Forest Sea Province, Black Firshire, Bailey Village.
This was an inconspicuous corner on the Kingdom's frontier. Days of rain had turned the dirt road outside the village into ankle-swallowing mud. The air smelled of damp pine resin and rotting leaves, and the towering conifer forests peculiar to Black Firshire enclosed the little village like a black wall.
Seven or eight men in ragged clothes squatted beside the muddy village entrance, hugging their knees like a flock of drenched crows. Their eyes were sunken, their gazes fixed on the far end of the road.
A freight wagon belonging to the Golden Sail Merchant Guild was stuck in a mud pit, its axle creaking under the strain.
Besides the driver, two figures with their trouser legs rolled up accompanied the wagon.
One, a man in a plain gray robe, was barefoot. His broad, heavily callused feet moved without hesitation through the gravel-filled mud as he helped old Jack push the wagon;
the other wore a cleric's robe with its insignia torn off and looked like a destitute ascetic monk. He too was barefoot, but his pale, tender feet were conspicuous. He flinched with every step, his toes curling in pain, clearly unaccustomed to genuine ascetic hardship.
"Old Jack, you're two days late."
The speaker was Hans, the farmer leading the group. His face was sallow, and his body trembled slightly beneath the trees. It was the physical reaction of someone suddenly deprived of something he had depended on for years.
"Don't get me started. This damned weather, and those damned roadblocks." Old Jack spat on the ground without stopping his work, urging two scrawny horses to pull the wheels out of the mud. "The Royal Capital's a complete mess. Half the city gates are closed. You're lucky this shipment got out at