Chapter 8: Beast of Wing and Fang

Most of the elder races tend to stick with their own type: humans among humans, elves among elves, naga among naga, and so forth. There is also great distance and geographical boundaries between many of these people, which is good, considering the suspicion and hostilities that often develop. Dwarves and elves are a classic example. Although its been a dozen years of peace between the Gundurmach dwarves and the elves of Telyet’s Hallow, their most recent conflicts continued for some two hundred years and claimed nearly thirty million lives. Considering such devastation, we can only hope the current peace lasts.

But I digress. And now I come to the crux of the problem. If we are all related, how is it that some of us take the form of a wyrm and others take the form of a man? How is there a mixing of such diverse bloods? The answer is simple. There is a magic that exists, the ability to shift into the form of another, or “skin-walk”, as they often say. Though I cannot accomplish it myself, I have seen it done by a number of different individuals. One let me see the transformation many times as he appeared a normal man of average height, then a great darkness overcame him, and when he reappeared he was an elf of nine feet, and as thin as a sapling!

Some among us that look human were not born human—yet we all share carnal urges. Such couplings often result in viable offspring that always take the form of the mother. If she is the skin-walker, the form of the children is the one in which she produces them, be it her native form or not. Some of these children will never learn the skill. Born away from their mother’s tribe, they must exist among the father’s people.

Occasionally, our children are quite a bit more. From time to time, children are born exhibiting magics and abilities most rare, even if the parents are not of mixed races. These “chimera” as they are known, tend to be quite gifted at various magics. It is hard to know how many become adept at skin-walking, but I imagine many, if not most of them, acquire this skill and use it to disguise themselves. Chimera tend to have very singular appearances and are quite noticeable when they choose to be. Among the most famous of these was the Ewile queen, Smixsmaxsmia, who famously stood over eight feet tall and had elegant wings, though she could not fly. A known skin-walker, Smixsmaxsmia often appeared in her native form, even in front of the common people of Ewile. Thanks to such famous cases, we know chimera exist, and thanks to chimera, we know that the elder races are in fact kissing cousins, despite our disparate appearances.

- The Elder Races of the World: Considerations, Arguments, and Refutations, by Aogostua Veribos, page 26

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Fedring called a council together. He included Gliedian, high commander of the camp, and of course the surgeon, Celt. Several other associates and esteemed colleagues with influence and money were included—though the ranking Jay was noticeably missing.

“Should we not include Meriona?” Celt whispered to the Corpus Majoris, a bit anxious at the prospect of leaving her out of any important discussion.

Fedring snorted and dismissed the idea. “I have no interest in her money or connections, much less her opinion,” he whispered with a snarl. “She should try doing her job and not always playing with men and knives!” He then turned to the wyrm staff as it still lay on the table. “Gentlemen!” he exclaimed. “We find ourselves in possession of this rare and beautiful artifact!”

All eyes turned on the Corpus Majoris and the staff before him. Cautious hands went out to meet the object and slid along the fine edges of scale, feather, and tooth.

“The detail is magnificent,” Tehris began. “The intricate crafting of the serpent is so keen and meticulous. It looks as if it must be alive!” the Degorouth lieutenant glowed as he rubbed the stone skin of the serpent. “Such a caduce could fetch as much as five hundred gold sol, maybe a thousand...” he said reverently.

“Considering the intricacies of the beast wrapped around it, the staff is plain and garish,” Celt noted. “I bet this is not the original mount,” he tugged at the staff and tried to separate it from the snake—but Meu had a vice-like grip on the weapon and did not come free.

“Where did you get this?” Gliedian asked the Majoris.

Fedring turned to the High Commander, his equal in rank, though one was of the church and the other of the military. “The last caravan apprehended a man wandering the road to Wibbeley,” Fedring began. “Indeed, I have the captain himself to tell you.” He stepped to the door and brought Leverkusen into the room.

Leverkusen swallowed hard and bowed before the gathered dignitaries.

“What can you say of the wanderer that had this staff?” Fedring asked the captain.

Leverkusen nodded. “We found him dancing and chortling as he waved the staff about. He had a pack filled with the implements of a healer. He knows Ministrian, though he does not speak it. His tongue is in a terrible condition. He makes the noises of a halfwit.”

“He did not fight you?” Gliedian asked.

Leverkusen shrugged, “There were many of us and only one of him. He could not hope to win such a fight. He surrendered as a prudent man must.”

“He did not run? No trickery? Nothing?”

“We came around a blind corner, and he was right there. He was away from his horse. He could not escape us. He gave up as soon as he saw us,” Leverkusen shrugged. “It was the wise thing to do.”

“A halfwit you say?” Celt continued.

“A mute for sure,” Leverkusen gently corrected the man.

“He cannot be the staff’s original owner,” Celt frowned. “I put a dozen sovereigns on it. This staff is a thing of rare and potent magic, I can assure you of that! It certainly does not belong to some halfwit!”

“Did he tell you anything concerning the staff?” The High Commander asked.

“He would only say it is a wyrm,” Leverkusen shrugged. “Personally, I suspect it is a holy relic—though it can be nothing compared to the relics of Ooroiyuo and Naharahna,” he finished with a grin.

“And who has asked for your estimation, dear captain?” Fedring glared at the man. The staff’s obvious connection to Trismegist made it far more compelling than the average man might assume, and Fedring didn’t want the stupid caravan captain cheapening it with his pet preference for the child gods of Minist—but then, a lowly caravan captain would know no better. Fedring raised a hand before Leverkusen could respond. “Let me ask something pertinent,” he continued. “Do you think he stole it?”

Leverkusen gave a shrug, “It is possible. It is either that or he was given the object by one of the heathen kings for services rendered,” he speculated.

Fedring pulled a gold sol from his pocket and allowed the captain to glimpse the heavy coin. He repeated his question slowly. “Do you think he stole it?”

Leverkusen swallowed to see the large gold coin. Slowly, he began to answer. “He is a rather common sort to be carrying such a fine staff. His clothes are dingy and stained from the road. Despite his luggage, his appearance is not that of a careful and hygienic healer,” Leverkusen lifted his eye from the gold and stared at Fedring. “I think it is not his. Considering what I know of the race, I am of the opinion he stole it—along with the pack.”

Despite the discomfort of Tehris, the only Trohl in attendance, Fedring smirked, “It seems the true owner of the staff is unknown to us! There is nothing to do but hold it in trust until the rightful owner comes forward!”

This caused a stir among the others. Fedring took the opportunity to escort Leverkusen to the door.

“Thank you, captain, thank you,” Fedring patted him on the back and gave him the coin as he pushed him out.

For some time, the men argued about the staff—all except Gliedian. He watched with growing skepticism as the others mused and postulated fantastic magical properties for the staff. Celt the surgeon, threw bones and tried divination tricks, but they only added confusion to the discussion. After a time, Gliedian grew bored of the wild speculations. The High Commander of the camp stood and turned toward Fedring. “I for one must be going. A couple scouts are missing, and one of our northern lookouts is three days late in reporting,” he said as he made his way to the door.

Fedring snorted as Gliedian stepped from the room. There was always a scout or two missing, and there was nothing in the north to report except roving waokie! Still, the air of mystery about the staff was shattered. The others grumbled their regrets and excused themselves to other tasks. With a frown, Fedring gathered the Meu in hand and followed the others out. He heaved and huffed under her considerable weight.

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Meu didn’t know the Ministrian language and without Krumpus to interpret she could not follow what was said by Fedring and his crowd of investigators. For the time, there was simply nothing else to do but play dead—and so she listened to the distant patter of her perplexed examiners through the hazy filter of her dimmed senses (an unfortunate side effect of her stone form).

Suspicious and awestruck, the men stared as they ran their fingers over her rock hard scales. They caressed her feathers, teeth, and especially her eyes. One threw several bones and polished gems on the table a good half dozen times. Discussion proceeded for the better part of an hour.

Finally, one of the observers made an excuse, turned, and abruptly left. Whatever he said broke up the party. The others slowly disbanded and scratched their heads as Fedring lifted the heavy and awkward staff once more. He nodded and shook hands with several others as they shuffled out of the room. Some asked him private questions and poked at Meu’s gem-like eyes as Fedring slowly made his way to a large stone house with guards in front. Fedring panted under the weight of the staff and wondered that the thin shaman was said to be dancing with it.

Upon seeing the Majoris, the guards stood straight and gave a salute. He grumbled his appreciation, and half saluted back as they opened the door for him.

Meu thought he should be done with her and set her aside so he might take care of other concerns. But he did not. He set her upon a table and proceeded to study her, consumed by her exquisite detail. For some time, he stared at her fine wings, intricate scaling, needle point fangs, and jewel-like eyes. He tugged at the various parts of Meu with his fat fingers and tested their strength. Then he did about the worst thing he could possibly do. He fetched a pair of pliers and began to tug at her in earnest! He chipped one of her feathers and wondered that none of the others were blemished in a similar fashion. He pried at her various accents as he muttered to himself in his strange language. Most grievous was the fact that he yanked at her eyes and teeth, and became more and more insistent as he pried!

The tugging was giving Meu a headache, and her anger flamed. In this form she was very solid—but not indestructible. With enough pulling, this fat idiot could do incredible damage, he might even kill her! She felt she had to do something before he pulled her apart. Still, she could not act until he stopped prying, and then she’d have to be quick—which was always difficult coming out of stone form.

With a grimace, Fedring set aside his pliers and stared at the statue once more. Everyone was most interested in her eyes and he thought them the most valuable too. Although the staff as a whole was quite fascinating, he felt it was far too cumbersome. She might be worth double as the full piece, but he thought he could get a hundred sol for just her eyes—and they’d fit easily in his pocket! Then he’d ply the rest of her off on one of the others to study her materials for five, ten, oh, maybe twenty gold sol... But the eyes were set deep, and although the pliers were padded, he feared scratching the jewels. With a frown, he set the pliers aside and stared into the wyrm’s emerald eyes. He felt they were looking back at him.

As Fedring stared at her, Meu softened up her tail. She knocked the pliers off the table, then began to soften up the rest of her body. Fedring cursed as he bent down to retrieve the pliers. He huffed and puffed as he picked them off the floor. When he sat up, he was puzzled to see that Meu now moved. He muttered something as he stared at the creature in rapt fascination, and stretched out his hand that he might take up the serpent once more.

As his hand grew close, Meu struck the man and disgorged a good deal of venom.

Injured and frightened, Fedring pushed back from the table in an effort to get away. His chair tipped back and crashed to the floor. He spilled from the chair and onto his back. Meu spread her wings, dropped off the table, and landed on Fedring’s chest.

Eyes wide, he pushed at her as he tried to get away. He sputtered and swore as he struggled with the long form of the wyrm. He grabbed her by the body and squeezed as Meu bit him again and again. Stop fighting! Meu ordered.

An incredible amount of venom swept through the fat man’s veins. With so much of it in his blood, Meu’s commands were immediate and overwhelming. They were also beyond mere language. Fedring immediately understood her intent. He paused in his struggle as Meu curled up on his chest. She fanned her great wings and showed her fangs. Terror and rage surged through Fedring. He jerked about, though Meu was now in control.

“Your luminescence?” A guard’s voice called through the door. “Majoris Fedring? Are you okay?”

Fedring sputtered. A froth gathered at the corners of his mouth.

Order them away, Meu thought.

“Mind your own damned business!” Fedring roared at the door as he lay on his back. He flung the pliers toward the door, which bounced off the wall with a knock and clattered to the floor.

Be still! Meu commanded, and his stillness was nearly complete. If Fedring could have stopped his own heart, he would have. Instead, he held his breath as Meu fed him thoughts of his impending death. You will suffocate, and you will die, and there is nothing you can do about it, she thought to him. Terror and fright surged through his mind—but there was no fighting her with so much venom in his veins.

Fedring’s mind began to unravel. Darkness set in. He passed out. Unconscious, he was beyond Meu’s command. He took in a sharp breath.

The Majoris coughed and sputtered. He huffed and puffed and slowly began to breathe normal. His eyes fluttered open and Fedring woke once more. He flinched when he saw that Meu was still on his chest—and since he was conscious again, she dominated his thoughts with an iron will. Fedring sobbed despite his constricted muscles, and Meu encouraged it. Then she began the questioning.

Where are we? Meu commanded, What is happening here?

Fedring’s thoughts turned to the two forts. To the west, The Invader’s Fort was occupied by an army of fake Saots, nothing more than Ministrians in counterfeit uniforms supplied by Count Drefford of Wibbeley. In this way, the Ministrians could also play themselves, and pretend to ally with the Bouge people. To the east stood the smaller fort, manned by Ministrians in proper dress, and a contingent of militia men from Ebertin. Many of the Trohls in Camp Calderhal were agents of Kezodel and collaborated with the Ministrians. They were there to continue the fraud and pull the wool over the eyes of any honest observers that came to see the hostilities for themselves. In this way Kezodel stayed the hand of respectable militiamen—though he was forced to murder a few of the more meddlesome. As far as Kezodel was concerned, too many of Ebertin’s militias wished to investigate the troubles of the west and form their own opinions.

On top of this, Kezodel and his Degorouth henchmen arrested and imprisoned an excess of prisoners for trivial crimes. The jails were crowded with offenders of the most petty variety. In a hushed manner, the surplus of prisoners were sold to Minist as slaves. In this way, the western lands were all but emptied, and now the slow corruption and erosion of the great city of Ebertin was in full swing! The fruit of Ebertin was ripe for the picking! Kezodel funneled prisoners to the Invader’s Fort, and eventually the slave markets of Tikatis and Umsuppa beyond. He made himself and his allies very rich in the process!

Of course there was little actual fighting between the forts. The twin camps served mostly as a processing center for Bouge slaves and Mininstrian settlers that were sent south toward Rynth Falls. From the Invader’s Fort, the prisoners were taken west through Wibbeley and into Minist, where they were sold for every imaginable purpose: labor, sex, games—or just for blood. Some of the young men that might fight for coin were conveniently rescued by their Degorouth brothers. Some returned home and spoke convincingly of the fake war, while others went sent south to Rynth Falls, where they were trained for the day they might exact revenge against their supposed enemy. As always, the Ministrians fomented endless war so those that knew how to might profit.

And what of the Bouge men and boys that saw through the ruse and would not participate in the fighting, or those that caused troubles with their questions and defiance? Fedring crippled their hands and set them in front of the Invader’s Fort to beg and die as they deserved!

For several hours, Meu plumbed the depths of Fedring’s knowledge. Not only did she learn the layout and purpose of the camps, she learned where the Ministrians held the shaman and noted where the Majoris hid his coin. She discovered the important players about the camp and how Fedring felt about each of them.

Yet, with all this information, Meu was not finished. Her eye still ached from Fedring’s use of the pliers, and she decided to torment the Corpus to no end for his rude treatment. Indeed, she was so enraged that she meant to spill him open completely.

Meu investigated Fedring’s rank, and how he became such a powerful man among the Ministrians. Indeed, she thought she was a worldly creature, immune to the shock and horror of the most ruthless sorts. The slaving of the Bouge did not shock her. The endless war did not shock her. But the Corpus Majoris was a fanatical and devious man. His secrets included many terrible things: malfeasance, manipulation, hypocrisy, conspiracy, torture, murder, molestation. The blood of men, women, and a surprising number of children ran through his fingers and stained his treacherous hands. The extent of his crimes mirrored the slow climb of his political power, and Meu realized the rotten ruled in the Ministrian Empire. The rotten: they were called Baradha among their own kind, and they ruled with an iron fist, gloved in velvet.

His sins laid bare by the wyrm, Fedring began to sob anew. He squirmed and bawled as snot ran from his nose. There was no remorse in his black heart—except that Meu knew his lies and treachery. His crimes did not haunt him, only their discovery.

Once more Meu was tempted to destroy the Majoris. There were a dozen ways to kill him, any of which should be easy enough. Yet, she reconsidered. In part, she knew his death would put the camp on high alert, which would make freeing the shaman all the more difficult.

Meu slithered to the window. She unlatched it as the disgusting thoughts of Fedring continued to ring in her head. The light of dawn crept into the room and she was surprised that her interrogation had lasted so long. She spread her wings and leapt from the window.

Though she might secure physical distance from this wretched beast, the reek of Fedring’s sins flowed through her thoughts and would continue to do so for several more hours. She’d injected him with so much venom. She’d injected him with too much venom! Indeed, she was now quite low.

Meu surged into the sky. She pushed herself straight up into the early morning air and regarded the forts from a height. She considered marching the fat man into the shaman’s cell and ordering his release, but knew such a simple plan would not work. As a military prison, it was not under Fedring’s jurisdiction. He did not have the power to get anyone released—though if he greased enough palms... but the guards would wonder, and she had no viable excuses he might make to free the shaman.

Due to a lack of sleep and an incredible headache caused by Fedring’s rude pliers, Meu decided it was best to simply disappear for a time, to rest up, and consider her options. She angled down and aimed for the trees just outside the fort. She cut close to the stone tower, in hopes of getting a good look at it. She was not giving up, she told herself, she was merely regrouping. She didn’t see the archers at all.

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“I tell you, it’s right there!” Petaerus pointed up at the sky.

“I don’t see it,” Dolif said as he blinked his eyes against the gathering light of dawn.

“Right there! How do you not see it?!” Petaerus roared at him. He muttered a curse as he pulled the bow off his shoulder. “It’s coming down!” He said as he nocked an arrow.

Dolif pulled his bow and also nocked an arrow. He aimed in the same general direction as his friend, though he couldn’t see the thing... and suddenly there it was! A long, thin beast with wide, massive wings dropped out of the sky! It was the largest, strangest bird Dolif ever saw!

The creature twisted above the great stone tower and angled over the wall just past the guards. Petaerus followed the beast, and as it dipped toward the trees. He fired. In the low light before dawn, it was impossible to see if the arrow hit. The beast curled up and dove into the underbrush as the missile passed.

Dolif also fired, but he did not have a good read on the creature. His arrow was off by a wide margin. Petaerus frowned at Dolif, and Dolif shrugged.

“What do you think it was?” Dolif asked.

Petaerus shrugged and lowered his bow.

“Biggest damned bird I ever saw,” Dolif noted. “Do you think you hit it?”

“So you did see it!” Petaerus turned on his friend.

Dolif huffed. “Did you not see me shoot at it?”

“You aimed that shot? I thought you just...” Petaerus turned toward the trees, swayed a bit, and pretended to release an arrow with a shrug: a mock of Dolif’s wild shot.

Dolif glared at his friend.

“Stay here, I’ll go see...” Petaerus stepped toward the stairs.

“Non!” Dolif blocked the way. “If any of the commanders hear of it, you’ll get us in trouble again! You know the protocol! Send the gate guard!”

Petaerus frowned, but he knew Dolif was right. He leaned from the tower and whistled. “Who’s down there?!” he yelled to the gate.

From the ground, Derris looked up at the archers.

“Oh, fuck you,” Petaerus cursed under his breath as he recognized the guard. “It would be Derris.”

Dolif smirked.

“Derris!” Petaerus shouted down from the tower. “I shot a bird!” He pointed into the woods. “Go see what I hit!”

“A bird?!” Derris called back, bothered that he should be sent into the woods for such a small thing.

“Not a bird!” Petaerus held his hands close as he said the word as an insult. “But a bird!” Petaerus threw his arms out wide and said the word as if he meant to say it were some mythic beast. “Go, see, and know that it is mine!”

With a frown, Derris shook his head and made his way through the gate. He stepped into the woods. Though he thought it was a waste of time, he had to follow the order of the high guard. About such things, they had authority.