Roland.
That was his name. He didn't look like a Roland. He looked like a weasel.
His eyes were thin and dark. His mouth a little too red.
Like his cheeks.
He was dressed in thick furs.
"Ha! It's been a long time since I brought one of you back down the mountain," he chuckled. "But now I bring two at once? Could it be the Black Dragon Court is emerging from its exile?"
"Don't speak nonsense," Elder Miklos growled, seated beside the merchant at the front of the wagon. "The Black Dragon Court has never been in exile. We were simply waiting for the right time."
Two guards plodded along in front of the wagon, leading the way. One was called Horris, and the other Mikkel.
They both carried bows and had swords at their hip.
They looked efficient, Vlad thought, but appearances were often deceiving.
"And now is the right time?"
"I didn't say anything like that," the vampire snapped back. "I was just telling you we weren't exiled. And it would be appreciated if you don't spread stupid rumours."
"Who would believe my words?" Roland asked airily. "The Court has been sequestered for so long, there are many who believe it is just one or two stubborn elders skulking around a ruin. They don't believe me when I say you have fledglings. They say no sane man would join the Black Dragon Court."
"Tsk."
"I don't say such things," Roland said defensively. "I am just telling you what is said."
"Gossip," Elder Miklos sneered. "Isn't worth the breath used to repeat it."
"True words," Roland agreed. "But a snippet of gossip sometimes holds a sliver of truth. And, in this strange era, a little truth can be the difference between life and death."
"Or profit and loss…"
"I am but a humble merchant," Roland said with a wide grin. He spread his hands. "Profit and loss? Life and death? To me, they are the same thing."
Vlad, sprawled on top of the wagon behind them, stared up at the stars.
Their bickering didn't interest him.
Instead, he focused on his heart, slowly cycling blood energy into the chambers the Blood Ocean technique had formed. They were growing at an incredible rate since he'd started getting close to the tenth step of the Black Dragon Great Sword Art.
Perhaps the way he pushed his body was just as vital to this strange technique.
It seemed well suited to the Black Dragon Great Sword Art and he wondered why no one he knew had used it in his previous life.
He wondered what might have been if the Court had used the Blood Ocean technique. Would they have been able to defeat the Pope without such dreadful losses?
He closed his eyes.
It was worthless to entertain such thoughts.
But it did make him wonder what the future might bring. Would the fledglings using this technique also grow with as much pace as he was?
He was pushing them hard to expand their hearts.
To open their chambers more.
And, while they complained and moaned, he could see the potential growing in them as they started breaking their wooden sticks almost as regularly as he did his own.
Everyone was going to need proper swords to go further.
He sighed.
Another problem for him to resolve.
Vlad's head continued to rattle around as the wagon bounced uncomfortably down the rocky track.
"Vlad?" Elder Miklos' voice cut through the chaos of his thoughts. "Did you hear that? Keep your head down as we travel through the pass. Roland said there's been rumours of bandits."
"Bandits?" Vlad scowled. "They dare to creep about the Black Dragon Court like it was their home?"
"It's just rumours," Roland called back. "Nothing to get excited about, young fledgling. My guards are used to dealing with bandits."
"Hmph."
"Just stay on the wagon, boy," Elder Miklos said gently. "I'd hate to lose you to some petty bandit's cheap attack."
"Yes, Elder," Vlad sighed.
As the elder turned away, he twisted his lips into a sour line.
Bandits.
Here?
How could it be?
It was bad enough that such scum were acting like fleas on the mountain, but why hadn't the Court rounded them up and fed them to the fledglings? Their blood would be much better than squeezing the last thin drops from the castle's remaining Renfields.
It worried Vlad that the bandits had grown a backbone while the Court seemed to have lost its own.
As the wagon slowly entered the pass, the steep mountain walls pressed in on either side of the track.
An easy place to spring an ambush.
Ferenc's Court had kept a small force guarding the pass. A small tower should have been looking down from above.
He couldn't see it, so assumed it was now rubble.
"So messy," he muttered, his eyes flicking across the ridge above.
A night bird hooted.
Owl.
No. Not an owl.
His fingers wrapped tightly around the wooden stick as Elder Miklos shot him a glance and shook his head.
So, the elder was no fool.
Suddenly a roar shook the pass and dozens of men sprinted towards the wagon from both the front and rear. Blocking the way in or out of the pass.
Predictable.
Vlad rolled his eyes but wasn't sure who he was more irritated with.
Roland gave no sign of panic, and his guards simply reached back to grab the reins of the oxen leading the wagon and brought it to a halt.
They spoke soothingly to the beasts, who seemed used to such displays as the bandits came to a halt a few steps away.
Like a band of dogs, they circled the wagon.
Giggling.
Grinning.
Eyes lit up with greed.
And then a single figure loped from the front. Taller than the rest. Long brown hair. A savage scar down his cheek. He wasn't thick with muscle, but his body moved like a predator.
Vlad squinted at the man.
He didn't like him.
Not at all.
"Good merchant," the man called, spreading his lips into a mean smile that revealed clean white teeth. "It seems you are lost. Let us show you the way."
"Ah, that's very kind of you, sir," Roland called back. A note of boredom in his voice. "Allow me to compensate you for you trouble."
"A generous merchant at last," the tall man said. He held out his arms towards Roland. "You see this man, my friends? He is a gentleman of the world. It is such a pleasure to deal with such a man. But we would not want to take advantage of you, mister merchant. No. We are not criminals. A hundred gold pieces should be meagre compensation enough, I should think."
Vlad almost choked.
A hundred?
"Alas, friend, I cannot do that," Roland said sadly. "You might not know it, but the only business in these parts is from the old vampire Court behind us. And it is not profitable at all!"
"Then why would you come all this way?" The tall man asked. "I can't believe such a fine merchant as yourself, dressed in such fine furs, would seek to trade for peanuts. No. I cannot believe it at all."
"Still, it is true," Roland said. "Are you familiar with the story of the Good Samaritan?"
"Of course," the tall man replied. "What do you take us for? We are not heathens. We are men of great faith."
A few of the bandits snickered, but didn't say anything.
"Then you would understand why I am here." The merchant smiled warmly. "Not every trade's profit is measured in gold."
Vlad grit his teeth. He wasn't sure how much Roland spoke the truth here, but the insinuation that he dealt with the Court out of sympathy was shameful.
Too shameful to bear.
"Your words are flowery," the tall man said. "But we are simple men of the land. And flowery words will not feed our precious families. Our children hunger, good merchant. What say you now? Will you treat the degenerate Court to the fruits of your generosity but deny those in true need?"
"I have never rejected a beggar," Roland said airly, ignoring the sucked gasps from the bandits who took offence. "But one cannot give what one does not have."
The tall man studied Roland, his opinion of the merchant shifting.
"You call us beggars?"
"Or bandits," Roland said with a shrug. "Does it matter? In life, one must the simple truths of one's existence. I am a humble merchant. My opinion should mean little to you. You are not a beggar? Not a thief? Yet, you push me to give you coin for a service I don't need and reject my generosity when I offer you what I can afford. You demand more. Where does it end? With my blood on the ground while you ransack my empty wagon and walk home hungry anyway?"
"Empty wagon, is it?" One of the other bandits spat. "Bullshit. I say we dig in, Freck."
The tall man nodded. "My men are offended, mister merchant. They are honest men who you have insulted. Perhaps we shall take your wagon and everything you have. And you can walk home?"
"A fool can see the wagon is empty just by looking at the tracks," Roland sighed. "You would risk your necks for nothing."
"I see no risk," the tall man sneered. "I see two weak guards, two old men, and a boy whose hairs have yet to sprout on his balls."
Vlad rolled off the wagon with a nonchalant sniff.
The bandits, already skittish, lifted their weapons with a clatter. A mishmash of swords, hatchets, and a spear or two.
"Vlad!" Elder Miklos hissed. "What are you doing?"
Vlad lifted a hand for silence.
And ignored the other bandits as he strode slowly towards the tall man whose face looked intrigued and amused.
"I will fight you," Vlad said.
"I don't fight little children," the tall man laughed. His laugh was echoed by his men. "What would people say of me if I did?"
"Does it matter?" Vlad asked. "I'm sure they already think you are trash."
The air froze as the tall man's jaw clenched. "You'll talk yourself to death with words like that, boy."
"Your words have already condemned you," Vlad rasped. He lifted the wooden stick and beckoned the tall man to step forward. "Now, come. I will be your executioner."