"You scared me, boy!"
An old voice yelped as a merchant hauled on the reins. The horse snorted and stamped, almost rearing when Icarius appeared from the trees. "Easy, easy," the man muttered, soothing the animal.
"Oh, my apologies. I didn't see your there old man" Icarius said, brushing dirt from his fur coat with a calm grin. "Are you headed to Silva Village?"
The man sat on a covered wagon, alone, one hand already resting on the long sword at his side. A traveling merchant. He studied the youth: a worn brown coat, long black hair, green eyes too bright and innocent for these roads. If not for the bow across his back, the merchant might have thought him a noble child gone astray, looking for some kind of adventure.
"Yes," the man said at last. "Hop up if you want a ride."
"Thanks." Icarius finished clapping the dust from his trousers and jumped onto the seat. The old merchant kept his sword within reach, analyzing him sidelong as the wagon started forward.
"Are you from Silva, young man?" the merchant asked.
"Yes, though I live out here in the forest. Free from… unnecessary troubles." Icarius tilted his head. "And you, old man? From around here?"
The merchant shook his head, a yellow-toothed smile deepening his wrinkles. "I come from the region of Livenburg—". Though he didn't finish his sentence.
"The capital?" Icarius interrupted, eyes wide. He had heard stories, but never met anyone from there. It was months away, even by horse.
"Not exactly." The old man chuckled, reminded of his grandson's eagerness. "I'm from a village near the capital. Sollun. Half a day by horse. We grow rice and weave cloth."
"So you came here to sell it? Can I see?" Icarius leaned forward eagerly.
The merchant reached back and produced a white, fur-lined coat. "Buffalo hide. This winter will be harsher than the last, so I thought to turn a profit here."
Icarius stroked the leather, marveling at its warmth. "Amazing. Do you have one smaller?". Giorgio needed a new one.
"Any size you want," the man said, eyes gleaming with a trader's spark. "Though only the ride is free."
"How much?" Icarius asked.
"Ten copper coins," the merchant replied, then glanced at the bow across Icarius's back. "Or I could take that bow. Bows from this region fetch double in the capital."
Icarius stiffened. The bow was no ordinary weapon. His father had carved it from a thousand-year oak; his mother had strung it with care. He couldn't part with it. Still, he had something else.
His hand slipped inside his coat.
A sudden cold sting touched his throat.
"Don't move, boy. I may be old, but I can still make a fountain of blood out of you."
The merchant's voice had hardened, eyes sharp as steel. The sword pressed close enough to draw a thin line of blood. Gone was the kindly smile; in its place stood a soldier who had seen too much. "I gave you a free ride out of goodwill. What the hell are you reaching for?"
Icarius swallowed but did not flinch. His gaze stayed level. "Sorry. I can't give away this bow. I was going to offer another option. May I?"
The merchant hesitated, then gave a curt nod.
Slowly, Icarius drew out a small hunting knife, offering the handle and holding the blade. "Would this do?"
The merchant took it, turning the blade in his hand. Though roughly made, the metal was strong. A grin returned to his lips as he lowered the sword. "Crude, but solid. I will take it as a sign of goodwill." The merchant knew it was worth way more than ten coppers.
"It's an heirloom," Icarius said. "Passed from my grandfather to my father. It pierced a bear's hide once."
"Sure, sure." The man tucked it away, then pulled out a smaller white coat and handed it over. "Here. Good to do business with you."
Icarius nodded, running his fingers over the fur.
"So," the merchant said, "does Silva have a temple?"
"Yes. To Ares." Icarius replied.
"The God of War, hm?" The old man leaned back. "Not surprising, living so close to barbarian lands."
Icarius shrugged. "They haven't attacked in years. Maybe the sacrifices earned us the gods' protection."
"Well, let's hope we have enough sacrifices this year then." - The old man murmured.
The rest of the ride passed with small talk until Silva Village came into view. Houses stood close together, smoke rising from their chimneys as families stoked fires against the creeping winter. The stone-paved road was muddied by carts and boots. People hurried about with firewood, game, and bundles of supplies. Border villages like Silva rarely saw merchants, so most lived by their own means.
When the wagon stopped at the entrance, Icarius hopped down. Passing villagers threw him wary glances and looks of disgust, something the merchant noticed as well, but he didn't care.
"I'm heading for the tavern," the old man said. "Can you point me the way?"
"The village is small," Icarius replied, gesturing down the road. "Follow this path and you'll see a sign: Silva Tavern. It's beside the chief's house, the largest in the village. You can't miss it."
"Thanks." The merchant flipped him a coin. Icarius caught it, turning the copper over in his hand. "Good company deserves payment," the man added with a sly smile, perhaps a nod to the knife's worth.
Icarius pocketed the coin. "Much appreciated." He watched the wagon roll away, then muttered, "Well, I'd better stock up on rice." He walked down the muddy street, boots sinking into the mud. "Should've taken the ride to the market," he sighed.
Villagers shifted aside as he passed, as though contact with him might infect them with something dangerous, even supernatural. Icarius ignored them, pulling his hood low. He really didn't like these people.
Soon he reached the open market at the village center, where a massive tree stood ringed by stalls selling food, hides, and clothes. The merchant's wagon was already parked outside the tavern.
At one stall, a plain-faced young woman waited behind sacks of grain. Icarius pointed, hood still covering his face. "How much for that rice?"
She raised five fingers, an inflated price for an unknown hooded stranger.
Icarius shook his head and pulled a rabbit pelt from his coat. "One copper and this hide. How about it?"
The young woman turned the fur over in her hands, impressed. "Clean cuts…no evident signs of cuts or punctures. Deal." She rapidly handed him the sack, afraid he might go back on his words.
With the sack in hands, Icarius moved from stall to stall, bartering until four bags of rice rested on his shoulders. By the time he was done, the sun had tilted west. Enough time to reach Giorgios by evening. Perhaps even in time for dinner. A warm smile appeared on Icarius lips.
"Let's go," he murmured, adjusting the sacks over his shoulder. His gaze unconsciously drifted toward the tavern, just in time to see Five figures rummaging through the wagon, shoving items into their cloaks.
His hand went to his bow, then hesitated. Not my business. Everyone knew that gang. One of them was the village chief's son, Catu. Crossing them was a quick way to ruin your life. He had too many problems of his own.
Icarius forced himself to keep walking… but stopped again. His fingers brushed the fur-lined coat tucked inside his winter clothes. Jaw tight, he set the rice bags down, drew his bow, and nocked an arrow.
With decisiveness, he steadied his breath. Chest rising, jaw loose, tongue pressed flat. Fully relaxed as he waited for a clear line.
The string snapped, followed by a scream that filled the marked. "M-my hand, Boss!"
Icarius didn't linger. He slung the bow back, grabbed his bags, lowered his hood, and walked quickly away.
"Who the hell did this?" Catu, the leader of the thugs and also the village chief's sun roared. His gold teeth flashed as he pointed at the bleeding thug, who clutched a hand pinned by an arrow.