bridge ahead. Like all ancient things along these paths built for an earlier age, it was a weather-beaten span of stone across a precarious cleft, beneath which torrential water ran.

As the wagon rattled across, the coachman looked up, tracking the fading light from the setting evening sun and the dreary overcast. "Ain't good to be out on these roads when the light dies."

"Brigands?"

"Nay, it ain't that simple. With enough gold, hirelings will drive them away. An evil creature prowls this land and steals the souls of any unlucky enough to cross paths with it."

The hooded figure stayed silent for a while till the first drops of rain began to pelt them. "Let it try."

The coachman whipped the two horses. They neighed then quickened as their hooves gouged into the muddy earth. As the mist before them broke, they could see the faint outline of a hamlet, the largest of its kind in the entire Tahoa region and under the protection of the City of Tahoa.

When they were about twenty metres away from the Village of Taxia, the wagon slowed to halt. "This is as far as I will send you," the coachman said, pocketing the small pouch the hooded figure gave him. "I will continue my way to Tahoa."

Carrying the hooded lady on his back, the hooded figure walked to a guardpost, set up in the most rudimentary fashion. A rustic table was placed to the left along with a chaotic range of barricades made from sharpened wooden logs. A few pitchforks were placed nearby in a messy pile. He prepared another pouch of gold coins, knowing how these lands work. And Tahoa did not have the best of reputations.

Two guards stood up and walked over, both brandishing a sword. The first was a lanky man dressed in an oversized leather vest while the other had a weirdly shaped head and receding hair that reminded the hooded figure of Frath the Bard.

"What brings you here to Aver," said the first guard, with a strong Tahoa accent.

"This young lady here is looking pretty dainty. Why do you need a mask to cover that beauty," the second guard said while his rough, scar-filled hand reached out to stroke the hooded figure's bare face. The latter shifted quickly, as his words came out in a haste, "I was born with a hideous birthmark on that side of the face. I do not want to scare you, sir."

The man withdrew his hand a little, doubting his words. He redoubled on his indecorous words. "You can scarcely fool me with that lie. I know pretty ladies like you mask themselves to avoid drawing attention to themselves.

"I can pay with gold for entry," he said, slightly testy. Patience was slipping away from him.

"Well," said the first guard, "Do you have the seal of approval from the Governing Office of Tahoa? The village has been converted recently under the request of a special guest. We will not allow anyone in. You may make your way to the city itself, a few miles southward to seek shelter."