Baggage

“Aust.”

His name cut through hazy darkness, everything heavy and distant. Boots crunched sparse gravel with even rhythm. Wooden wheels rolled on hard dirt.

Aust’s legs dangled. The sharp wooden edge of the wagon bed cut into the back of his knee. He opened his eyes a crack. Regretted it.

Afternoon sun blinded him at an annoying angle: low enough to get around the wagon canvas and under his dark green hood. He let his eyes close again and tried to find something he just had.

The boot pace quickened off rhythm. A warm hand grabbed his knee firmly, shook it once and did not let go.

He stirred on the wagon bed, tilting his head up just enough to find what touched him. His head fell back with a groan. Aust needed more sleep; they had left before dawn and the whole trip had been so noisy. He considered how to get more, but that too required rest. A deep raspy sigh escaped his lips.

With burning eyes, he slowly sat up straight. The scene hadn’t really changed except the fields on either side were now approaching treelines. He figured it was oak, probably old growth given the area.

The mercenary to his right chuckled at something. Aust glanced at him, tried to find the joke, but figured it was over his head.

“Master?” he replied to Marcel whose hand remained on his leg, rubbing his right eye.

Marcel’s fur-lined coat was bright in full daylight. He still had it worn open, draped over his broad shoulders like a cloak, but sweat was on his brow anyway.

The front frame of the wagon creaked deeply as a wheel rounded a large rock. A stubborn pair of cattails whacked Aust’s calf.

“I am going to watch the front wagon. Watch the rear.” Marcel said, finishing with a glance across the wagon that saw something Aust probably missed.

Aust nodded back to him. The rear wheels met the same rock. Hard. He caught enough air to feel the landing in his teeth.

Marcel kept eye contact, smiled, and returned a softer nod. He gave Aust’s knee a parting squeeze before turning to round the wagon.

“Camp soon at dusk. Eyes on the treelines, they provide easy cover to ambushers.”

His voice trailed off as he fully passed the wagon.

“The kid? Really?” the mercenary on the right protested gruffly. If Marcel had heard it, he didn’t reply.

Aust sat up, twisting to lean with his back against the opposite wagon wall. He vaguely remembered the mercenary’s name… Karsten, maybe? He looked forty, brown hair greyed at the temples, scar on his jaw. Had an old pike across his lap, the wood handle shiny from what must be use. Strung shut by a cord, a book bounced from braided leather which attached it to his belt.

“What?” Karsten said. The attention was unwanted.

“Nothing.”

Aust took another slow look at the treeline. He leaned forward to repeat on the side of the road. He slouched back against the wagon. His hood came up and eyes closed.

Something closer to a chuckle started from Karsten but turned into a snort. He tapped something hollow, perhaps the book. Karsten let out a huff. Paper rustled from across the wagon.

“…for the keeper of the road walks with open hands, that he may receive what is offered…” Karsten was mumbling some nonsense. ”…Let the vigilant not weary, for the road does not forgive rest. In the keeping of others is the kept made whole…”

Aust lost interest after that.

Ahead near the other wagon, Marcel asked Volker, the lead caravan merchant, a question that he definitely knew the answer to. Volker answered eagerly. Marcel laughed like he was embarrassed.

Something thick and elastic slapped. A heavy leather heel dragged closer to Aust across worn wood planks. Karsten’s boot pressed against Aust’s, testing if he was awake.

Wood wheels snapped a stray rock, launching it somewhere unheard.

“You sleepin’, kid? Your master said to watch.” Karsten asked. He didn’t wait long for a reply.

Some dissatisfied sound came from his side of the wagon as he thought something worse. He pushed harder with his boot, Aust’s body lurched upward against the wagon frame.

He hooked his hood with one finger, lifted it enough to glance at what had touched him: the brown leather boot was scuffed enough to seem tan; probably resoled. Not well either, it was due again.

His eyes moved along the boot, up the leg, the attached torso, before finally landing on Karsten’s face.

A song sparrow called somewhere deep in the forest, barely a whisper on the road.

The hood fell again as he closed his eyes. He didn’t understand why he was doing this. In equal measure, he couldn’t begin to care. He gestured annoyed towards Karsten. His hand fell heavy into his lap to finish the gesture.

“Great.” Karsten breathed harshly. Whatever he was talking about, it was not great.

“Another fucking bedwarmer. Marcel’s toy.” Karsten spat productively out the back of the wagon.

“What a joke.”

Aust wondered why he’d thought that. He didn’t remember sleeping in other’s beds. Weird.

Karsten accepted an hour ago that he was guarding the rear wagon alone. He looked out at the trees, flipping between sides regularly.

The way the boy’s master woke him, treated him like the most important thing here. Then ordered him to watch. Marcel hadn’t even looked at Karsten. Only good thing was the two gold Marcel’d pay him. The silence, too; a sleeping kid is the best kind. Could’ve been worse.

Crunching forest litter carried from the left. It gained distance luckily.

He ground his teeth, looking left and right an additional time. Karsten fucking hated the Althain forest. It was familiar like wet socks; he’d take the latter too. And he hates wet socks.

Been through here plenty: some idiot always had a reason to go south, idiots pay well, and he knew his pike better than any one home. His index finger traced the handle worn smooth of grain.

The stupid brat was still sleeping last he checked. Out cold, jiggling like game on the way to the butcher. He shook his head, still in disbelief. He couldn’t square how Marcel was so wrong.

Oaks partially shaded them now from the evening sun. Not long before they’d be overhead too. Wheels and boots on earth was increasingly muffled by rotting, years-old leaf fall.

Karsten’d bet the kid’s dead by tomorrow morning. Maybe evening if he ran fast. It was a shame that no one around would take it; Edrik would’ve.

He pulled out his closed scripture by the cord. Looked at it, remembering him.

Marcel’s voice picked up from the lead wagon. He’d been chatting with Volker, both of them somehow talking about jack shit for a full hour. With the fat merchant’s laugh, anything less than a mile off knew where they were.

His left hand gripped his pike as his right undid the book’s cord. He turned it to a dog-eared page. He read a few lines as a grin spread on his face.

Karsten chuckled at the idea of Edrik setting the kid straight.

He enjoyed an entire minute with nothing but the gods, boots, acorns, horses, and wooden wheels.

“Back when I worked as a stable boy in Dammric, I shoveled manure for three months.” Volker boomed. “Three whole months before I even saw a horse!”

“Most inns, you see, wouldn’t even let me through the door. Smelled worse than the horses.”

“So I go to the night market: maybe the third time. You’ve seen it: lanterns everywhere, stalls with wares you’ve never seen, all different tomorrow. And I’m fifteen with maybe 20 silver to my name. Rich!”

He laughed at that. A few rich merchants must’ve agreed, given the absolute racket.

“I found this vendor, he does leatherwork. Beautiful stuff. Tells me this belt is lake-tanned—” Volker paused. “Premium, carved, soft. I said how much? He told me 10 silver.”

Marcel exhaled sharply through his nose. “Surely… You did not?” He asked.

“I said seven, he said twelve.” Volker and Marcel both chuckled. “I paid it. Walked out of there feeling like a new man.”

A break in the story came. Karsten seized the peace, prayed for an end to the stories.

But the gods were mysterious in their lessons.

“Brenner, what do I always say about the first deal?” Volker asked sternly.

“First real rain that summer, belt soaked through like cloth and warped. Leather doesn’t do that.” Volker continued.

“Went back the next night, stall was gone. Different man selling candles. Totally clueless about a leather stall.”

Two pairs of footsteps stopped. Noticeable enough that Karsten looked up.

“Mmm.” Marcel hummed loudly followed by a breath of laughter. The footsteps resumed crunching on acorns. “Yeah, doubt that was leather before you added some to it.”

Volker might’ve doubled over by the sound of it. If anyone else found this funny, Karsten couldn’t hear a bit of it. Or anything, really. His scowl hadn’t improved.

Choppy, orange evening light flickered through rounded oak leaves. He turned the page, glancing left at the kid. He was still Fuckin’ gone. What a waste of space.

The wagon’s horse nickered as silence returned. Karsten nodded to agree.

The long ride, longer stories, and useless kid was rubbing him raw too. At least he wasn’t pulling the wagon.