Chaosbound: Elarith Chronicles

Markus and the Merchant

The clamor of Beran's market square slammed into Markus like a physical force as he guided his mount through the choked thoroughfare. The noonday sun roasted the cobblestones, coaxing out the rich perfume of fresh-baked rye, the gritty scent of animal sweat, and the sharp, metallic tang of iron from the blacksmith's forge. A teamster's whip cracked overhead, a sound like tearing cloth, as a laden wagon groaned past, its heavy wheels churning up a fine dust that coated Markus's worn boots.

"Ah! Rugal's man arrives!"

The voice, surprisingly clear and resonant, sliced through the din like a honed blade. Markus turned, his gaze sweeping over the chaos until it settled on a figure who navigated the throng with the effortless grace of a fish in water. Merchant Khas stood a handspan shorter than Markus, yet he carried himself with an unshakable confidence, the bearing of a man who had meticulously weighed his own worth and found it considerable. His emerald-green coat—clearly too fine for the dusty road—shimmered with intricate, almost imperceptible embroidery, while his boots gleamed with the telltale sheen of fresh oil. Not vanity, Markus realized, his keen eyes missing nothing, but advertisement: here is a man whose goods arrive unspoiled.

"Markus, reporting as ordered," he said, offering the merchant a soldier's curt nod rather than a deferential bow. The subtle distinction was not lost on Khas, whose sharp eyes flickered with a hint of approval.

Khas's grip was dry and firm, his palm marked with the rough calluses of hands that had certainly done more than simply count coins. "Your reputation precedes you," he stated, a flash of teeth that had clearly never known hunger accompanying his words. "Though I confess I expected someone... older."

"The road ages a man quickly," Markus replied, his gaze already systematically sweeping over the assembled caravan. Three heavy-laden wagons stood in a tight formation, their canvas covers stretched taut against stout ropes, straining with their hidden cargo. A quartet of guards in matching, worn leather jerkins leaned on their polearms, their casual stance belied by the watchful alertness in their eyes. Behind them, a pair of wide-eyed, frantic assistants scrambled to secure a teetering stack of crates, each marked with the distinctive sigil of Rugal's personal spice merchant.

Khas followed Markus's assessment with a knowing smile. "Sixteen barrels of northern wheat," he said, tapping the nearest wagon with a manicured finger. "Twelve casks of Rivermouth saltfish, meticulously packed in sawdust. And..." He lowered his voice conspiratorially as they passed a smaller, iron-banded chest, "...certain delicate items requiring extreme discretion." The merchant's smile didn't quite reach his eyes this time, replaced by a subtle, unsettling glint. "The Lord Steward's personal request."

Markus's sword hand twitched instinctively toward his hip, a familiar weight comforting against his side. "Any trouble expected?"

"Beyond the usual bandits and bad roads?" Khas produced a plump, honeyed fig from a pouch on his sleeve and popped it into his mouth, savoring the sweetness. "Let's say some parties might find our cargo... interesting." He chewed thoughtfully, his gaze distant. "Your task is to get us to Rugal's gates before their curiosity grows too profound."

A sudden, sharp crash echoed through the market as one of the assistants, with a yelp, upended a crate, sending pottery shards skittering across the cobblestones. Khas sighed, a sound of long-suffering resignation. "The gods' mockery of my staffing choices continues unabated." He turned back to Markus, all business once more. "We roll out within the hour. Your mount will be fed and rested—I've no use for a guide who can't keep his eyes open."

Markus simply nodded, his mind already meticulously charting their route. The Bandit's Span would need to be crossed before dusk, a notorious bottleneck, and the old forest road near Miller's Bend always washed out this time of year. As Khas strode off to loudly berate his hapless staff, Markus caught the glint of something metallic in the merchant's shifting shadow—a dagger's hilt, perhaps, or merely a trick of the relentless noonday light.

The Journey

Golden light, soft and mellow, spilled across the countryside as the caravan lumbered out of Beran's gates, its heavy wheels groaning in protest against the formidable weight of their cargo. Markus rode point, guiding his mount with practiced ease, his broad shoulders set squarely beneath the familiar weight of his sword. The road ahead was deeply familiar to him—a winding ribbon of packed earth that threaded through rolling hills and dense thickets, where the late afternoon sun stretched shadows long and distorted, like grasping fingers. Khas fell into step beside him, his horse's polished tack glinting with every subtle movement.

"Four years with the Rugals," Khas mused aloud, his tone more a statement of fact than a question. "That's no small feat for a man without divinity."

Markus kept his gaze fixed ahead, a faint quirk gracing his lips. "They judge a man by his mettle, not his blessings."

"True enough," Khas conceded, a dry chuckle escaping him. "Though it's rare to see Lord Rugal take such personal interest in an outsider. Then again—" His eyes, sharp and assessing, flicked briefly to Markus's sword hand, lingering on the network of old scars that marred the knuckles. "You're clearly no ordinary sellsword." The unspoken question, heavy with curiosity, hung in the air between them. Markus let it linger, a silent challenge, before finally offering an answer.

"I train. I learn. That's all."

Khas chuckled again, a sound devoid of genuine humor. "Modest. But tell me—what's your take on young Ron? Half the merchants in Beran swear he's a genius beyond compare. The other half are convinced he's one failed experiment away from burning the entire estate down."

Markus snorted, a brief, sharp sound. "He's both. But cross him, and you'll wish it was the fire you had to worry about."

By dusk, they had made impressive time, reaching a sheltered clearing where the ancient trees bowed inward like weary sentinels, their branches interlocking to form a natural canopy. As the guards efficiently set a perimeter, their movements quiet and practiced, Markus paced the camp's edge, his senses alert, testing the wind for the faintest hint of smoke or the distant ring of steel. Khas found him later by the crackling fire, where the rich scent of seared venison mingled enticingly with the sharp, clean aroma of woodsmoke.

"You scout like a man expecting trouble," Khas observed, his voice a low murmur, as he extended a steaming tin cup toward Markus.

Markus accepted it, the warmth immediately seeping into his chilled palms. "Trouble doesn't announce itself with fanfare."

"Wise." Khas leaned back, his gaze fixed on the emerging stars, a pensive expression on his face. "You ever wonder why they sent you? A routine supply run hardly warrants a Rugal-trained escort of your caliber." The question landed precisely, settling like a cold blade between Markus's ribs. He had wondered the very same thing.

Khas smiled faintly at Markus's silence, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Maybe they're testing you. Or maybe—" His gaze dropped, unerringly, to the small, iron charm peeking from Markus's collar, the one Ari had painstakingly forged for him. "—they know what you're truly guarding isn't in the wagons at all."

Markus stilled, his breathing shallow. The fire popped loudly, sending a shower of bright embers spiraling into the inky dark overhead. "Sleep light tonight," was all he said, his voice flat. And as the camp settled into its uneasy quiet, his hand never strayed from the familiar, reassuring weight of his sword.

The Ambush

The second day had tested them all—each wheel groaning under its immense burden against the jagged rocks, the oxen bellowing their loud protests as Markus tirelessly guided them through treacherous mountain passes. By the third dawn, when the Rugal estate's imposing towers finally pierced the distant horizon like spears of light, even the weary guards stood taller in their saddles, a renewed sense of purpose invigorating them.

"Home beckons," Khas remarked, carefully wiping a smudge of dust from his pristine emerald coat. His sharp, calculating eyes missed nothing—not the way Markus's hand instinctively drifted toward his sword hilt, nor the unnatural, heavy stillness of the dense woods that flanked their path.

Then, the shadows moved.

Markus's mount shied nervously, a soft whicker escaping its throat, as Markus threw up a closed fist—the universal, unspoken signal to halt. The entire caravan ground to an abrupt stop, the sudden, profound silence that descended louder than any alarm.

"Bandits?" whispered one guard, his knuckles white against the grip of his polearm.

Markus didn't answer. These were not the slouching, opportunistic cutpurses of the lowlands. The figures now emerging from the treeline moved with a chilling, predatory grace, their dark leather armor stitched with strange, unsettling sigils. A cold shiver, like ice water, ran down Markus's spine—he'd seen those precise marks before, crudely scratched into the margins of Ron's more forbidden, arcane texts.

Khas's voice, though low, cut through the tension with surprising force: "Well. This certainly explains why the Rugals sent you."

Steel rang, loud and clear, as Markus drew his sword. The polished blade caught the morning sunlight, scattering bright, dangerous shards of light across the dirt path. Behind him, the iron charm at his throat seemed to burn, a scorching brand against his skin. "Shields up!" The ambush erupted in a sudden, violent storm of guttural shouts, the metallic clash of weapons, and desperate curses.

The forest, until moments before a picture of serene quiet, exhaled killers. One moment, the narrow pass lay empty, save for the gentle whisper of wind through the leaves and the distant chirping of birds. The next, ragged shadows congealed with terrifying speed into armed men—blades glinting menacingly, unsheathed with the soft hiss of steel on leather. Their leader stepped forward, a hulking mountain of muscle with a jagged scar that split his face like a lightning bolt, a grotesque map of past violence. His grin, revealing several missing teeth, was feral. "Fine day for a toll," he rumbled, hefting a monstrous, notched axe that seemed to vibrate with ill intent. Behind him, archers, unnervingly calm, nocked arrows with the casual ease of men who had performed this deadly dance a hundred times over.

Khas's guards moved as one, their training evident, polearms snapping into a bristling, impenetrable hedge around the vulnerable wagons. One of the merchant's young assistants whimpered, clutching a crate of precious Rugal spices like a child clinging to a cherished blanket.

Markus dismounted in one fluid, silent motion. His sword slid free from its scabbard without a whisper, the deadly edge catching the harsh sunlight in a bright, dangerous line. The bandit chief's laugh boomed off the canyon walls, raw and mocking. "Look at this pup! Thinks his fancy steel frightens us." He spat, a contemptuous gesture. "Last chance, boy. Walk away with your life, or feed the crows where you stand."

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Markus adjusted his grip on the hilt, his knuckles whitening. He didn't bother with idle threats. The first arrow sang, a deadly, buzzing whisper.

The world narrowed to the primal, deafening song of clashing blades. The bandits surged forward in a roaring tide, a chaotic wave of malice, but Markus met them like a cliff against the relentless sea—unyielding, inevitable, a force of nature. His sword moved with a lethal, almost ethereal grace, each parry ringing like a struck bell, sharp and clear. Each counterstroke, delivered with terrible precision, found vulnerable flesh with sickening finality.

A burly, bearded brute lunged, his axe whistling through the air, aimed directly at Markus's ribs. A barely perceptible twist of the wrist, a blinding flash of steel—the man crumpled to the ground, a guttural cry escaping his lips as he clutched his ruined shoulder. Two more rushed in from the flanks, snarling, their blades glinting. Markus pivoted with impossible speed, his blade tracing a dazzling silver arc that left one choking on his own blood and the other scrambling backward, a scream of agony torn from his throat as he stared at his severed hand.

"Rugal-trained," gasped a bandit, his eyes widening in dawning, terrified horror, the realization hitting him too late. Markus's boot crushed his throat before he could even begin to scream.

Khas's guards fought well—for ordinary sellswords. They formed a desperate shield wall, grunting with effort and pain under the relentless onslaught. But Markus? He didn't just fight; he flowed. Every step was a deliberate placement, every strike an act of terrifying economy. When an arrow streaked toward his exposed back, he somehow knew, instinctively ducking just enough for the deadly missile to bury itself instead in the eye of a bandit behind him.

The merchant, Merchant Khas, stood frozen, his ledger-sharp mind struggling desperately to comprehend the brutal, terrifying poetry of violence unfolding before him. This wasn't mere battle—this was artistry, a macabre dance of death. The way Markus's blade seemed to anticipate every attack, the controlled, chilling fury in his movements, the absolute absence of wasted motion…

"Gods above," Khas breathed, a silent prayer, a curse, or both. His fingers, almost unconsciously, tightened around the small, ornate dagger hidden deep within his sleeve—not in fear, but in a sudden, terrible, and utterly chilling understanding. The Rugals hadn't sent an escort. They had unleashed a weapon.

The Aftermath

The bandit leader's monstrous axe carved through the air with a sound like splitting timber—only to meet empty space as Markus flowed aside, effortless as water parting around stone. Before the hulking man could even blink, Markus's pommel cracked against his wrist with a sickening thud. Bones snapped. The axe hit the dirt with a thunderous clang, its weight kicking up a cloud of dust between them. Cold steel, impossibly sharp, kissed the bandit leader's throat, a silent, deadly promise.

"Call. Them. Off." Markus's voice was a low growl, holding the quiet certainty of a landslide—inevitable, unstoppable, and utterly merciless.

Up close, in the fading light, the leader's face was a grotesque map of old violence: a twisted, broken nose, scarred lips pulled tight in a snarl, one milky eye that had undoubtedly seen too much brutality. Now, that eye widened in animal fear as he truly looked at the young warrior before him. This was no common merchant's hired blade.

The ragged command tore from the leader's throat, raw with terror: "WITHDRAW!"

Like rats fleeing flame, the bandits broke. Some dragged their wounded comrades, their cries of pain echoing faintly. Others simply ran, their earlier bravado dissolved into the acrid, metallic stink of piss and panic. Within heartbeats, only echoes remained—the distant crack of branches as they fled, a last, desperate curse flung over a retreating shoulder. Silence, profound and heavy, reclaimed the pass.

Khas stepped forward, his polished boots crunching softly on fallen weaponry and discarded armor. "You could've killed him."

Markus sheathed his sword, the movement precise and habitual, his eyes still fixed on the tree line, scanning for any lingering threat. "Dead men can't warn others to stay away."

The merchant studied Markus's profile—the determined set of his jaw, the blood-flecked knuckles, the way his shadow seemed to stretch darker than it should in the waning light. A hard lesson learned, perhaps too late: Some roads change the men who walk them. And some men, like Markus, change the roads themselves.

The caravan exhaled—a collective, ragged release of held breath and tightly strung muscles. Khas stepped toward Markus, his usually pristine boots now scuffed with dirt and something darker. Blood, perhaps. His own, or someone else's. "You fight like a man possessed," Khas said, his voice low, almost a murmur. Not awed. Not impressed. Calculating. "I've seen mercenaries with twice your years who couldn't move half as clean."

Markus flicked a drop of crimson from his blade before sheathing it with a practiced, effortless motion. "Training matters more than years."

Khas barked a short, sharp laugh, brittle as a whip crack. "Training? Boy, no drill yard teaches that." He gestured, a subtle sweep of his hand, toward the unfortunate bodies now being dragged off the road, their forms limp and broken. "You didn't just hold the line. You broke them, utterly." A pause settled between them, heavy with unspoken things. The wind, now a gentle breeze, carried the faint, metallic tang of spilled life.

Markus met Khas's gaze, his own eyes unwavering. "The job's not done."

Something unreadable flickered in the merchant's eyes—respect? Suspicion? Perhaps a chilling blend of both. "No," he agreed softly, a new gravity in his tone. "But it seems I've severely underestimated what exactly my cargo, and by extension, your escort, is truly worth."

As the wagons creaked back into hesitant motion, Markus took point without another word, his back straight, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. Behind him, the guards muttered amongst themselves—not about the bandits, but about the unsettling intensity of their employer's attention, which never seemed to leave the young warrior's back. And if Markus noticed the weighty scrutiny of that gaze? He gave no sign.

The Shadow's Bargain

The ancient forest swallowed Kane whole. Gnarled oaks, centuries old, groaned under their own immense weight as he crashed recklessly through the dense undergrowth, their skeletal, twisted branches clawing at his tattered cloak like skeletal fingers. His breath came in ragged, metallic gasps—each desperate inhalation burning with the acrid taste of blood and the bitter sting of humiliation. That boy—that damned swordsman—had carved through his hardened men like wheat before the scythe.

"Markus," Kane spat the name, a venomous curse, his fist connecting with a rotten, moss-covered log. The wood splintered beneath his knuckles with a dull crunch, the pain nothing compared to the white-hot fury boiling in his veins.

A twig snapped, sharp and sudden. Kane whirled, his dagger flashing, a desperate, instinctive movement—only to freeze mid-swing. The forest had fallen unnaturally silent. No birdsong. No whisper of wind through the leaves. Just the creeping, unsettling sensation of being watched.

"Poor, broken Kane." The voice slithered through the trees, smooth as oiled steel, yet somehow resonating deep within his bones. A figure emerged from the deepest shadows—not stepping, but unfolding into existence, a coalescing of darkness. Moonlight, strangely, seemed to avoid his form, pooling around him like liquid night. "You reek of failure," the stranger mused, tilting his head with an unnerving, avian precision. "How delicious."

Kane's blade, still clutched in his hand, trembled visibly. "Who—"

"Wrong question." The shadow-man flicked his wrist with a dismissive gesture. Kane's dagger, a moment ago a solid, tangible weapon, dissolved instantly into black smoke, vanishing as if it had never been. "The right question is... what will you sacrifice to make them pay?"

As if summoned by the sinister words, visions flooded Kane's tortured mind, sharp and vivid: Markus choking on his own blood, gasping for air; the majestic Rugal estate crumbling to ash and ruin; that arrogant merchant Khas begging, groveling at his boots. The images burned brighter than reality, a potent, intoxicating promise. The stranger's smile widened impossibly, stretching his lips beyond what seemed natural. "Ah. There it is. That beautiful, ugly hunger."

Cold, skeletal fingers brushed Kane's forehead, sending a jolt of unnatural energy through him.

The world inverted. The very moment the stranger touched Kane, the forest itself twisted and warped. The ancient oaks groaned, their bark blackening as if scorched by an invisible, infernal fire. The air thickened, becoming heavy and cloying, reeking of burnt copper and the cloying sweetness of rotting lilies. Kane tried to scream, to release the terror bubbling up from his gut, but his voice had vanished—along with the solid ground beneath his feet. He floated in a suffocating void where the stars were horrifyingly wrong, their constellations not familiar patterns, but forming a single, immense, staring eye that filled the cosmic expanse.

"Better," the shadow-man purred, his voice a sibilant whisper that echoed in the vast emptiness. His true form flickered at the edges of Kane's shattered vision—a fleeting glimpse of too many teeth, a writhing, chaotic mass of pure darkness where his cloak should have fluttered. "Now we see each other clearly."

Kane's mind fractured, shattering under the terrifying, unwavering gaze of that celestial eye. Visions tore through him, a searing, overwhelming torrent: A black sun, not of this world, rising over the Rugal estate, casting everything in a pall of eternal night. Markus's sword shattering into worthless fragments against unnatural, unyielding armor. Himself, Kane, standing triumphant atop a grotesque mountain of corpses, their faces all disturbingly familiar.

The shadow-man's laughter was the chilling sound of breaking glass, of shattered hopes and twisted fates. "This is your becoming, Kane of the Broken Pride. The first whisper of the storm that will scour House Rugal from history."

Cold fire erupted in Kane's veins, a searing, invigorating blaze. His old scars, once faded, now pulsed with a terrifying crimson glow as new, dark power etched itself into his very flesh—ancient, forbidden sigils that pulsed like a second, unholy heartbeat beneath his skin. When he finally blinked, the forest returned… but the shadows around him now bent toward him, whispering secrets only he could hear, secrets that promised power beyond imagining.

A Scholar's Urgency

The Rugal estate stood etched in fire as the sun bled across the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and deep violet, its formidable towers casting long, hungry shadows that reached for Markus like grasping hands. The familiar, comforting scent of hot iron from the smithy and the sweet, calming aroma of lavender from the gardens wrapped around him—home, yet suddenly foreign, strangely altered after the road's harsh, brutal truths. A familiar voice, sharp and laced with dry wit, cut through the courtyard's controlled clamor: "You smell like a bandit's armpit."

Ron Rugal slouched against a weathered stone pillar, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms mapped with fresh burns and iridescent chemical stains. The intricate device clutched in his hand ticked with a frantic, almost dying-insect rhythm, its brass gears spinning in erratic, unpredictable bursts. His sharp, intelligent eyes, though hidden behind spectacles, locked onto the merchant's token now dangling from Markus's belt.

"Khas's sigil?" Ron's grin was all teeth, a predatory gleam in his gaze. "Either you saved his life, or he's marked you for something far worse. Pray it's the first."

Before Markus could even begin to respond, Khas himself materialized at his elbow, seemingly out of thin air, his presence announced by the subtle, clean scent of citrus and camphor. "Young Master Rugal!" The merchant's bow was precisely calculated—deep enough for courtesy, shallow enough to subtly remind them he was no mere vassal. "Your esteemed father's library still houses that invaluable treatise on southern gemstone markets, I hope?"

Ron's device emitted a high-pitched, piercing whine, then sputtered. "Burned it for kindling." His intense stare never left Khas's face, holding the merchant's gaze with unnerving persistence. "You're lingering."

A beat too late, Markus noticed the subtle twitch of Khas's fingers toward his exquisitely embroidered cuffs. He saw how the merchant's gaze kept snagging, almost involuntarily, on the fortified windows of the estate's massive armory. The token in Markus's palm, still clutched from the battle, turned ice-cold, a sudden, chilling weight.

The Rugal estate's labyrinthine corridors hummed with its usual, tightly controlled chaos when Markus shouldered open Ron's study door. The scene within was one of utter pandemonium: scrolls cascaded from precariously overloaded desks, ancient books lay in haphazard piles, and alchemical apparatus bubbled ominously in every shadowy corner, emitting strange vapors. At the very center of this storm of intellect and disarray stood Ron—hurling heavy, leather-bound books into a travel satchel with the frantic, single-minded frenzy of a man possessed.

"Ron! The caravan mission—"

"Boots. Sword. Three days' rations." Ron didn't even look up, his movements precise and urgent, as he tossed a thick, leather-bound journal over his shoulder. Markus caught it on instinct, the weight surprising. "Minla by nightfall."

Markus flipped open the journal. Crude, yet disturbingly vivid, sketches of a gaunt, skeletal figure with shadow-wreathed eyes stared back at him from the brittle pages, an unsettling sight. "What in the seven hells—?"

"Demon sightings." Ron finally met his gaze, his glasses askew on his nose, a wild, almost manic energy in his eyes. "Or a man twisted beyond recognition by forbidden arts. Either way, Father's given us first crack at it." His grin was all teeth, a dangerous mix of excitement and challenge. "Assuming you can keep up, of course."

Markus snapped the journal shut, the disturbing images seared into his mind. "I just spent three days guarding a spice merchant."

"And now you'll guard me from something actually interesting." Ron shoved a bulging, heavy satchel into Markus's chest, the unexpected weight nearly knocking him off balance. "Move, porter. The game's afoot."