A Caravan South

The south end of Beregost belonged to wheels.

Beyond the last close-set houses, five wagons stood in a rough line. Canvas snapped above shoulder-high crates. Oxen stamped holes into the churned earth while drovers shouted across harness bells and hammer blows.

A mule threw back its head and brayed until three merchants winced.

Maeril stopped where the street gave way to the wagon yard.

“Mud, wheels, shouting men, and animals with opinions. Civilization has peaked.”

Rishi studied the wagons. “It appears functional.”

“You would like that part.”

“I respect work that moves.”

Maeril shifted the pack against her shoulders. “If you start respecting the mud, I am walking alone.”

He inclined his head and accepted the boundary.

Near the middle wagon, a broad-shouldered man in worn leathers pointed at a split wheel hub and delivered an opinion about the wheelwright’s ancestry. Grey threaded his short beard. A long knife hung at his belt, clear of the tools and buckles at his waist.

He finished speaking. A drover and a second worker moved at once.

Two guards nearby became very interested in standing correctly.

Maeril smiled. “There. That one owns the problem.”

She crossed the yard and entered the brief silence his orders had left behind.

“Excuse me. You look like a man whose morning has developed enemies.”

He turned.

His eyes moved over Maeril’s horns, cloak, stitched wardwork, and overburdened pack. Then they passed to Rishi’s staff, wrapped hands, and balanced stance.

“Darran Velkos. Velkos Road-Trading. If you’re selling charms, blessings, prophecies, or poems about safe travel, keep walking.”

“Tragic. My prophetic poems are excellent.”

“We are looking for work,” Rishi said.

Darran’s expression shifted by less than a smile. “Road work?”

“Southbound,” Maeril said. “Paid. Ideally with fewer broken wheels than this one promises.”

Darran glanced at the damaged hub, then down the wagon line.

“Five wagons. Beregost to Nashkel, then Fang Pass. Crimmor after that, if Tymora has coin on us and the mountains keep their hands to themselves.”

“Fang Pass.”

“You know it?”

“Enough to dislike it.”

“Then you know more than some.” Darran tipped his chin toward the southern road. “Narrow track. Bad wind. Worse rock. Bandits when they’re hungry, monsters when they’re bored, and merchants complaining in every weather. Two blades backed out this morning after someone said ‘Fang Pass’ near breakfast.”

“Cowards?” Maeril asked.

“Practical people with families. Hard to blame them. Harder to replace them.”

Rishi looked from the lead wagon to the rear. “What protection do you have?”

Darran’s attention settled fully on him.

“Enough to find trouble. Not enough to enjoy it.”

He nodded toward a half-orc woman beside the lead wagon.

She rested a spear against one shoulder. Her plain mail was clean and cared for, her weight easy over both feet. One tusk had chipped near the point, and a notch split the rim of one ear. She had already measured Rishi and Maeril twice.

“Kora,” Darran said. “My sergeant. If she tells you to duck, do it before you wonder why.”

Kora raised two fingers without changing expression. “If he hires you, you hold your place. See trouble, call it. Don’t leave a wagon unguarded because you fancy a fight.”

Darran counted the line again with his eyes: wagons, animals, guards, and every space where a trusted hand was missing.

Rishi followed his attention. “What do you need from us?”

“People who do not panic when the road grows teeth.” Darran looked between them. “People who understand that guarding a caravan does not mean standing beside the prettiest crate. Lives first. Animals if you can. Cargo if there is time.”

Rishi nodded. “Lives first.”

Darran’s shoulders did not ease, but he gave Rishi one more moment of consideration.

Maeril leaned one shoulder against the wheel that had started the morning’s quarrel. “I can read weather, lay wards, burn, freeze, and make unpleasant people reconsider their choices.”

Darran looked to Rishi.

“I fight. I heal.”

Maeril made a soft sound. “Severe understatement.”

Darran rubbed a thumb along his belt. He was counting again, this time in coin.

“And you?” Maeril asked. “What kind of employer are we about to regret?”

“The kind who pays when the work is done. Food on the road. A bed when an inn has one, hay when it does not. Flat pay. No share of cargo.”

“Number.”

Maeril smiled pleasantly.

Darran did not trust the smile. “Two hundred gold each. More if the road becomes unreasonably hostile and you keep it from eating us.”

Maeril blinked once.

Rishi glanced at her. “That buys ink.”

“That buys a rude amount of ink.”

“Interested?” Darran asked.

Maeril raised one finger. “What is in the wagons that will make people foolish?”

“Copper ingots. Worked tools. Cloth. Lamp oil.” He pointed toward the rear. “And people.”

A woman in a travel cloak stood beside the last wagon, tightening a child’s scarf with more force than the wool deserved. An older relative sat on the step with one hand clamped around a walking stick and glared at every shouting drover as if noise itself had overcharged them.

The younger child clutched a wooden horse and watched an ox with deep suspicion. The older child stood close enough to the wagon to pretend not to be frightened.

Maeril’s smile left her.

“Passengers?”

“A family heading south,” Darran said. “They had reasons to leave. I did not ask whether the reasons were convenient.”

“They are yours while they ride,” Rishi said.

“They are. Crates complain less, but I protect both.”

From the lead wagon, Kora called, “Crates usually run slower.”

Darran did not turn. “And argue less.”

“Only until someone packs them badly,” Maeril said.

One corner of Kora’s mouth moved.

Maeril looked at Rishi.

He met her eyes, then turned to Darran. “Then we will travel with you.”

Maeril offered her hand. “Two more guards. A stubborn monk and a brilliant witch.”

Darran took it. Then he clasped Rishi’s forearm, his grip scarred, firm, and practical.

“Be here before dawn. Kora sets the watch. If she dislikes you, survive until Nashkel and she may reconsider.”

“I heard that,” Kora said.

She looked them over a third time. “Show up ready. I do not wait for heroes.”

Maeril’s smile returned. “Good. We misplaced ours.”

Rishi picked up the bundle he had taken from her pack. Maeril settled the remaining weight across her shoulders and pretended not to notice the difference.

They walked back through the wagon yard. Wheels, mules, crates, leather, mud, and morning arguments pressed around them, but the noise no longer belonged only to strangers.

Maeril looked toward the southern road. “Well. We found coin.”

“We found work.”

“The same thing, if one is optimistic.”

Rishi glanced back.

Darran had returned to the broken hub. Kora moved down the guard line, correcting a loose strap, a spear grip, then the stance of a man twice her width.

Tomorrow, all of them would move south together.

Maeril followed Rishi’s gaze. “Staff and spell?”

He looked at her, then at the wagons.

“For now,” he said. “Staff and spell.”