RISING OF THE GOLEM KING FROM ZERO TO HERO, Volume 1, Part One by H. L. Watson - HTML preview

Chapter 16

As the sun began to set, I made my way through the winding streets toward the sellers and tradesmen district. The cobblestones beneath my feet were worn smooth from years of cart wheels and foot traffic, and the air carried a blend of scents—horse manure, tanned leather, metalwork, and the yeasty aroma of fresh bread from nearby bakeries closing for the day. The district vibrated with the energy of last-minute transactions, merchants eager to complete one final sale before nightfall.

Long shadows stretched across the marketplace as vendors began packing away their wares. The western sky had transformed into a canvas of deep orange and crimson, silhouetting the city's towers against the dying light. From several streets away, I could already hear the distinctive sounds of the horse traders' section—the snorting and whinnying of animals, the sharp commands of grooms, and the animated voices of merchants haggling over prices. The wagon coach vendor's establishment sat at the corner of two busy thoroughfares, his selection of vehicles arranged in neat rows across a packed-earth yard. Lanterns hung from posts were being lit by an apprentice, casting a warm glow over the polished wood and brass fittings of the finer coaches. My eyes were drawn to a particular wagon similar to the one my former master Jiren used—sturdy oak construction with iron reinforcements, a waterproof canvas cover, and comfortable seating arrangements that could double as sleeping quarters during long journeys. The vendor, a portly man with calloused hands and a trader's sharp eyes, approached as I examined the wheel spokes. His beard was neatly trimmed, and his clothes, though simple, showed the prosperity of a successful businessman.

"Interested in this beauty, sir?" he asked, patting the side of the wagon with familiar affection. "Finest craftsmanship in the eastern quarter. The woodwork's been treated against warping, and those iron fittings won't rust in the rain."

"I'm looking for something suitable for a journey to the capital," I replied, running my hand along the smooth wooden railing.

He nodded knowingly. "This coach would serve you well, then. The road to Valoria has rough patches that would shake lesser wagons to pieces."

What followed was an intricate dance of negotiation. He named a price that made me wince inwardly, and I countered with an offer that made him laugh heartily. Back and forth we went, each concession accompanied by dramatic sighs or theatrical gestures of reluctance. After nearly half an hour, we settled on a sum that neither delighted nor offended either of us—the mark of a fair bargain.

Next came the selection of horses. The stables adjacent to the wagon yard housed several teams, their coats glossy under lantern light. The stable master, a reed-thin woman with weather-beaten features and arms corded with muscle, led me past stalls occupied by animals of varying quality. At the far end stood four matched striped chestnuts, their muscular frames and clear eyes speaking of good breeding and proper care.

"These four have pulled together since they were broken to harness," she explained, her voice carrying the slight rasp of someone who had spent decades calling to animals over windswept plains. "They've got the stamina for long hauls and the temperament for city traffic." I examined each horse carefully, checking teeth, hooves, and eyes as Teacher Eldon had once instructed me when we discussed practical matters of travel. The animals regarded me with intelligent curiosity, one gently nudging my shoulder with its velvet nose, leaving a damp spot on my sleeve. The familiar earthy scent of horse—hay, sweat, and that indefinable animal warmth—brought back memories of my first journey in this world as a captive. How different my circumstances were now, purchasing my own transportation rather than being transported as property.

With the acquisition of the wagon and horses complete, my thoughts turned to security. The roads between cities in the Valtterrium Empire were generally well-patrolled, but bandits still preyed on travelers who appeared wealthy or poorly defended. My journey would require professional protection.

The Mercenaries Guild occupied a sprawling building near the city's west gate—a strategic location that caught travelers entering and leaving the city. Unlike the delicate architecture of the city's noble quarter or the utilitarian structures of the market district, the Guild hall had been built for intimidation. Stone walls twice the height of a man surrounded a courtyard where practice sessions often took place, and iron spikes adorned the heavy wooden gates. The main hall resembled a tavern more than an office, with long wooden tables occupied by men and women whose scarred faces and weapon-calloused hands spoke of lives spent in dangerous service. The air hung heavy with the smells of ale, sweat, tobacco smoke, and the distinctive oil used to maintain weapons and armor. Conversation flowed freely, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter or the thud of tankards against wood.

I found an empty spot at the serving counter and signaled to the barkeeper, a broad-shouldered man whose bushy beard couldn't hide a scar that ran from ear to chin. His eyes swept over me with professional assessment, noting my quality clothing and the absence of visible weapons. "What'll it be?" he asked, his tone suggesting I might be in the wrong establishment. "Watered wine," I replied, "and some information about hiring bodyguards for a journey." He snorted and turned away to fill a tankard from a nearby barrel. When he returned, his expression hadn't warmed. "Information costs more than wine in this place."

I slid a small gold piece across the counter, its gleam catching the lantern light. The barkeeper's attitude shifted immediately, his posture straightening and his eyes focusing on me with newfound interest.

"You're looking to hire protection?" he asked, his voice lowered to avoid drawing attention from the nearest patrons.

"For a journey to the capital," I confirmed.

He nodded, pocketing the coin with practiced efficiency. "You'll want to speak with the guild master." One thick finger pointed toward a door at the far end of the hall. "If you have special requests, he's the one to talk to."

Taking a single sip of the wine—which tasted more of water than anything fermented—I made my way across the room. Conversations quieted momentarily as I passed, weathered faces turning to assess the newcomer before returning to their drinks and discussions. The floor's wooden planks creaked underfoot, sticky in places from spilled drinks. As I approached the guild master's office, I noticed a reception window set slightly to the side. Assuming this was the proper protocol, I redirected my steps toward it, mentally rehearsing how to explain my requirements.

The window's interior was well-lit by crystal lamps that cast a steady glow over a neat desk covered with ledgers and documents. A woman sat behind it, her head bent over a piece of parchment as she wrote with quick, efficient strokes. When she looked up at the sound of my approach, the shock of recognition froze me in place.

"Amy?"

Her blonde hair was pulled back in a practical style that emphasized the delicate features of her face. The dirt and fear that had marked our first meeting in this world had been replaced by the composed demeanor of someone who had found a place for herself, however tenuous. Her blue eyes widened in surprise, lips parting slightly as she processed the sight before her. "Eric? Is that really you?" Her voice carried the same California accent I remembered, a jarring reminder of home in this foreign setting.

A laugh escaped me, born more from disbelief than humor. "In the flesh!" The coincidence seemed too unlikely—meeting another person from Earth in this vast city, in this specific building, at this precise moment.

Amy's professional composure dissolved into a genuine smile as she leaned forward across the counter. "It's been too long," she said, her gaze taking in the changes in my appearance. Gone was the ragged slave she had last seen, replaced by a man in quality clothing with the bearing of someone who commanded respect.

"How have you been?" I asked, still processing the shock of our reunion. Her smile dimmed slightly. "I've been... surviving." She gestured to the office around her. "After we were separated at the auction, I was bought by the guild master. I've been here ever since." The conversation shifted into the familiar rhythms of two displaced people sharing their experiences in a foreign world. She explained that her position as receptionist afforded her certain privileges—a private room, regular meals, and even a small stipend. While far from ideal, her situation could have been considerably worse.

"Are they treating you well?" I asked, leaning against the wooden counter that separated us. The polished surface was worn smooth in places where countless arms had rested while conducting business.

Amy hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the quill she had been using. "It's... decent. I get a day off each week and some pay." Her voice lowered slightly. "It's not the best situation, but I've seen worse."

I nodded, understanding what remained unspoken. "It's good to hear you're managing, though." Her expression brightened as curiosity overtook caution. "What brought you here, Eric? You look... different." Her gaze lingered on the quality of my clothes, the small ring on my finger that signified my new status.

Under the wooden roof of the tavern, ambient sounds of murmuring voices and clinking glasses creating a backdrop to our conversation, I recounted my recent good fortune. I detailed my apprenticeship with Teacher Eldon, the unexpected success of my miniature golem business, and my recent graduation to full Tinkerer status.

Amy listened with rapt attention, her eyes occasionally flicking to the guild master's closed door as if to ensure our conversation remained private. When I mentioned my plans to travel to Valoria, she leaned forward with renewed interest.

"So, what's next for you?" she asked, genuine curiosity in her voice. I paused, considering how much to share. "I intend to head to the capital," I finally said. "I've heard of ancient texts and experts there who might have information on dimensional gateways." Amy's eyebrows rose, skepticism evident in her expression. "Dimensional gateways? You still think there's a way to get back home?"

I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling suddenly self-conscious about my ambitions. "Honestly, I'm not entirely sure. But Tinkerers like me have always been at the forefront of such innovations. If there's even a sliver of hope, I have to explore it."

A thoughtful expression crossed her face, blue eyes growing distant. "It's fascinating to think that the lost technology of the ancients might hold the key. Imagine the riches they must have achieved!"

The excitement in her voice faded, replaced by something more melancholy. "You know," she murmured, "even if you find a way, not all of us can chase such dreams. For some, freedom comes at a hefty price."

The weight of her words hung between us, a stark reminder of how differently our paths had diverged since arrival in this world. While I had managed to secure my freedom and establish myself professionally, Amy remained bound by the legal constraints of slavery. "How much is your slave price?" I asked, the question emerging before I could consider its bluntness.

If Amy was offended by my directness, she didn't show it. "Ninety-five gold pieces," she replied without hesitation. "I've been saving what I can—about one silver piece weekly." Her fingers twisted together nervously. "At that rate, freedom is still years away." I performed the mental calculation—ten silver pieces to one gold piece meant she had managed to save only about five gold in all her time here. Ninety more gold pieces stood between her and freedom.

The injustice of it struck me anew. We had arrived in this world together, equally confused and terrified. Only chance had directed me to a path that led to my current prosperity while she remained in servitude. My newfound wealth suddenly felt unearned, almost shameful in the face of her continued bondage.

A decision crystallized in my mind. From the pouch at my belt, I withdrew a smaller bag containing my emergency funds—approximately one hundred fifty gold pieces that I carried separate from my bank drafts. The leather sack felt heavy in my palm, the weight of the metal inside representing both security and responsibility.

"Amy," I said, voice lowered to ensure privacy, "I want you to have this. On one condition— don't open it until you're safely in your room, away from prying eyes." Her expression shifted from confusion to shock as I pressed the bag into her hands. The weight alone would tell her it contained something of significant value. "Eric, what is this?"

"Consider it a gift from one otherworlder to another. We have to look out for each other in this place."

Amy's hands quickly tucked the pouch beneath the counter, out of sight. Her eyes, suddenly bright with unshed tears, met mine. "I don't know what to say."

"Just promise you'll use it wisely," I replied. "And perhaps let the guild master know I'm here to discuss business."

She nodded rapidly, composing herself with visible effort. "Of course. I'll inform him immediately."

The guild master proved to be a pragmatic businessman, neither overtly friendly nor unnecessarily difficult. After a concise discussion of my needs and expected route, we agreed on terms for two experienced bodyguards to accompany me to Valoria. The arrangements complete, I departed the guild hall, nodding farewell to Amy who watched me leave with an expression of stunned gratitude.

Night had fully descended by the time I made my way back to my current residence—the apprentice quarters at the back of Teacher Eldon's workshop. Though I could easily afford lodgings elsewhere, practicality had kept me here. The familiar space offered comfort and convenience that outweighed the modest accommodations. Despite my offers to pay rent, Teacher Eldon had refused, insisting I was welcome to use the facilities as needed. The workshop itself was quiet at this hour, the day's activities concluded. Tools had been cleaned and returned to their places, materials secured in appropriate containers, and the magical apparatus properly deactivated. Only the faint glow of safety runes illuminated my path through the main work area to the small room I still occupied.

My quarters remained sparse—a narrow bed, a desk for study and design work, a small chest for personal belongings. Yet in its simplicity, it provided all I required. The familiar scents of metal, crystal dust, and arcane reagents that permeated the building had become comforting rather than foreign.

As I prepared for sleep, my mind reviewed the day's accomplishments. Transportation secured, protection arranged, an unexpected act of charity performed. The journey ahead would be challenging, but the groundwork had been properly laid.

Sleep claimed me quickly, a dreamless rest that left me refreshed for the tasks that awaited me the following morning.

The twin suns of Iriddoria had barely cleared the eastern horizon when I set out for Jiren's manor once more. The early morning air carried a crisp freshness soon to be burned away by the day's heat. Streets that would later bustle with activity lay relatively quiet, populated primarily by bakers, milk vendors, and laborers beginning their day's work. The manor seemed different in the clear morning light—less imposing, more simply a large residence belonging to a wealthy merchant. Guards recognized me from my visit the previous day, allowing me entrance with minimal questioning. The same servant who had escorted me before led me to the receiving room, where Adele and Dahlia waited.

Their few possessions had been gathered into modest bundles that sat at their feet. Mother and daughter presented a study in contrasts—Adele tall and straight-backed despite her years, with elegant features framed by dark brown hair now streaked with silver; Dahlia smaller and more delicate, her pink hair falling in soft waves around a face just beginning to lose its childish softness. Both wore the simple attire of household servants, though the garments had been carefully mended and cleaned for the occasion.

Adele's hazel-green eyes held a careful guardedness born of years in servitude, while Dahlia's blue ones shimmered with barely contained excitement. The younger woman's hands fidgeted with the fabric of her dress, betraying her nervousness despite her attempt at a composed expression.

"I've come with news," I began, the formal setting making my voice sound unnecessarily stiff to my own ears. "You are no longer bound by the chains of servitude. You are free." The words hung in the air for a moment, their significance settling over the room like a physical presence. Dahlia's reaction came first—her carefully maintained composure crumbling as tears welled in her eyes.

"Is it true?" she whispered, voice barely audible, as if speaking too loudly might dispel the miracle. "Are we truly free?"

"Yes," I confirmed, my tone softening. "Your papers have been legally transferred to me, and I've signed your manumission documents. No one in the Valtterrium Empire can claim ownership of either of you now." I paused, then added the most important part. "If you wish to stay, you can work for me, not as slaves but as paid servants." Dahlia's face transformed with joy, tears now flowing freely down her cheeks. "I'd like to stay," she replied, her voice choked with emotion. "Thank you, Eric. Thank you." When I turned to Adele, expecting a similar reaction, I found instead a complex expression of gratitude tinged with unmistakable sadness. Her weathered hands were clasped tightly before her, knuckles white with tension.

"Adele," I asked gently, "is something amiss?"

The older woman drew a deep breath, her shoulders straightening further as if preparing to bear a heavy weight. "There is something I must tell you," she began, her voice steady despite the emotion evident in her eyes.

"I was not always a kitchen servant," she continued. "Once, I was a free woman of the Ashemclak tribes to the far south. Our people lived simply but proudly on lands that had been ours for generations."

Her gaze grew distant, looking beyond the manor walls to memories long suppressed. "When I was a young woman, the Valtterrium Empire expanded its borders, sending raiders into our territories. Many of my people were taken captive, myself included." Her hand moved unconsciously to touch Dahlia's shoulder. "My daughter was born in captivity, never knowing the lands of her ancestors."

Dahlia's eyes widened at this revelation, suggesting parts of this story were new even to her. The complex emotions playing across her face spoke of surprise, sorrow, and a painful yearning for something she had never known.

"Now that freedom has been granted to me," Adele continued, her voice gaining strength, "I wish to return to my homeland, to see if any of my family remains, to walk again on the soil of my birth before I grow too old for such journeys."

The conviction in her voice made it clear this was no passing fancy but a deep-seated longing carried through years of bondage. I found myself nodding in understanding. "Adele, if you wish to return to your homeland, I will ensure you have safe passage," I promised. "I can arrange for you to join a southward-bound trade caravan with merchants who regularly travel those routes."

Relief and gratitude transformed Adele's expression, softening the lines etched by years of servitude. "Thank you," she whispered, her composure momentarily breaking. "Your kindness will never be forgotten."

The remainder of the morning passed in practical preparations. We visited various merchant offices, seeking information on caravans bound for the southern territories. The central trade district hummed with activity—clerks rushing between offices with important documents, merchants haggling over contracts, and laborers loading wagons with goods destined for distant markets.

By midday, we had secured Adele passage with a reputable company known for their regular routes to the southern borderlands. The caravan master, a weather-beaten man with quick, intelligent eyes, assured us that they frequently traded with tribes in the region Adele described. "We leave at first light tomorrow," he informed us, pocketing the payment I had provided for Adele's passage. "She'll be well-protected—forty guards for thirty wagons, and we don't take unnecessary risks."

Next came the purchase of supplies Adele would need for her journey—sturdy traveling clothes, preserved foods that would not spoil in the heat, medicinal herbs for common ailments, and a small knife for protection and practical use. Each item was selected with care, a small investment in her future security.

By late afternoon, we stood at the southern gate of the city where the caravan had established its final camp before departure. Wagons formed a loose circle within view of the city walls, merchants and their guards making final preparations for the journey ahead. The air carried the mingled scents of cooking fires, pack animals, and the aromatic spices being transported to distant markets.

The moment of farewell arrived too quickly. Adele and Dahlia stood facing each other, the physical resemblance between them minimal yet their connection undeniable. Tears streaked both their faces as they embraced.

"Remember who you are, daughter," Adele said, her voice steady despite her evident emotion. "Obey and serve well, as it is now a matter of honor for our family." Dahlia nodded solemnly. "I will, Mother. I promise." Her voice broke on the final word, a sob escaping despite her efforts at composure.

I stepped back, giving them space for this deeply personal moment. Around us, the caravan continued its preparations, the routine activities of travelers creating a backdrop to this emotional parting. When Adele finally turned to me, her eyes were red but dry, her dignity intact. "Thank you," she said simply, clasping my hands in hers. "May the spirits of my ancestors watch over your path."

With that, she shouldered her pack and walked toward the wagon that would carry her south, her posture straight and determined. We watched until she was settled among the other passengers, then remained as the caravan organized itself into traveling formation. Only when the last wagon had disappeared beyond the horizon did we turn back toward the city. The walk back through the streets was conducted mostly in silence. Dahlia seemed lost in thought, occasionally wiping away a stray tear that escaped despite her best efforts. The city continued its normal activities around us—merchants closing their shops for the evening, taverns beginning to fill with patrons seeking dinner and entertainment, children being called home for the night.

I had arranged lodging for Dahlia at one of the more reputable inns near the center of the city—a practical choice that would keep her close until our departure the following day. The establishment catered primarily to merchants and minor officials, offering clean rooms and decent food without excessive luxury.

As we approached the inn, the weight of my new responsibility settled firmly on my shoulders. Dahlia's wellbeing now depended on me, a fact that required careful consideration of our arrangements.

At eighteen, Dahlia had just crossed the threshold into adulthood, yet her sheltered life as a slave had left her ill-prepared for the complexities of the wider world. My own status as a single man of twenty-six created potential complications I hadn't fully considered until now. I believed it would be prudent to employ an additional servant, preferably an older woman adept at essential tasks like cooking. Traveling with a young, attractive girl like Dahlia could lead to misconceptions, potentially jeopardizing both our reputations. My reputation was especially significant to me, as I hoped to build up a client base of reputable individuals in future, so naturally I wanted to avoid any potential misinterpretations. When I first encountered Dahlia, she was around 15 or 16. Rather than viewing her in any romantic light, I saw her as a younger sister. My protective instincts kicked in, much like an older brother for his sibling. It was unspoken, but I sensed Adele's wish for me to watch over Dahlia, and I was committed to doing just that.