The not-immortal Blacksmith

Isle of Golstran

54th of Kusha, the month of Harvest.

2290 Years since the New gods came.

From the journal of Aaron Fish

It snowed on the island last night. This will make things a bit harder, but not insurmountable. I have rented a fast-ish horse in town for the week. I will be heading west from the church, and looking for signs of travel. I believe the culprits will have slowed their flight due to time, distance, and snow.

As the horse is supposedly sure footed, I should be able to catch up in two days at most. The amount of money in the wagon as well as personal possessions should keep them from moving much more than fifteen miles in a day, especially if, as I believe, they are following old tracks and broken-down roads.

-

My first day has been eventful with twenty miles covered. I was able to spot some signs of travel while riding, but was forced to stop several times to scour the track. We passed one obvious camp about fifteen miles from our starting point. I have fed and watered my horse regularly so far on our trip. I have decided to name the horse “Horse”.

-

55th of Kusha

The weather has turned warm again, and the ground is muddy. The track has been obviously widened in several spots to allow a wagon to pass. An hour after I broke camp I found the remains of another camp. Ten miles later I found another one. Either the wagon is much slower than I expected, being drawn by two horses, or the miscreants are worse at clearing underbrush than I gave them credit for.

Only 20 miles by daylight today. Horse is a good strong beast, but the mud has slowed us down. I had hoped for closer to thirty miles today.

-

56th of Kusha

Signs of the quarry’s passing have been easier to spot from the saddle. I don’t know if they are being less careful than before or if I am getting better at tracking. Probably both.

I passed two more camps today, and a dead horse. Upon examination I found it had broken its leg and been put down.

The ground has dried up some, so we made twenty-five miles today. If the quarry’s movement remains as I’ve witnessed so far, then I should overcome them tomorrow around noon, perhaps earlier. The coast is almost in sight.

-

1st of Aneal, the first month of snow

It is just before noon and I am currently looking down upon the quarry from atop a cliff of some two hundred feet in height. There is an ancient track that leads down from the cliff that they have abandoned their wagon next to, and are using their remaining horse as a pack animal to bring their ill-gotten gains to what can only be described as a smuggler’s pier.

I will put my horse on the far side of the nearby hillock so that when they come back to the wagon; which still has bags in it; I can get the jump on them.

-

Aaron crouched in a small thicket of thorn bushes near the wagon and listened as the pair of men slowly made their way up the old trail.

“…when is she getting here?” he heard one man ask.

“Like I told you before, she should make it here today.” A second voice replied.

“If she doesn’t make it here by sunrise the ship will leave without her.” The first man replied. “I’m getting worried.”

Aaron watched as the pair of men came into view. One was big, big arms, big chest, big neck, big legs. The other was short, thin, and walked with a limp. As he watched the two men work, he slowly stepped from the thicket, and spoke. “Gentlemen, I regret to inform you that Deacon Gregory will not be joining you as she happens to be dead.”

The two men stopped loading the horse and turned towards Aaron. The large man spoke first. “Who…What?”

The short man squinted at Aaron before speaking, “Really?” He quirked an eyebrow, “And how did that happen?”

“Her throat was cut.” Aaron said, voice flat. “The two of you are under arrest for murder and grand theft-”

The large man took a step back and threw up his hands, “Whoa boy! That ain’t right! We didn’t kill nobody!”

Aaron snorted, “The dead body would say otherwise.”

The thin man sneered, “Doesn’t matter, there’s two of us, and only one of you.” He drew a long knife from his belt, “Now you come quietly, or you’re gonna die like the cheatin deacon did.”

Aaron sighed, straightened his shoulders, and reached his right hand under his coat, towards his armpit. “Gentlemen, and I use the term loosely, I am Special Agent Fish of the IRS, currently in service to one Lord Maxwell “The Heretic” Smithson.” He slowly withdrew his service weapon from under his coat and pointed it at the pair of men. “Place your hands above your heads, and kneel.”

-

James “Jockey Jim” Mallory and Mr. Edward “Ed” Johnson stared at the man who had slunk out of the thorn bushes behind them. They didn’t know what “IRS” was, but they had heard of The Heretic. They also didn’t know what the miniature hand crossbow that the man was pointing at them was, but the fact that it didn’t have arms, or a string for that matter, was concerning. What was more concerning to them both was the way the weapon’s one silver eye kept “Looking” at each of them. The way it promised pain and death deep into one’s soul.

Ed dropped to his knees, and began to sob. “I…I didn’t kill nobody…I just thought…Miss Gregory said…and she’s dead?” He looked up at Fish, eyes wide and tears running down his face.

“Shut it you stupid moron!” Jim hissed, then pointed his knife, the twin of the one he had left in the bitch’s throat, at Fish. “Drop your little dart-”

The “dart launcher” spoke before he could finish.

BANG!

-

Aaron let loose a long sigh. “At least the paperwork for this one shouldn’t be too long.” He looked at the fallen thin man, then to his blood-spattered co-conspirator, “Will you come quietly?”

-

From the journal of Aaron Fish

7th of Anael

I have returned from my assignment journey. Mr. Johnson was very cooperative on our journey back to the church/abbey/temple, and laid out the entire scheme to me as we traveled. It turns out that Deacon Gregory had originated the plan and broached it to her paramours less than a month ago.

My thought aside, it was a fairly straightforward plan: Set up a pickup at a smuggler’s pier on the far side of the island, paid in advance; steal the entire treasury in one night; take the key with them when they left, leaving the vault locked. She didn’t manage to take into account that one of her lovers would betray her in a fit of rage. “Hell hath no fury” applies to men as well, it would seem.

Mr. Johnson does seem to be a good man, who let his emotions cloud his judgment. I don’t know what will happen to him, once Lord Smithson sees him tomorrow. I am fairly sure that he will never work on the island again, but you never know in this new world I find myself in.

I only have fifteen rounds remaining for my Glock 19, gen 5. But, considering the amount of “magic” in this world, I’m sure I can find someone who can make ammunition for it.

-

The journal of Max Smithson

2nd of Anael

Mr. Ed Johnson will be finishing his life in servitude to the church. Jimmy has been unceremoniously fed to the fish. We leave tomorrow for the elvish coast on a large passenger ship. I love boats and ships. Always have, and always will.