Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 42

"How on earth did you get past the wards?"

Farren jumped.

At the door there stood an auburn-haired, man, who, to the people of Kinallen, was known to simply as 'the witch-doc'. Like most Velans, he was tall and strongly built, but the thick wolf-fur cloak draped over his broad shoulders made him look like a giant-- one that was rather handsome. His eyes were a deep, forest green and his long, curly hair was in a half-up. Light stubble speckled his chin.

All in all, he looked like the kind of folk Farren would love to sit with and chat, preferably over a pint of ale-- if not for the huge axe he was holding right now.

And as for the drinks, he looked already drunk-- eyes red-rimmed and swaying on his feet.

The last thing a drunk fellow of his size needed was an axe.

With a jolt, Farren remembered she was unarmed.

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All Ryffin Wellis ever wanted was to lead a peaceful life.

He had enough of it all-- the snob mages of the academy, the rigged system of command wrought with favoritism, having to beg for days on end for a single signature of approval for his work. Heavens knew what he had to go through to get his works published.

All of it would have been bearable somehow, but when the High Sorcerer sent men after him to finish him off-- the alchemist knew it was time to pack up and leave the Byton Royal Academy of Magic for good.

Life in Kinallen was good, if he counted out the occasional raids. Folk were nice, he had this little cottage in the forest, a patch of land on which to grow pumpkins for stew, and to crown it all-- he had his chickens.

But now out of nowhere came this peculiar, ashen-faced, wild-haired trespasser who had by some inexplicable reason managed to dodge all wards and land herself straight into his living room.

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The Velan alchemist was in a rather foul mood that morning when he went out to fetch some firewood. Someone had nailed these wanted posters to all the trees surrounding his home.

"This is private property, for Rhilio's sake!" he'd yelled, tearing them off one and all, plucking off the nails dug so ruthlessly into the tree bark.

On the parchment was a picture of a vaguely familiar face, with a scar in one eye-- but Ryffin couldn't remember who. The printed letters swam in his vision; effects of chugging down half a bottle of the infamous Goldcrest whiskey was kicking in.

His mind, despite all his efforts not to, swung back to what he'd been writing about-- which was exactly the reason for his day-drinking.

How do you destroy a Vasaen?

He'd been trying to work out an answer for days, weeks and months. He'd read every book on necromancy he could acquire, scanned them cover-to-cover and learned a plethora of rather disturbing facts he was better off not knowing, but the solution he'd been looking for remained ever out of his reach. The frustration alone was enough that he'd rather have a nasty hangover than ponder over the same thing.

Axe in hand, bundle of chopped firewood hoisted over one shoulder, he swung open the door to his house with a boot to find the wards undone.

A young woman clad in tattered leather armor stood right in the middle of his living room, face dabbed white with fireplace ash for some reason-- a new trend in fashion perhaps; Ryffin was not too up to date with things as such.

One thing was obvious though-- whatever she might be, she definitely was not one of those assassins sent by the High Sorcerer of the academy, because assassins were supposed to be clever and subtle, and the ash-smeared goblin before him seemed neither of those.