Chapter 3: 1.3 Profit

1.3 Profit

Sylvia woke slowly, as if from a very deep sleep, even though she could remember ascending the second ladder seemingly seconds before. There had been a trapdoor, and then here she was, crumpled on the ground with her shield beneath her head as a pillow.

Gingerly, she stood up, then staggered, suddenly dizzy. She felt... different. And then she looked down at her bulky frame, her broad shoulders, her hairy arms. Sylvia was no more. And somehow, through all the grogginess, it felt right.

Silven took a few moments and then looked around at the landscape that stretched out before his eyes. He appeared to be on a small hillock, with the crumbling remains of a watchtower boxing him in on three sides. The trapdoor was shut, even though he had no recollection of closing it behind him. For the most part, an open woodland spread out around the tower, a slight breeze rustling the leaves of the oaks soothingly. To Silven’s rear, however, the grass sloped down to a grey marsh filled with the croaking of frogs and the buzzing of flies. Just beyond the near edge, an immense earthen wall rose up to loom over the bog. Its top was adorned with metal spikes, and Silven could just make out slender figures peering out. That was where he had been held captive, he knew it, and suddenly, his limbs tensed with an instinctive urge to get going. There could be search parties anywhere by now.

The warrior hurried off into the trees. There was hardly any undergrowth, and when he stumbled to a halt at the sight of a thick bramble, his feet passed straight through to the other side as if he were a ghost. Silven pressed a hand worriedly over his brow and moved on. Too many strange things had happened in too short a time for any sane being to cope with.

Soon, the trees closed in, and the howls of their hideous residents rang out all around. Dark shadows scampered by as Silven walked, and finally, those shadows grew braver. Ragged wolves with fangs the size of the man’s sword beset their prey from all sides, and Silven raised his shield as the onslaught began. The teeth clattered against copper and Silven cried out as pain soaked into his flesh anyway. He fought on, skewering one snarling hound through the chest and then rounding on a second to slice its head clean off. With two fiends down, it was easier to bring his shield to bear against further attacks, but the pain continued. As the last wolf was slain, Silven sunk to his knees and groaned, studying his arms for signs of damage. None. But, even as he rested, his energy returned and on he pressed.

Finally, he picked up a footpath through the clustering plants. It ran on and on to the left and right, with nothing to distinguish which way would lead to food and shelter. If any led to anything but cursed wolves and blackroaches, that was.

As if summoned, a young man in yellowed robes appeared from around the bend and approached the tired hero. “Greetings, friend. You must be new to these parts. I have just the thing you may need.”

Silven grunted and looked down at his shield and prison rags. “Something to keep the wolves off, if you have it. This thing’s useless.”

The merchant chuckled politely and looked Silven up and down. “My, my, you wouldn’t expect it to block anything, would you? That shield, and those...clothes for that matter, they’re part of you. And what’s that, copper? It’ll take the edge off, but no more. Iron, steel, stonium, that’s what you need. But you won’t find many skilled blacksmiths this side of Solmond City.”

Silven sighed. “Great, I’ll go there, then. Which way?”

The merchant laughed again. “May Alder bless you. If you’ve just arrived, you can’t go straight to the capital.”

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Silven frowned. “Why not?”

The man hesitated. “Because... you just can’t! Not until you’ve been round half the kingdom first. You’d never get there for one, and even if you did, have you got the coin to bribe the guards? The letter from Count Steinbrook? The ashes of Old Tom’s father? Thought not.”

Silven stuck his sword in the earth, dropped his shield, and folded his arms. He was in no mood for games. “Okay. I’m tired. I’m hungry. For now, I just want somewhere pleasant to gather my thoughts. Somewhere I’m not going to be torn apart by every critter that happens to see me slinking by.”

The merchant brightened. “Ahhh, I was coming to that. You need to go right to Gigglewick; that’s the closest village. There’s an inn, a stable, a far inferior merchant... but before you go, I ask one thing. Do you want to slog there and back, there and back every time you want to cash in on your gallivanting? Perhaps this might help.” The man threw back his robes and produced a wad of thick parchments from an inner pocket. He pulled one out to reveal a map. Or, what would have been a map, should any roads, rivers, mountains, forests, landmarks, villages, towns, cities, castles or dungeons be actually marked. Silven opened his mouth to point all this out, but the merchant went on. “Oldeburgh in your pocket. If you had any, that is. When you’re sent somewhere and trot off for the first time, you can return later just by using the magic point.” And the man twizzled his fingers and flicked at the paper. He looked quite like a moron.

Silven reached out for the map. “Well, thanks, I suppose. Now, I’ll be on my way to that inn...”

The man snapped the parchment back with a groan. “Haven’t you been listening? It’s useless unless I send you. Like so.” He drew out a stick of charcoal and drew a tiny house up in the north-west corner of the map. “There, Gigglewick. And, of course, I’m not doing this for free. That’ll be ten coppers, please.”

Silven threw up his hands. “I’ve just come from... well, someplace I wasn’t allowed money.”

“Alternative payment options exist. Ten blackroach wingcases or five wolf fluffs should do it.”

“You mean I was supposed to sit there brushing those mangy brutes whilst the rest of the pack caught up? Forget it!” Silven turned in the direction the bewildered man had pointed out and marched off. He only got a few steps before the cogs started whirring, and he stopped dead. He turned round and sidled back up to the man, who was just folding his maps back into his robes. “Hold on a minute. You say the map works if you’re sent by someone else?”

“Only after you’ve been there once,” laughed the man nervously.

“But is it you that has to be there, or just the map?”

“The special parchment soaks up location magic from the, err, location and stores it in the point marked by the charcoal of the urius root. The intention magic of the sender needs to coabulate with the map’s presence matrix, and then when the user-”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Silven. “What’s your name, my good sir?”

“Olgred?” answered the merchant, backing away.

“Well, Olgred, you’re doing this wrong. Have you got your own filled in map?”

“The Fast Travel Supreme, the like of which shall not be made again.” The man drew closer and proudly presented a beautiful watercolour canvas of the land. Silven smiled. “You’ve got yourself a business opportunity. Half of your earnings, an exclusive partnership, no other collaborators. Got it?”

Olgred looked on in wonder as Silven laid his favourite map on the ground, took his charcoal, and began to draw on a blank sheet. Two dozen maps later, he stopped and handed his work back to his puzzled partner. “There you go. I’ve sent you to all of the places. Now, take a really long walk. Sell ready-made fast travel. Profit.”

Olgred stared, and stared, and stared. “I... I’ve never really thought of it that way. This could change the world! They’ll be worth silvers! Oh, my dear man, how can I ever repay you?”

Silven stood. “Half, remember? And if I may, instant sleep?” He took the Fast Travel Supreme and hovered a finger over Solmond City. “Think of it as a deposit.” And he was gone.