Chapter 20: The White-Haired Mage |
The older soldier’s heart nearly leaped out of his throat.
He lunged forward, clamped a hand around the young soldier’s windpipe, and yanked him backward with all his strength!
“Ugh!”
The young soldier was choked silent, dragged stumbling backwards.
The older soldier leaned close to his ear and, in a voice meant for only the two of them, ground his teeth and hissed:
“If you want to die, don’t drag me down with you! That is the king!!!”
The young soldier’s eyes darted. He glanced at the signet ring, then at Varian’s face, and only then did realization dawn.
His legs went weak; he almost dropped to his knees on the spot.
The older soldier held him fast, forcing a twisted, uglier-than-tears smile onto his face as he bobbed his head and saluted Varian like a madman.
At that moment, Allen, Wen Lei, and Stella climbed down from the wagon.
What they saw was a group of soldiers who, in an instant, turned into models of utmost respect.
Two soldiers jumped forward to lead the horses for the coachman: “As guardians of Stormwind, this job is on us!”
The younger soldier busied himself brushing dust off Allen’s clothes: “Sir, you must be tired from the journey. The roads through Duskwood are rough.”
The older soldier, clearly more experienced, trotted over and personally hefted Stella’s bulging engineering pack:
“Ah, miss, your luggage is so heavy, why didn’t you say so earlier? Come, let Sixth Battalion, Fourth Company Corporal Sally help you carry it!”
The sergeant waved a big hand: “Let them through, let them through! These folks are obviously decent people! What are you all standing around for? By order of Thomas, sergeant and captain of Sixth Battalion, Fourth Company, move the barricade!”
The soldiers briskly shifted the roadblocks and formed two neat rows, snapping to attention with full salutes, as if they were escorting some great dignitary.
Everyone, puzzled, remounted where necessary and the wagons rolled through the checkpoint under the soldiers’ solicitous gazes.
Most people were baffled and couldn’t make sense of it. Wen Lei guessed Mathias had done something with his assumed identity, but only Allen had figured out the truth, smiling wryly as he watched Varian.
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They finally arrived at Darkshire.
The little town was much livelier than expected. The Sons of Lothar’s army was camped nearby and had brought many support personnel.
The first thing Allen and the others did was go to the sheriff to claim the bounty; Lupos had been jointly posted by Darkshire and Goldshire.
The sheriff’s office sat in the center of town. They pushed the door open and found the sheriff’s seat empty. Behind a nearby desk sat a clerk bent over paperwork.
At the noise, he looked up.
He was about thirty, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, exuding a mild, scholarly air.
“Can I help you?” He set down his pen, tugged at his sleeve, and asked politely.
Varian set the wolf head, wrapped in coarse cloth, on the desk.
“For the bounty.” He said, “Lupos’s bounty.”
The clerk carefully untied the bundle. When the huge wolf head came into view, his eyes lit up.
“This… is really Lupos?” His tone brimmed with astonishment. “You’re true heroes! That beast has plagued us for so long. I didn’t expect you to have slain it.”
“Please wait a moment. The reward money needs to be withdrawn; I’ll handle it right away.” He wrapped the head back up and wrote something in his ledger. “By the way, where are you staying? We can arrange a time and I’ll deliver the money so you don’t have to make another trip.”
Wen Lei gave the clerk the name of the Darkshire inn; unsurprisingly, they were staying there tonight.
The clerk nodded, closed the ledger, and bowed slightly: “Very well. Again, thank you for ridding Darkshire of this menace.”
After that, Morgan led the group to his house first.
It was a simple but cozy wooden cottage, with a few rose bushes planted at the gate.
Morgan’s wife stood at the door to greet them. Seeing her husband home safe, her eyes glossed. Three children barreled out and all dove into Morgan’s arms at once.
Allen watched from the side, moved by the scene.
Morgan crouched down and hugged the children one by one, then stood and slipped his arm around his wife’s waist, planting a kiss on her forehead.
After a moment, Morgan straightened and said a few low words to his wife. She nodded, worry flickering across her face, but she did not stop him.
Then Morgan moved off as if it were the most natural thing to do, walking toward Allen and the others.
“Come on,” he said. “I’m coming with you to pursue the fugitive.”
Along the way, Allen and the others talked about how they had come to Darkshire to hunt down the fugitive, but none had expected Morgan to volunteer so readily to join them.
Allen had assumed Morgan had brought them to visit his household. “Uh… Morgan, don’t you need to stay with your family?”
Morgan shook his head, voice steady: “You saved me, so of course I have to help. Duskwood is dangerous; I’ll accompany and protect you. Besides—” He glanced back at his cottage, tenderness flickering in his eyes, “they’ll understand.”
Varian stepped up and gave Morgan a hearty pat on the shoulder: “Good!”
Allen watched this and thought secretly: kid, your future’s set now.
As the de facto project leader for the trip, big-shot Wen Lei booked several rooms at the Darkshire inn, though Varian insisted on paying for his own.
They stowed their luggage and headed downstairs, with Morgan waiting outside the inn.
Wen Lei’s first move was to take out the high-quality wolf pelt he’d skinned from Lupos, intending to have the town’s tanner work it up.
Allen and the others were no experts in furs, but this was premium hide—too fine to leave unmade into top-tier leather goods.
While Wen Lei lingered with the pelt, the rest split up to question townsfolk about leads on Stalvan.
Allen deliberately separated himself. He already knew Stalvan was hiding in an abandoned shack north of Darkshire, but he couldn’t simply reveal it. He pretended to canvass for information alone so he could drop the right hint later.
He walked along the town’s central cobblestone road and stopped in front of a slightly shabby tavern.
The sign creaked in the wind, painted with a crooked wine glass. Allen pushed the door and stepped inside.
Scattered patrons sat about, giving him only a lazy glance as he entered.
Allen’s gaze swept the tavern and soon fixed on a corner by the bar.
There, an old man with a shock of white hair sat with his head bowed, drowning his sorrows in drink.
Something stirred in Allen. He approached and took a barstool beside the old man.
“Sir,” he said, careful to sound casual, “pardon the intrusion.”
The old man did not look up.
Allen went on: “I’m from out of town, and I’m trying to ask after someone. Do you know of a man who came from elsewhere—about thirty, looks scholarly, like a man of letters…?”
The old man still didn’t lift his head, though the hand gripping his mug tightened somewhat.
Silence held for a few seconds.
Then the old man slowly raised his head.
Under the lamp’s light, Allen was stunned.
Beneath that shock of white hair was an extremely youthful face.