15: Chapter 15 The Missing Person

"Damn this cursed weather!"

The lead merchant, Hoffman, wrapped himself in an oilcloth cloak. Rainwater trickled down the ring of white hair along the sides of his bald pate and dripped into his collar.

He shivered, but didn't forget to boast: "The storms I encountered in the Dark Sea when I was young were much bigger than this!"

"That time we encountered the legendary Deep Sea Banshees and even heard the Banshee's Song. If I hadn't been lucky enough to tie myself to the mast, I surely would have died there!"

No one among the attendants on the wagons replied; everyone was a bit tired of hearing it, and everyone was exhausted and chilled to the bone.

Several covered wagons loaded with supplies moved with difficulty through the mud, their canvas tops sagging under the weight of the rain.

Every so often, someone had to use a stick to poke the accumulated rainwater off the roof, resulting in a splash that sounded like another small waterfall.

Richard walked beside the second wagon, his leather boots making a "squelch, squelch" sound whenever he pulled them out of the mud.

He carried his halberd horizontally across his shoulders, his cloak hood pulled very low.

"What I hate most is rainy days..."

Richard complained to himself and kicked a small stone by the roadside.

"I've been traveling this road for decades; I know it like the back of my hand." Hoffman wiped the rainwater from his face at the front of the wagon.

He turned and shouted to the group, but his voice arrived fragmented by the wind and rain.

"Everyone hold on a little longer! Once we pass those low hills ahead, there's an abandoned watchtower. We'll camp there tonight!"

Cecilia walked at the front of the group, her blonde hair soaked and clinging in strands to the sides of her cheeks. Her gait remained steady, and a kite shield was strapped to her back.

She looked up at the sky and reminded him: "It will be dark in about an hour. Mr. Hoffman, how much further is that watchtower?"

"Almost there, almost there! It's just ahead!" Hoffman promised, patting his chest.

In reality, they walked for nearly two more hours.

It was pitch black, and while the rain had eased slightly, it hadn't stopped. The group finally saw a half-collapsed stone watchtower at the end of the muddy road.

The top of the watchtower was gone, leaving only two stories of crumbling walls, but the ground floor stone walls remained, barely enough to shield them from the wind and rain.

Inside the tower, there was a stale, musty odor and the remains of some small animals.

But compared to the cold rain pouring down outside, this was definitely much more comfortable.

The horses were tied in the most sheltered spot inside the watchtower, and several covered wagons formed a semi-circle to block the entrance.

The attendants built a fire in the corner.

Although the firewood was wet and produced more thick smoke than flame when lit, making everyone's eyes stream with tears, it at least provided some warmth.

Hoffman rummaged through his cargo pile, found a small barrel of ale, and generously distributed it to everyone—a cup for each person.

If there weren't enough cups, they used bowls; if there weren't enough bowls, they used empty dry ration bags.

"A toast to our Old Hoffman!" an attendant shouted.

Another young attendant raised his cup and grinned: "I've followed him for three years, and every trip we've returned safely. That's enough for me!"

Richard was speechless upon hearing this and thought to himself: "Young man, don't go jinxing it!"

The group chuckled, and the atmosphere relaxed slightly.

Val sat by the fire, unwound her soaked hand wraps, and wrung them out, revealing the thick calluses on her knuckles.

Liam sat beside her, holding a scripture with edges soaked by the rain, carefully wiping the water stains off the pages with his sleeve.

Cecilia stood leaning against the stone wall, her shield within reach, her eyes fixed on the pitch-black rainy night outside the watchtower, maintaining her vigilance.

Richard spread out his bedroll from his backpack and leaned against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment.

The sound of the rain, the wind, the crackling of wet wood in the fire, and the occasional snort of the horses nearby—these sounds combined actually made it easier to fall asleep.

Sigh, escorting cargo isn't an easy job either!

He hadn't had a good rest for several days in a row. As soon as his body touched the bedding, fatigue pressed down on his limbs like lead weights.

Richard didn't need to stand watch tonight, so he fell asleep quickly.

The next morning, it was still raining.

It was much lighter than yesterday's downpour—a fine, persistent, cold rain.

The first to notice something wrong was one of the Old Coachmen.

He was always the first to get up every morning to check the horses' hooves and harnesses, rain or shine, without fail.

But today, when he walked to the spot inside the watchtower where the horses were tied, he suddenly let out a hoarse cry of alarm, then anxiously shouted for everyone to come over.

"I've discovered someone is missing; Little Jerry is gone," the Old Coachman said.

When Richard sprang up from his bedding, he was already gripping his battle-axe.

He walked to the tower entrance in three strides and scanned the camp; the fire had gone out, leaving only a pile of wet black ash.

The covered wagons were still there, the horses were still there, and everyone's luggage and equipment were still there.

But one of the young attendants who had been sleeping near the wagon was gone.

His bedding was still spread on the ground, the covers thrown back, with a small damp patch on the edge from the rain.

There was no blood, no signs of any struggle, and even his luggage bag was neat and tidy.

The caravan had strict rules; on this trade route near the Black Forest, for safety reasons, even going to relieve oneself required two people to go together.

"Hurry and find him," Cecilia said, drawing her longsword and vigilantly observing the surroundings.

"Little Jerry, you bastard, where are you! Don't waste time!" an attendant shouted.

The group searched several times around the watchtower.

Within a fifty-step radius, there was nothing on the muddy ground except for the wagon tracks they had left yesterday.

There were no signs of a struggle, no drag marks, no bloodstains—no clues at all.

The heavy rain over the past few days could indeed wash away most traces, but if a person had walked on the muddy ground, the soles of their shoes would definitely have left indentations; even if washed out by the rain, the outlines would still be visible.

But on the muddy ground outside the watchtower, nothing could be found except for the old wagon tracks and old footprints from last night.

It was as if that person had vanished into thin air.

The color drained completely from Hoffman's fat face. He had always been very cautious, which in reality meant he was quite cowardly.

He licked his lips several times before squeezing out a complete sentence: "Something's wrong... very wrong. Little Jerry is an honest and obedient boy; he wouldn't just wander off... I have a very bad feeling about this. Let's go, hurry up and load the wagons and get out of here!"

No one objected at this point.

The caravan packed up the camp as quickly as possible, hitched the horses to the wagons, and continued on their way, braving the fine, cold rain.

With one person missing, the remaining attendants became noticeably much more silent. Even the young man who had been grinning and raising his glass the night before kept his mouth shut, his eyes darting constantly toward the woods on either side of the trade route.

The rain grew heavier and heavier. By noon, it was so heavy that the wagon canvas could no longer block it.

The canvas was battered by the rain, sagging with one pocket of water after another, and the attendants had to use long poles to constantly poke the water out from inside.

The trade route had completely turned into a river of mud. The wheels often got stuck, and it took the combined effort of two pack horses to drag a wagon out of a mud pit.