Roads of the Righteous and the Rotten (Order of Fire Book 1) by Kameron A. Williams Page A
Authors: Kameron A. Williams
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said again, his eyes traveling over her unmoving form. How he admired beautiful things.
The wagon wasn’t far off, and Ozgan grabbed the woman by the ankles and dragged her to it. It was not a day after meeting with the Condor that he had spotted her riding the fields of Vlysa alone. He had kept an eye on her for hours, leaving his wagon and mule in a secluded place while he stalked her quietly on foot. When she had dismounted and was far off from her horse for the second time he knew he must act. The first time there had been people nearby, and while normally he would happily engage any fool who tried to interfere with his barbarism—be it guards or common folk—the Condor had been rather adamant about keeping things quiet on this mission. “I do job good,” he had told the Condor before setting out. “If I’m seen, I kill who sees.” He couldn’t risk having someone see him and escape, and he was on foot, while the folk who had been passing by were mounted.
After placing his catch in the covered wagon, Ozgan grabbed the reins of his mule and led the animal back towards the road. He had seen many fine women in the villages around Vaul, which was far enough from the capital to not draw too much attention. This was a bit like hunting, except he wasn’t allowed to kill—he was barely allowed to hurt. While he hoped someone would interfere during one of his captures—so he could kill them—he knew it was better if no one saw him at all. Often times just coming into town provided him some sort of conflict as most people were threatened by his very presence. He was once commanded to leave an inn in Karthin for staring at the barmaids and making them afraid. A company of Snowguards and townsmen charged in and surrounded him because, as said by the innkeeper, “He produced a look that made it unclear as to whether he wished to know them or to have them as food.” He left that night, but only after leaving the place quiet with wet, red walls. It had been nearly a year since that he wasn’t of a mind to risk it by traveling north of Blackwood.
The wagon creaked as the mule pulled it down the road towards Karthin, with Ozgan’s firm hand on the reins while the other gripped a torch. The night was black save for the lustrous sliver of a yellow crescent moon and a few twinkling stars. Ozgan marched down the road with strides long and strong, bringing him to a speed that made even his mule pick up its pace. It almost looked as though he was dragging both the animal and the wagon—the way he was hunched forward, charging violently on while the mule ever quickened its step to keep up.
Amid the dark, a bright flicker of orange caught his eye, dancing between the trees afar off in the woods along the road. He put out his torch and slowed his pace. Bringing the wagon to a creep, he moved forward quietly, and soon after brought his mule to a halt on the roadside and fastened the reins to a young tree. He would not risk scaring these campers off and having no sport. He would much rather surprise them—scare them.
The night was still and quiet as Ozgan crept towards the orange light. Shifting his massive weight as carefully as he could, he moved in on the camp with darkness as his only cover. How he hated this sneaking about—this crawling and careful stepping that reminded him too much of the Clouds. Those cliffs were not at all fit for the likes of giants like him; he couldn’t roam and stomp and crush. He was the first one to desert.
He could now see the men clearly. There were only two of them, sitting across from one another with a fire between them. Ozgan changed his direction to approach their flank, quietly pulling the leather strap up over his head and lifting the massive cleaver-sword off his back. Holding it low, he crept towards them, hauling himself between trees, over stones, through the brush—and upon a branch that cracked out loud into the night.
“Who’s there?” One of the men hopped up, peering
The wagon wasn’t far off, and Ozgan grabbed the woman by the ankles and dragged her to it. It was not a day after meeting with the Condor that he had spotted her riding the fields of Vlysa alone. He had kept an eye on her for hours, leaving his wagon and mule in a secluded place while he stalked her quietly on foot. When she had dismounted and was far off from her horse for the second time he knew he must act. The first time there had been people nearby, and while normally he would happily engage any fool who tried to interfere with his barbarism—be it guards or common folk—the Condor had been rather adamant about keeping things quiet on this mission. “I do job good,” he had told the Condor before setting out. “If I’m seen, I kill who sees.” He couldn’t risk having someone see him and escape, and he was on foot, while the folk who had been passing by were mounted.
After placing his catch in the covered wagon, Ozgan grabbed the reins of his mule and led the animal back towards the road. He had seen many fine women in the villages around Vaul, which was far enough from the capital to not draw too much attention. This was a bit like hunting, except he wasn’t allowed to kill—he was barely allowed to hurt. While he hoped someone would interfere during one of his captures—so he could kill them—he knew it was better if no one saw him at all. Often times just coming into town provided him some sort of conflict as most people were threatened by his very presence. He was once commanded to leave an inn in Karthin for staring at the barmaids and making them afraid. A company of Snowguards and townsmen charged in and surrounded him because, as said by the innkeeper, “He produced a look that made it unclear as to whether he wished to know them or to have them as food.” He left that night, but only after leaving the place quiet with wet, red walls. It had been nearly a year since that he wasn’t of a mind to risk it by traveling north of Blackwood.
The wagon creaked as the mule pulled it down the road towards Karthin, with Ozgan’s firm hand on the reins while the other gripped a torch. The night was black save for the lustrous sliver of a yellow crescent moon and a few twinkling stars. Ozgan marched down the road with strides long and strong, bringing him to a speed that made even his mule pick up its pace. It almost looked as though he was dragging both the animal and the wagon—the way he was hunched forward, charging violently on while the mule ever quickened its step to keep up.
Amid the dark, a bright flicker of orange caught his eye, dancing between the trees afar off in the woods along the road. He put out his torch and slowed his pace. Bringing the wagon to a creep, he moved forward quietly, and soon after brought his mule to a halt on the roadside and fastened the reins to a young tree. He would not risk scaring these campers off and having no sport. He would much rather surprise them—scare them.
The night was still and quiet as Ozgan crept towards the orange light. Shifting his massive weight as carefully as he could, he moved in on the camp with darkness as his only cover. How he hated this sneaking about—this crawling and careful stepping that reminded him too much of the Clouds. Those cliffs were not at all fit for the likes of giants like him; he couldn’t roam and stomp and crush. He was the first one to desert.
He could now see the men clearly. There were only two of them, sitting across from one another with a fire between them. Ozgan changed his direction to approach their flank, quietly pulling the leather strap up over his head and lifting the massive cleaver-sword off his back. Holding it low, he crept towards them, hauling himself between trees, over stones, through the brush—and upon a branch that cracked out loud into the night.
“Who’s there?” One of the men hopped up, peering
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