Chapter 11: Kites of Gaurring

Dandifrod sat over the sleeping form of Toar and rolled several coins in his hand as he prepared to wake his replacement. In the dead of night, the gentle sound of clinking metal woke the Trohl. Toar sat up and wiped the sleep from his eyes. With a smile, Dandifrod gave the coins to his guide: three silver diems. “For your efforts,” Dandifrod stated. “As long as you guide us, this will be your fee from me everyday.”

“I am happy to take your coin,” Toar smiled and put the diems in his pocket. “But among the Bouge, it is dangerous to trade metal. We will have to be careful when we get to populated lands.”

This surprised Dandifrod. “What else would we trade?” he asked.

“Chits and chablings—dragon bone—though I suspect most of it is simply from cattle,” Toar shrugged as he showed the duke several pieces. The small smooth bone chips were decorated with soft colorful stones in thin ribbon. “The lines tell the weight.”

“So these two are worth eight...” Creigal paused.

“Chits,” Toar nodded.

Dandiford offered the decorated bits of bone back to Toar, but the young scout refused. “To Hearthstone,” he said, suddenly giddy at the prospect of visiting Jindleyak lands.

Dandifrod smiled, “To Hearthstone! Now, I shall get some sleep. But first, will you look at my wound?”

Toar nodded as he pulled aside his blankets. Dandifrod lifted his shirt. With a delicate hand, Toar peeled away the bandage. Thin lines of black rot bulged under the skin and formed a slight web.

“You must be very delicate as the rot spreads. Do your best not to aggravate it,” Toar said as he dabbed more of Hazle’s ointment over the wound.

“That shall be easy,” Dandifrod replied. “It hurts something fierce to lay on it.”

“Tomorrow, it might be better if you let the three of us split the watch,” Toar began. “You can use the extra sleep.”

“I shall take the first hours and will let you split the remainder,” Dandifrod stated. “For now, I take my leave,” he said and stepped into his tent.

“Good night,” Toar said as the old man disappeared. He turned to the embers of the fire and sat with his back to the camp. He watched the waxing form of Oblarra rise above the horizon and paint the night an angry red as she drifted in front of the arc of Luna’s Tears. Toar searched the sky for the copper hue of Trismegist, but it was somewhere under the horizon. He wondered what could have caused the infinities to go to war. Were they so like humans, so full of lust, fear, and hatred, that they should attack and destroy each other at times?

Some men believed the infinities were nothing more than dirt and stone. Some people believed Oblarra’s arrival was simply a story and said that the night sky was always just as it was. Whatever else the infinities might be, they were certainly ponderous in their ways! Nothing like Oblarra’s attack had happened since, and there seemed little chance of anything else so drastic happening in the next ten thousand years.

Toar believed the old stories. He stared up at Luna Tear’s and caught the distant sizzle and crack of a meteor as it broke up and shot over the horizon. For a split second, five or six stones burned parallel lines across the night sky. Then, as quick as they came, they were gone.

The faint sounds of the night grew louder and louder. Crickets. Frogs. Leaves in the breeze. The sky lightened. Toar spotted a fox among the trees. He rekindled the fire and wandered at the edge of camp to see what he might find. There were plenty of wild vegetables about and Toar was ecstatic to find a patch of strawberries near a stream. Better than that were the spawning trout. It was easy to wrap his hands around the slow, docile, and distracted fish—they squirmed once they came out of the water—but it was far too late by then. They squirted eggs and seed and struggled to get free. Toar held them with a patient hand over the thin stream and hoped their seed might still result in young. There was always want for more fish.

By the time the others woke, half a dozen cleaned trout and a large array of vegetables cooked over the fire. There was a small bowl of strawberries, and the canteens were full of clean water. Even Baet was in good spirits as the drips had cleared with the drinking of his tea.

After breakfast, the party broke camp and continued east. The day was uneventful until Dandifrod heard an approaching caravan. The group pulled off the road and hid the horses far out of the way. Baet stayed with the animals while the others took a closer look. A caravan of Saots snaked west toward Wibbeley. Cavalry passed first, followed by wagons, foot soldiers, and commoners. The bulk of the caravan was still to come: a long train of Trohl slaves. Carringten frowned to see it. “What houses are those?” He whispered as he studied the distant crests on the Saot uniforms.

Dandifrod shook his head and shrugged. “Some minor of the north, landed knights, perhaps baronets...” he surmised, surprised he did not recognize any of the various sigils.

“That seems an awful lot of men for a landed knight,” Carringten suggested.

Dandifrod pointed down the length of the caravan.

“And you do not recognize any of these seals?”

Dandifrod shook his head. “Perhaps it is in fashion to change one’s crest in the Noeth... but I feel we would have heard word of such things—are we so cloistered in Gaurring?” “You’re looking at the clothing, and not the people that are wearing it,” Toar noted.

Carringten looked closer, then leaned back and gave a nod. “Ministrians,” he said. “Good eye.”

Toar shrugged. “This fake war is years old.”

“Why the subterfuge?” Dandifrod asked.

“Political sleight of hand,” Toar shrugged. “To confuse the commoners. The Bouge are not the Salystians. There were thousands and thousands of Salystians, and so brute force was enough—but there are millions of Bouge. Subtleties are needed. The commoners believe Minist is helping them defend the west lands against the invading Saot, when really, it’s their own leaders that are selling them out to their new Ministrian allies. If it got out that Minist was behind the loss of our west lands, it could be a fast and nasty fall from grace for Kezodel,” Toar shook his head. “As it is, Minist feigns remorse and begs the people forgive them for what happened to Salyst. They even pay small alms in the name of the Salystians, and enough of the people buy it,” Toar shrugged. “The west lands were once prosperous and dotted with towns, villages, and farms. Now there is nothing. Ministrian shock troops dressed as Saots have gathered the rural people and sold them down the river Quick. Now, Kezodel uses the invasion as an excuse to raise taxes. Those that cannot pay are thrown in jail. The jails overflow and Kezodel sells prisoners to his Mininstrian allies in order to fund the ever growing war,” Toar explained. “In the end, only the people suffer as Kezodel and his collaborators prosper.”

“Clever,” Dandifrod said. “How long will it take them to pass?”

Toar shrugged, “Depends on how many slaves they take west. I have sat in one place and watched over an hour as a caravan passed.” The caravan continued for some time—though perhaps not an hour.

“There are few men of fighting age among the slaves,” Dandifrod noted. “Why is that?” He asked his Trohl scout.

“I do not have all the answers,” Toar shrugged.

Finally, the caravan passed. The party returned to the road and continued east.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Though there was no other excitement about the day, Toar was bothered. Something was off. Despite his uneasiness, he couldn’t put a finger on it, that is, until the party made camp. As the sun dropped behind the mountains, Toar realized there were so many birds about—there were too many birds. Admittedly, they were in a forest, but the birds were everywhere and quite diverse among the trees. Now that he realized it, Toar wondered how it took him so long to notice.

Toar watched the birds, curious that they should be around in such number. He did not know what it meant. It took him almost an hour before he realized that it wasn’t the party they followed. It was Dandifrod. From time to time, Dandifrod turned to the birds and smiled, and Toar realized that not only were the birds attending the old man but Dandifrod knew it! This was a strange thing indeed!

For several days, the party continued their march east. Again, they were forced off the road, but this time it was not a caravan. A dozen men rode east with all possible haste. Carringten and Baet thought it was luck that they heard the fast approaching riders behind them and managed to get off the road in time. Toar suspected the birds warned Dandifrod, as he was the one to notice.

Birds continued to follow the old man: wrens, swallows, magpies, crows, hawks, robins, pigeons, finches, falcons, owls... Toar saw many sorcerers and warlocks among Kezodel’s court. Several were beast wranglers of various sorts, though none of them was ever attended by such a crowd, or handled it so surreptitiously.

The old man wasn’t the only one keeping secrets among his new friends. On the third night, Baet woke Toar for his turn at the watch, but Baet did not go to bed. Instead, he fidgeted on the edge of the fire’s dim light as Toar stared into the night.

Of late, Toar didn’t mind the man-at-arms. Baet was not so irritated and suspicious as he was that first day. It helped that he was healed of the drips. Despite his speedy recovery, Baet now seemed withdrawn and preoccupied.

“What bothers you?” Toar finally asked.

For a long second, Baet said nothing. Then, after looking about to be sure the others were asleep, he whispered, “I beg a favor.”

Toar shrugged and gave a nod.

Still reticent, Baet smiled. “You remember that half Trohl lady I spoke of? Seems the drips weren’t the only thing she gave me...” He lifted his shirt and showed his chest to Toar.

Indeed, they were not! Toar studied the scratches that ran down Baet’s chest and stomach. Several were healed and fading, but a few were red and pocked with white and black infected heads.

“And here on my shoulder,” Baet continued. The round bite mark on his shoulder was also infected in several spots.

“She did this?” Toar asked. “Why did you sleep with her? Was she really so pretty?”

“Actually, yeah,” Baet nodded. “But that wasn’t why. At first, I was forced into the situation, and then I just... went with it.” He leaned back and began to wax romantic. “She was blonde with beautiful teeth. Her skin was dotted with a fine patter of freckles down to the very tips of her fingers. Her eyes were like the sea on a bright day, and her tits...” Baet sighed. “To see her naked and to have her beg at my hand. Who would not take such an opportunity?”

Toar shrugged. “The way you describe it, I should think it is a rare man indeed.”

“I’m weak,” Baet admitted. “But you would swoon to see her.”

“You need be more careful,” Toar chastised. “The most beautiful women are still capable of the ugliest acts.”

“What do you know of women?” Baet challenged. “They are not so easily fathomed,” he said with a frown.

“Agreed. The depths of women are not easily plumbed—though we do like to try,” Toar smiled. “Still, we can set this right.”

Baet sighed his relief, assured he was in good hands. “I thank you.”

Toar stoked a bit of flame from the fire and stuck a long needle in it to burn away any impurities. He wiped the needle clean of soot and used it to cut the pustules on Baet’s chest, stomach, and shoulder, then soaked away the puss with a bit of cloth. Next, Toar dug in his bag and pulled out a jar of a thick dark amber substance and smeared it over Toar’s wounds. Then, he cut small squares from his bandages and stuck them to the amber goo so it would not smear as the man slept.

“What is this?” Baet asked as he stared at the jar of dark, sticky, sweet smelling ambrosia.

“Honey,” Toar grinned and licked his finger. He held the jar out to Baet in offering and Baet took a dip.

“Now what?” Baet asked.

Toar gave a shrug. “Now you get better—or we smear more honey on you tomorrow.”

“That’s it?”

“No,” Toar said. “You also have to stop sleeping with whores.”

Baet frowned. “It is my time and metal! If they want it, I should only hope to find them less aggressive!” he pouted. “Speaking of time and metal, how ‘bout we train for a bit? We can practice blade, hand, or both if you prefer.”

Toar was hesitant, “I don’t think so.”

“Show me what you know,” Baet insisted. “You certainly have a fine looking sword.”

“Do you not want sleep?” Toar countered.

“Nowadays, sleep is all I get. Sleep and saddle rash,” Baet rolled his eyes. “Come, now. Practice with me! There is nothing else to do but watch the Tears of the Old Mother Moon as they slowly fall from the sky—but they do not guarantee a show!” he complained.

Toar acquiesced, though his disinterest showed. He took his sword out and began to swing it around. He made awkward slashes at the air.

For a time, Baet watched. Finally, the man-at-arms shook his head. “You have such a nice sword and I bet you couldn’t kill a chicken with it! How’d you get your blade?”

Toar shook his head, “I took it off a guard.”

“You took it from someone?” Baet asked, dubious of the assertion.

“He was drunk and could barely stand,” Toar revealed with a shrug. “Also, I needed a weapon. These forests are full of terrors.”

Baet laughed, “You may have a weapon but someone needs to teach you how to use it!”

Toar frowned. Once again, he didn’t like this man.

Baet clapped Toar on the shoulder. “Come now. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours,” Baet winked. “Now, stand like this.”

Toar stood like Baet.

“No, like this,” Baet said.

“I am,” Toar replied, annoyed.

“No. Your butt is too far back and your head is too far forward. Put your shins forward and your butt under you. Put your chest forward and your head back.” Baet surveyed Toar’s corrections. “Much better! Now engage your muscles like you mean to fight! Draw yourself in with your exhale. You are releasing yourself into the world! You are condensed! Get big with your inhale! You take the world in! You expand!”

Toar followed these orders. Baet gave a satisfied nod.

“Good! Now, when you swing the blade, don’t let it pull you. Think of it as an extension of your arm. You don’t throw your arm out there and let weight pull it down! You put your fist where you want it to be! Like this!” Baet threw a quick punch at Toar’s face. The man’s fist stopped just before he hit the Trohl. Toar flinched. Baet tapped his hand. “You put your fist right where you want to put it and not an inch further!” he said. “Same with your sword! Like this!” Baet pulled Haddelton’s short sword and swung the blade about. He danced with the weapon as he poked and slashed imaginary enemies and the occasional tree.

Toar mimicked the motions.

“Don’t hold your breath. In or out, but do not hold it!” Baet coached.

Toar continued to practice, now breathing as he ran about and tried to do the things Baet showed him.

“Much better! Remember, butt under you, head back, heart forward!” Baet frowned and shook his head as he watched Toar’s swing devolve into hapless slashing. “No wonder you fight with rocks!”

Toar didn’t like the comment. He began swinging at Baet. Baet hooted, pulled Haddie’s Revenge, and blocked the first strike. He deflected and parried Toar, then let him swing too wide, stepped inside, and caught Toar in an arm lock.

“Don’t be sore,” Baet began, his face quite serious. “You don’t pretend to know. That’s valuable. I’ll teach you to fight. I’ll turn you into a regular killer if you want! You got my back, brother! You think I won’t teach you how to fight?” Baet smiled and released the Trohl. “As for my words, don’t let them bother you. War encompasses everything. If I get under your skin with my mockery, you’ve already lost. You’ll rush your attack. You’ll make mistakes, and a capable enemy will gut you with your own missteps. Besides, don’t let a guy named Baet taunt you,” he smiled. “That is truly bad form.”

Toar smirked.

“Now show me what I showed you.”

Their practice continued for some time as Toar acquainted himself with his weapon. They continued until he worked up quite a lather. Finally, he needed a break, and Baet allowed him to take it.

“Have you ever taken a life?” Toar asked as he sat with his sword.

“Seven,” Baet nodded “Maybe eight.”

“Did you know them?”

“Not really,” Baet shrugged. “Just the one—though he’s the one that might still be alive.”

“Was it difficult?” Toar continued.

“In what way? Like, did they fight back?” Baet clarified.

“Is it easy to take a life, if you’re trained for it?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s easy, but it’s never been difficult,” Baet answered. “Once you realize there’s blood on the line, there’s nothing to do but kill or be killed.”

“I should think it is hard to kill a man,” Toar stated.

“It’s much easier than you think. I bet you’d be shocked by the ease of it, especially if you have something like this,” Baet picked Thunder Maker from its holster and pointed it at the rising half circle of Oblarra.

Toar stared at the fancy weapon. “Might I see it?”

“Do not fire it,” Baet stated. “Dandifrod will hang us both if we start firing muskets for no reason with Ministrians about.”

“And bugbear,” Toar noted. His hand caressed the smooth handle of Thunder Maker. “Is this a precious stone?”

“The most precious—meteorite,” Baet grinned. “I found it when I was young—or should I say it found me? The thing almost landed on me.”

Toar was surprised to hear it. “I’ve seen plenty of meteors,” he admitted. “But I’ve yet to see one hit the ground.”

“This one landed in a farmer’s field while I fished nearby,” Baet explained. “Killed a dozen cattle and scared the hell out of me. I found it in a crater maybe a dozen feet deep.”

“You didn’t leave it for the farmer? To recoup the cost of his cattle?”

“I didn’t, and I felt bad about it for several days. But the farmer wouldn’t have kept it. King Gred duReb sent a company of soldiers to the farm that he might have the meteor himself. When the farmer couldn’t produce the stone and the soldiers couldn’t find it, they took everything the farmer had to compensate the king for his loss,” Baet explained.

Toar was aghast, “and you didn’t feel bad?”

“No. I feel it never belonged to the king—or the farmer for that matter. It was just a stone in the field, and I was the one to find it,” he reasoned.

Toar simply stared at him, shocked by the story.

“Oh, I felt bad for the farmer—for a time,” Baet continued. “The King never should have stolen his remaining cattle and the food he grew. Although the king left him destitute, he survived. The neighbors donated seed and young animals to keep the farm alive and his family fed. Then the duke caught word of what happened. He sent an emissary, a captain of trade, and when the captain saw how the community had rallied around the farmer, he bought up the surplus of our industry: aged mutton and beef, cloth spun from hemp and wool, and some of the finest apple brandy you’ve ever tasted! I imagine he made quite a nice profit selling it all in Gaurring Heart. The emissary returned for several years and did a good deal of buying and selling in our markets. He brought fashions from the city and took our goods back with him. That’s when I knew the duke was very different from the king. He’s a good man. He didn’t bluster and demand tribute that wasn’t his. Instead, he sent one of his men to make sure we recovered from the king’s interference.”

“How old were you?” Toar asked.

“Ten,” Baet shrugged. “I saved it for years. Then when I made the Duke’s Irregulars and chose the musket as my primary weapon, I knew what to do with it.”

“You served this duke?” Toar asked.

Baet nodded. “For many years. How do you think I met those two?” he nodded toward Dandifrod’s tent.

“So many colors,” Toar stared at the meteorite handle. “It is a very handsome weapon.”

“I call it Thunder Maker.”

“Because it is loud?” Toar smiled. “And the other one?”

“It is Cloud Breaker.”

“Because it breaks the clouds?”

“No,” Baet frowned. “Mostly because Thunder Maker and Cloud Breaker sound good together. I will say, it does put off a good amount of smoke.”

“Why not call it Cloud Maker?”

“Thunder Maker and Cloud Maker?” Baet grimaced. “That sounds terrible.”

“But Cloud Breaker? The name seems spurious.”

Baet frowned as he thought about it for several seconds. “It brings a rain of tears!” He finally announced. “It makes widows and causes a flood of sorrow!” He exclaimed, only too happy to strike on a new line of reasoning.

Toar smirked, unimpressed. “What of your knives? What are their names?”

“This is Gore Tongue, and this is Haddelton’s short sword,” he said with a frown. “It has no other name yet.”

“Who is Haddelton?”

“A fallen brother, a good man. One who left us far too soon.”

“Why does it have no name of it’s own?”

“I haven’t killed with it,” Baet shrugged. “No kill means no name.”

“You’ve killed with both muskets and your knife?” Toar asked.

Baet shrugged as he pulled his muskets. “These saved my life in Rottershelm.Twice. First time, I dropped one dead as he tried to chop me up. Second time, I killed two—which scared off numbers three, four, and five,” he shrugged. “I got lucky the second time. I’d fired both muskets and only had a knife on me after that. They all had swords—but I killed their friends so fast they panicked and missed the fact that both my muskets were spent.”

“That is lucky,” Toar noted. “I fought and killed the first bugbear I ever saw. The beast had a spear, and I had a long knife. He tried to run me through, but I managed to dodge and found myself right on top of him. He bit me, and I stabbed him until I felt him go limp. Then I cried,” Toar admitted. “Mostly because I was scared, but in part for taking a life. It was the first thing I killed bigger than a fish.”

“This was some time ago?” Baet asked.

“Four or five years now?” Toar shrugged.

“How old where you?”

“Fourteen.”

“Bugbear are pretty big,” Baet nodded with approval.

“He was a nasty thing with dirty teeth and fowl breath,” Toar shrugged. “A year later, the second bugbear I came across threw a mallet that missed me by inches. I ran from him. He had friends and they chased me the rest of the day and into the night. I sprang one of their traps as I ran. That’s how I learned all about the rot root. Look,” Toar stood and dropped his pants. He pulled the left side of his underwear high to show his cheek.

“Hey! Put your butt away!” Baet complained.

“No, look. I have a scar from the rot,” Toar said.

With a frown, Baet slowly turned toward the Trohl. He looked at Toar’s cheek and his upper leg. A large web of scar tissue stretched from the back of his knee, up his thigh, over his hip, and along his side. It wrapped all the way around Toar’s leg and on to his stomach and back.

“Balls!” Baet said as he admired the scar. “No wonder you know so much about the disease.”

Carringten and Dandifrod stepped from their tent. They stood and saw Baet staring at Toar’s butt. “Are we interrupting?” Carringten asked.

“Come see this!” Baet said. ”He has one just like you!”

“Most men do,” Dandifrod noted.

“No!” Baet huffed. “He has a scar! From the rot!”

The scar was quite a bit larger than the webbed infection on Dandifrod’s side. “This is a troubling vision,” The old man noted as he inspected Toar’s butt. “How long did it fester?”

“Two days,” Toar stated. “I stumbled into Hazle’s village and she saved me.”

“Toar was telling me of his first scrapes with bugbear,” Baet explained. “He thinks it is more difficult to kill a man than a beast.”

“Men bleed just as easily,” Carringten said.

“Have you ever killed a man?” Toar asked.

“A few,” Carringten shrugged.

“How many?”

Carringten shook his head. “I never bothered to count.”

“Baet’s killed seven. Is that a lot?” Toar asked the captain.

“Sounds like a lot to me,” Carringten said. “If I remember correctly, he killed a couple wearing only his underwear.”

“Har har,” Baet scoffed.

“And you?” Toar asked Dandifrod. “Have you ever killed a man?”

“With my own hands? Thrice,” Dandifrod noted. “I often wonder how many I’ve killed with my words. It is a fair deal easier in the heat of the moment, when life hangs in the balance. I never regret those. But the death that issues from my mouth has caused me many sleepless nights. It is the death of friends and foes alike. I say a few words and men march out to do violence. These deaths are cheap in action, but expensive in thought.”

Toar stared at the old man. “Who are you?”

Dandifrod smiled, “I am Creigal berDuvante, Duke of Gaurring, High Protector of the Gaur, Third Chair of the Phoenix Council. Do you know me?”

“I do not,” Toar admitted. “You certainly have a long enough name.”

“I certainly do!” Creigal laughed. “Too long I should think! And that is why I ask you to call me Dandifrod. Dandifrod of the Emberwood Trust if you must be fancy! Will you do this for me?”

Toar nodded and smiled. “I am good at keeping secrets,” he said.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.3+_)(*&^%$#@!~

“And how do you feel, High Protector of the Gaur?” Toar asked as he looked over the duke’s wound once more.

Dandifrod chuckled. “I feel terrible, but I should think it’d be worse if I did not know you.”

“You’d be dead,” Toar frowned. “Still, we are losing this war. You must feel it. You are fading beyond my abilities.”

“I can feel it,” Dandifrod nodded.

“There is still time. Tomorrow, we turn north and make for Hazle’s cottage. We shall be there by evening. She can heal you. She healed me. But I must warn you,” Toar raised an eyebrow. “The process is not pleasant.”

“Whatever it is, it will be worth it to be rid of this ache,” Dandifrod nodded. “You are sure of my recovery?”

“I am hopeful,” Toar hedged. “You should be okay so long as there are no complications.”

“When are there ever no complications?”

Toar shrugged. “Then let us hope that the complications are not too complicated. I fear you are also becoming addicted to the fio.”

“Is that too complicated?” Dandifrod asked. “Should I abstain from the drug?”

“No, we will keep you on the medicine until you reach Hazle. It still helps, does it not?”

“Not as much as the first day, I should think, but I feel it is still effective,” Dandifrod surmised.

“Then we continue,” Toar said. “I admit, you are becoming something of a mess.”

Dandifrod gave a weak smile, “I feel it. To my bones, I feel it. But what else is there?”

Toar did not answer. He only nodded and bandaged the man’s side. Baet and Carringten were away, as they looked for any rabbits, ducks, fish, or other small game. Alone with the duke, Toar thought it was a good time to address other concerns. “The birds follow you,” he noted.

Dandifrod straightened but made no reply.

“I have never seen such a thing. Not without the use of seed or other enticement,” Toar continued. “Why are they so interested in you?”

“These are the woods,” Dandifrod said as if to dismiss the question. “There are many birds about.”

Toar shook his head. “I have been in these woods for years and I know its inhabitants. There are too many birds about. They flock to you. There is a magic to it. Somehow you attract them.”

Dandifrod studied the Trohl. After a time, he said. “You have a sharp eye.”

Toar didn’t reply. He simply waited for the duke to continue.

“And you are good with secrets,” Dandifrod noted.

“I try to be,” Toar admitted. “Around here, there are few to tell. Few but the birds.”

“Still, it seems all the secrets go one way between us,” Dandifrod said.

“That is not true,” Toar frowned. “I have told you of my distrust of Kezodel.”

“How is that a secret?” Dandifrod asked.

“Surely a man as important as you can see the danger in this. What if you told Kezodel I do not like him? He is capricious and powerful. It could be my death,” Toar shrugged. “Besides, I have shared my knowledge of herbs and sickness. Between us, secrets abound.”

“You do treat my disease,” Dandifrod smiled. “And you also treated my gunman—despite a disagreeable disposition.”

Toar wondered if Dandifrod knew to what extent he treated Baet—or did the duke speak only of the first night, of the Tikatis trickle? He pushed that aside. “I will continue to keep your secrets, from your friends as well as your enemies, even if you tell me no more of the birds, I will still tell no one.”

“But you already know the biggest part of it, the birds flock to me,” Dandifrod smiled. “Very well! I shall tell you as you know most of it anyway: the birds speak to me. They’ve always spoken to me. Indeed, they speak to all of us—I just happen to understand them.

“As a child, I told my parents and my servants of such things,” Dandifrod continued. “My parents believed me—though they insisted among the others that it was nothing but a fanciful imagination. My parents knew my secret before I did. This skill has been in my family for many generations, though it skips about. I have four cousins that have the skill the same as I. Yet, none of my sons speak with birds, and they do not know I can do such a thing. None of them have read the journals of my grandfather, of his mother, or of the others that had this skill. They had access to the books, but they were not a studious lot. I thought to teach the oldest, when he was very young, but I could not. I do not properly understand how it works.”

“Then it is truly magic,” Toar answered. “What is it they say to you?”

“What do you think birds say to a man?” Dandifrod replied with a shrug. “Mostly they speak of food; seed, worms, mice. They speak of their eggs, their young, their mates, their nests, the weather, the wind... Some tell me of other men.”

“Do they tell you when the Ministrians approach?”

Dandifrod gave a wry smile and nodded. “They tell me of strange things, sometimes I do not always understand. They told me of the bugbear—but it was of predators they spoke. I thought we might find wild dogs, a mountain lion, or maybe just snakes or rats. Indeed, I thought we should see nothing. Many things that birds consider dangerous are quite afraid of men. They do not show themselves to us. But now I know better. Since the ford, the birds have told me of bugbear twice as we have traveled,” Dandifrod admitted.

“This happened today,” Toar realized. “You pretended to hear something yourself, but it was really the birds.”

“Now that I understand what the birds are telling me,” Dandifrod smiled. “In Gaurring, I’ve used the birds to track the comings and goings of the men I know. They have revealed a few traitors and soothed an unwarranted suspicion or two. But they cannot track everyone and they do not understand many of the things people do.”

“All your guards? All your various councilors? None of them know of this?”

“I do not tell anyone,” Creigal shrugged. “Yet a few of them notice. My chamberlain, peiTernays, he knows. Still, some of the men closest to me do not know. Despite decades of service, Carringten does not know. I doubt Baet has discovered it. Indeed, I am impressed you have noticed it in so little time.”

Toar blushed at the compliment. “Which birds are the smartest?” He asked. “Is it the owls? The eagles?”

“All the races are quite capable,” Dandifrod shrugged. “Sometimes, it is a finch that has the most interesting ideas. Sometimes it is a hawk, a dove, a robin... They are all quite like men with their various talents, temperaments, and concerns. Owls can be hard to understand. There is much they see that others miss, and their language is specialized to the night. I think most consider them wise because they know the dark and turn their heads so far. Still, you’d be surprised how daft owls can be about some of the simplest things, especially if these things happen in the light of day. In the end, I must say, it is usually the crows I find most provoking as they love to tell stories.”

“Have you met others that speak to birds?”

“Not outside my family. I have met several men that speak to dogs, and a lady that speaks to animals of every sort, but none others that speak strictly to birds.”

“How do the birds know you understand?” Toar asked.

“They know by my reactions. One will say something off color or out of the ordinary, and I cannot help but smile or turn toward the culprit. Then, because one of them knows it, they all quickly know it. Birds pay us a lot more attention than we pay them.”

Baet and Carringten stepped across the field. When they saw Dandifrod and Toar look at them, they held up vegetables and a dead wild turkey.

Toar frowned, “I hope he is not a friend of yours.”

Dandifrod laughed, “I do not kill birds myself. But I do not condemn others for the sport. Even birds eat other birds,” Dandifrod shrugged. “I thank you for not mentioning this in front of my men.”

“You are welcome,” Toar said. “We all have our secrets. Do we not?”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

The next day, about a mile off the main road, Creigal fell from his saddle. Weak and delirious, the rot made it impossible for him to ride. At least the fall seemed to cause no further significant damage.

Carringten set to work making a litter, and Baet helped him, while Toar gave Creigal a second dose of fio and wondered if he would have to give him a third before the end of the day. Their work proceeded apace, and before the hour was out, they picked the duke off the grass and set him in the litter behind his horse. Toar wondered if he paid close enough attention, might the birds warn him of any buggers or caravans as they proceeded? He hoped to be extra vigilant today.

As Creigal slept, he suffered a fever dream, vivid and distinct. He dreamed that his teeth were loose. Some fell out, and others he pulled. He admired these pearls that once brought him such pride, despite their current wear and tarnish. He knew he could not keep them, and so he tossed them aside as he walked through his duchy.

As each tooth fell, gardens sprouted at his feet: orchards, vineyards, and the people that tended them. The people were horrified to see the duke lose his teeth. Upset, they turned from him and focused their attention on the land instead, keeping fruits, vegetables, ornaments, birds, stock, and pets of every sort upon the land and the bordering waters.

The lands continued to grow. Creigal was fascinated by the fecund wilds that sprang up at the edges of these settled lands. He traveled away from the people. As he did, he pulled his canines, admired them, and cast them to the earth. Warriors sprang up from these teeth and marched away with menace and fervor in their stride. They wandered the hinterlands between the known and unknown. Although most rose up to protect the people from the unknowns of the wilds, some turning predatory against the people.

Creigal continued into the unknown. On the side of a mountain, as he sat alone next to a pool, he looked out across the lands that rose from his teeth and gazed upon them one last time. Then, he turned to his reflection in the waters of the pool to find that his face was young and fresh. He felt about the gums of his mouth and noted new teeth were beginning to push their way into the world.

As Creigal looked down at his own reflection, a face rose over his shoulder. It belonged to his daughter, Daphne, only she was much older than he. Daphne wrapped Creigal in a hug from behind. Caught off balance, Creigal pitched forward and fell through the reflective surface of the pool, and pulled his daughter with him.

Creigal found himself falling through the sky with the arms of his grown daughter wrapped around his small body. They tumbled through the clouds as the faint lights of the city rushed up to greet them. As they fell, an impossibly large dragon approached—much larger than dragons were said to be. Upon the back of the magnificent beast was a strange man with a long robe made of exotic feathers. He talked incessantly, as they drifted on the winds, though he spoke an unknown language. He pointed to his elaborate tattoos that told stories of the strange culture that lived below. As Creigal admired the man’s tattoos, and the beast he rode, the holy man invited the impossibly young duke and his full grown daughter to ride upon its back, which was very kind, as the ground was still fast approaching. Creigal sat upon the dragon’s back and the strange man pulled the fear from the duke, a dark orb of roiling emptiness. The orb of fear was slick, and slipped from the healer’s hand. Creigal’s fear sparked and shot darkness at the duke. He cringed from it. Wave after wave of nausea washed over the duke and threatened to sweep him under. The holy man leapt from the dragon and grabbed at the dark orb that floated nearby. He caught the roiling mass of evil and plummeted into darkness with the orb of fear caught tight in his grasp. As he fell, the holy man began to glow and a war between light and dark took shape. The light of the battle flickered as it grew distant, for the fast flying dragon turned away from the falling healer in his exotic robes.

As Creigal watched the disappearing fear, Daphne whispered in her father’s ear. “I knew you’d find me,” she smiled. Creigal’s heart broke to have his daughter at hand once more. In silence, they rode through the night sky toward the dawning of a new day.

Creigal flew with his daughter for what seemed like forever—and yet it seemed like no time at all. As the sun rose, the dragon descended into the foreign land. Lights of every color sparkled from the city as day broke. Though he could not name the place, Creigal recognized it as a land of tragedy and hope, sin and sanctity, want and abundance. He was enthralled as they flew closer and closer, and finally settled on the roof of a great building so much taller than any he had ever seen before, taller than he had ever imagined possible.

Everything seemed so big to Creigal as he stepped from the dragon. Then he caught a reflection of himself and realized he was just a young boy, maybe five or six years, while his daughter was middle aged. She held his hand and led him along as they moved away from the dragon—but not even dragons were allowed to transport strangers into the city willy-nilly. Despite their fantastic arrival, a bored officer of the kingdom with strange weapons on his hips had several questions for Daphne. Daphne answered each, slow and deliberate, and the officer was satisfied with her words. The officer turned to Creigal, weighed the young boy’s coin, and exchanged it for decorative papers. Then, the officer showed Creigal and Daphne into a small room with only one door. The door closed and the small room jostled about as Creigal seemed to grow lighter. Then, the room stopped jostling, and the door opened. Creigal found himself at the level of the street with massive buildings all around and strange wonderful contraptions that grumbled as they passed. Concerned by the strangeness of the world, Creigal grabbed Daphne’s large hand with his own small fingers. She turned to him, smiled, and gave his hand a squeeze, then led him along as the city came to life with the day’s light growing overhead.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!

As Creigal dreamed, the party approached Hazle’s cottage on the edge of the small village of Woodring. Toar became increasingly worried. Nothing stirred on the outskirts of the village, and he feared Kezodel had once again shifted the lines of acceptable settlement. If so, everyone in the village either fled east or was lost somewhere in Kezodel’s labyrinthine system of prisons.

Toar banged on Hazle’s door. Nobody answered. He was not surprised, though he was disappointed. He continued to knock. He tried to open the door, but it was locked—not that it would do him any good to get inside. Even if he had all of Hazle’s tools and medicines, he did not know the proper use of them. “This isn’t good,” Toar muttered.

“No, it isn’t,” Baet agreed and pointed down the street at several soldiers. More and more men approached from every angle. There were close to twenty men. These men all wore the same Saot crest, but the party was not fooled. They knew these were Ministrian shock troops.

“We cannot fight them all,” Carringten said as he put up his hands. Baet holstered his muskets and also put his hands in the air. Toar set his sword in the dirt and lifted his palms.

“You cannot be here!” One of the Ministrians said in his own language. “Don’t you know there is a war going on?!”

“So we’ve heard,” Carringten answered. “We were more concerned with our master,” he said and pointed to the litter.

“What happened to him?” The Mininstrian asked as he approached.

“He is infected with rot root,” Carringten answered.

“What is this?” the man asked.

“The rot of the buggers,” Toar said. He lifted Creigal’s shirt enough that the man might see.

“Holy Ooroiyuo! It’s the sweet rot!” the Ministrian covered his mouth and nose.

“We are seeking a witch named Hazle. She lives in this hut,” Toar continued.

“You consort with the enemy,” the Ministrian accused.

“We care only that she can heal our master,” Carringten replied.

The Ministrian shook his head. “There is no one here. Can’t you see? Everyone is at the fort.”

“We must find her. If she is at this fort, we wish to go there,” Carringten said.

“Oh you will,” the Ministrian smiled as his men confiscated their weapons. The Ministrians turned the small party south, back to the main road, as Creigal continued to dream.