Thread: The Cursebreaker

Bolivar Jackson had left the town of Koldwell before dawn, and though it was not yet midday had passed through a bishopric, a baronetcy and a petty kingdom. The borders of the Tattered Marches intertwined like a nest of vipers, a maze of enclaves, occupied territories and shifting battlelines, sometimes marked by banners or strings of flags hanging from the trees and bands of toll collectors and border guards, but often lacking any kind of demarcation. Now he was in what seemed to be a no-man's land there were no signs of soldiers or lords, only a few clusters of abandoned hovels alongside the road, burned-out barns and abandoned paddocks. Koldwell had been suffering an infestation of boggarts in its great Celestial Clocktower, the vicious little imps throwing off the progress of time and season and constellations and causing much consternation amongst the aldermen of the city. The boggarts were no longer a nuisance, thanks to Bolivar... but the aldermen had decided that a disreputable vagabond Cursebreaker was a threat. They had pressed his purse of payment into his hands, and made it quite clear he was not welcome in their city any more, and should he remain there past nightfall he would find himself in the gaol. Unfortunately for the aldermen, Bolivar had had an appointment with an old acquaintance in Koldwell he saw no reason to put off a lovely and talented young wizardess from the Imperial College named Maddalyn, who had been hired to repair and re-ensorcel the clockworks before the boggarts were discovered. It was she who had recommended Bolivar for the job, and she with whom he planned to celebrate the accomplishment of the commission most pleasantly. So Bolivar had crept out of Maddalyn's chambers hours before sunrise, and evaded the patrols of guards scouring Koldwell for him as he made his way to the gate. With his zweihander blades and shimmering elf-silver armour shrouded in illusions and his face altered by a simple alchemical concoction, they had not suspected a thing, and he rode clear past them onto the crumbling highways that wandered the Tattered Marches, remnants of the time they had been outlying provinces of the Empire of Dietenstad. On Banter's air-light tread it was easy for Bolivar to half-doze, recovering his energies from the battle of the previous day and the passion of the previous night and its precious little sleep. Easy for him to savour the memories of Maddalyn's warmth beneath him, around him, her nails on his back, her voice breathlessly moaning and invoking fragments of spells meant to enhance and prolong their pleasure in his ear. The Cursebreaker snapped instantly from his reverie when he heard a barn owl hoot from the woods around the highway. An owl? In the middle of the day? No... a signal. And responding to that signal, men began to seep out from behind the trees. Hard, mean looking ruffians, clad in leather jacks, dirty felt coats, steel caps and other mismatched bits of armour. Some wore bits of uniform of heraldry belonging to one lord or another, but none with pride. They wielded clubs, knives, pikes that had been cut down to make them more wieldy, and a couple had crossbows at the ready. There were about a dozen of them, and Bolivar could imagine what they saw when they looked at him no silks and jewellery, but well-cut and well-made clothing. A horse not a cheap thing to own or keep. No weapons or armour visible. Easy pickings. Their leader was an ugly man, even before his nostrils had been slit and a gothic D for Deserter branded on his cheek in a welter of red and black flesh. He was broad of shoulder and heavy of belly, and tapped his spiked morning star against his open palm thoughtfully as he blocked Bolivar's path, the rest spreading out around the mounted man. 'Ello, guvnor. Fine weather for travelling, aye? We'll gladly let you get back to enjoying it, once the matter of the road tax is settled. 'Ere, Ghord, a grizzled old veteran said doubtfully, leaning down to squint at Banter's legs. Is that 'orse floatin'?