Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 22)

Here is serial 22 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

An update: I've painstakingly transcribed 8 pages and I'm at precisely 9228 words. That's approximately 1150 words per page! I don't know what I was thinking, typing this up the way I did. 

8 fulls pages of 30 transcribed; 9228 words

I don't know why I'm fascinated with the manuscript the way I am. But, here's another picture of it. Along with my Atlantean sword. 

Please know that the Rogue would never use anything like the Atlantean sword.

Anyhow, here's serial 21!

In spite of Brol's command, the entire entourage had, but a few hours later, huddled themselves into Brol's tent to listen to his conversation with the Rogue. Thus, the tent had become thick with smoke due to the many long-stemmed reed pipes being nervously puffed on. Indeed, everyone sat around smoking, drinking steaming blackroot, and chewing trailcakes which had, at this point, become but barely palatable.

In sober voices Brol and Taous related to the Rogue was had happened. Details were filled in by an occasional merchant who squeaked in animated fashion, and Rew threw in a comment every now and again. Occasionally even Paj chirped out a comment, though he still seemed quite distraught and spent most of the time, his hands wrapped around his knees, rocking and muttering to himself in the corner of the tent. And here was their story, as the Rogue pieced it together.

Perhaps an hour after the Rogue left on Brol's horse, the merchants had a good fire going and were brewing their blackroot and tea and preparing to cook the very last of their salted meat that they had rationed to this point. The stars had come out, and Paj--a cartographer and astronomer--was pressed by the terrible notion that the constellations looked strange and unfamiliar to him. He wasn't able to confirm his suspicions and fears with the others as a thick fog rolled in that becloaked sky, camp, and distant canyon. 

The merchants were not concerned, though one or two of the more suspicious young among them muttered some misgivings. In the meantime, the night air had cooled down and this quickened them, made them feel somewhat hopeful. They had no plans to go anywhere that night and they were sure the sun's light would burn away the fog in the morning. The idea that they were approaching swampy lands disturbed them (where did this fog come from, if not a bog or swamp as nearby); but Brol chastised them and led them all in a prayer to their hearthfather god. This seemed to calm them. 

All was fine until the first disappearance was noted. 

Paj was playing a tiny woodflute on the margins of the camp shrouded in fog, when he heard the faint voice of one of his comrade's calling. Screaming? 

Not thinking of the sound as anything threatening, he put away his pipe and moved toward it. A great gust of wind came, lifting the fog like a certain for but a moment. And so, poor Paj got the first glimpse of them. 

Standing over one of his comrades, its pointy chin dripping gore, was one of those beasts. It was quickly flanked by two more who flew out of the darkness--claws outstretched, veiny wings unfurled, eyes like glimmering jewels. They grinned at him, revealing their knife-like teeth; and Paj, horrified, screamed and screamed to the highest heights his lungs could carry him, and turned and ran back to the center of the camp.