The Count of Castle Rock

Chapter XXIV- A Wizard's Wrath

Hans clings tightly to the reins of his horse, afraid the angry winds might toss him from the seat. His drenched cloak hugs him tightly, weighed down by the torrential downpour fueled by Count Methuen's rage. Hans, The Count, a handful of castle guard and a dozen ghost blades ride west along a road so old it no longer has a name. To the north is The Forest Felah, a haunted place marking the northern edge of Quinlain. To the east and south is the kingdom, growing further and further away with each gallop of his mount. Ahead of them stretches the western coast, domain of the merchant princes.

Salty sea air from the Hellion Sea fills Hans's nose and stings his eyes. Up ahead blow colorful banners and tents battered by the winds of the storm. Methuen's ire made real mingles with the constant storms of the coast to create a gale like nothing Hans has ever seen. Led by The Count of Castle Rock, they ride into the kind of storm written about in history books. By the time they reach the outskirts of Du'Shadrak the locals are struggling to stake their tents and tie down things not already stolen by the angry winds.

They are forced to slow down to a canter as the road swells with more and more people. Hans had read that the coastal towns on the Merchant Coast house populations larger than cities like Levian and Dalluve, but seeing so many people at once catches him by surprise. Despite the rains, the path is choked. Humans, feliruu, and even the strange fishfolk known as the Chau Chau, walk around in water-soaked robes as if it is nothing out of the ordinary. As the horses are forced to slow to a trot, Hans observes these exotic people with their tents and stalls.

Tailors, fishmongers, and sailors shout over rumbling clouds in languages more exotic than Hang Du. How small the three nations must be if so many other peoples exist in the world? Surrounded by hundreds of people as different from him as the many hairstyles of the king's court, Hans realizes how small his world truly was until he met Methuen. Looking ahead, his master leans hunched over his horse, Cape doing his best to protect him from the elements his emotions disturbed.

At some point they enter Du'Shadrak proper though Hans can't pinpoint a difference. Methuen leads his column to a horse corral where a broad shouldered catkin guides their mounts through the mud and into the fenced off area. A scarred chau chau with ruby scales and saffron colored gills walks up to The Count, looking like a cross between a swordfish and a man. He grins, placing his hands on his round belly.

"Ah, Black One," the man gurgles, his phlegmy accent coming from the four gills in his chest. "I knew this squall felt unnatural."

Methuen takes an ample sized coin purse from his saddle bags. "For the horses." He takes a much smaller purse from his belt. "For my men."

The merchant weighs the smaller bag in his hand and rubs his chin, unperturbed by the heavy rains. The guards and ghost blades dismount, leaving Hans feeling silly as the only man still in the saddle. He climbs down and nearly spills into the mud when he loses his footing on a slick stirrup. The merchant eyes Hans with curiosity before turning back to The Count.

"How long will your people need lodging?"

"Wait, my lord," one of the guards interrupts. "Forgive me, but Captain Carlos insisted we stay by you and young Heathson's side."

"You will wait here, as will young Heathson." Methuen addresses the chau chau. "A day at most."

"Ah, I can definitely accommodate." The merchant gauges the weight of the smaller coin purse once more.

Hans rushes to Methuen's side, closing his cloak tight against the storm. "Master, what are we doing here? Your ordeal was barely two weeks ago. Tavia said you still need time to recover."

"I've spent enough time waiting," Methuen snarls. "Du Shau has had far too long to laugh at my expense."

"Master-"