Chapter 10: Solveny

Crea lived on the roof of the finest building in all of Solveny. At six stories, it topped even the Keep of the Silver Service. She had hutches for her birds and planter boxes for her herbs. There was a small hut where she slept, and also a shed for tools and seed. The hut was large enough for her bed and a dresser, and there was also a looking glass—so she knew when she had too much dirt on her face. She had access to a kitchen and bath on the ground floor, and was free to come and go as she pleased—and all it cost was a bot for every diem she brought in. It was a proud day she was able to give the landlord a silver diem. A couple years later, and her last rent was three and a half diems…

In her spare time, Crea knitted blankets for the market, studied history among the clerics, and batted her eyes at a local cobbler's son. It took a good month to get the boy's attention, but now that she had it, he smiled whenever he saw her, and waved when she passed without stopping. Sooner or later, she expected he'd muster the courage to approach, and then she'd have the cobbler's son too— but before gods and monsters such bliss does not last.

The screaming started at the north edge of town. Seconds later, there was fright and panic from the east. Soon, yelling and shouting came from a dozen different directions. Most of the commotion was too far away, so Crea could not see what occurred.

The ring of metal on metal carried above the streets. Crea fought back a swell of panic. She thought to set messages to her pigeons. She gathered her pen and papers—though she didn't know what to write.

Dolimerea, an older tenant from one of the floors below appeared on the roof and hugged Crea as the sounds of conflict continued. "What are we to make of it?" she asked her young friend.

Crea shook her head and stared out over the city. There was only one thing to do—stand and see what happened. The reasons for violence often escaped her—though life and several brothers had taught her a fair share about the subject. Unsure, the younger lady held the elder as they listened to the ebb and flow of the tumult.

Soon, there was a crowd on the roof and Crea felt safe. Other occupants, servants, and caretakers of the fine building looked out over the city with a variety of weapons; knives, house mallets, fire pokers, and such. Women clutched at each other's wrists as the men frowned, solemn and serious. They called down to passers-by and asked after the screaming.

"It is chaos!" the men down below called back. "Foreigners have stormed the courthouse and barricaded themselves!"

"They've taken the north gate, and sacked the armory near Folcant!" called another.

Many of her neighbors went downstairs, some to help, others to pack.

Crea thought it a good idea to pack her own bag She took her money, a few pieces of jewelry, several keepsakes given to her by friends and family, her best dress, and the second also.

She brought her fine brush, and her prettiest pair of shoes—though they pinched her feet and made them sore if she wore them more than a couple hours a day. Then, like many of the others, she waited and worried. She thought of her family and their farm, two days walk to the south. Between here and there was nowhere she wanted to be.

The commotion rose and fell as hard news continued to pour past. "A posse forms to liberate the north gate!" A strong man called.

For various reasons, half a dozen went with him.

"Members of the watch are held hostage on top the court!" Another said. “They are threatening to throw them off!”

"Help us battle the flames!” A growing crowd called. “They set fires in both directions!” This caused even more people to run and assist. Crea thought to go with them—but she still hadn't written any messages. She took up her pen and scrawled a half dozen notes—Solveny is attacked!—is all she wrote. She did not write more because she did not know more. She attached the notes to go to an abbot in the next valley, a minor official she knew among the Court of High Plains, and of course the lady that taught her to raise and train pigeons in the first place. She was near to Crea’s family, and could warn them.

"Look to the Silver Keep," Dolimerea said to Crea as she released the last of the birds. "They have locked the gates and keep the door. The fish will guard their precious post and nothing else!" she sneered.

"They are not so selfish,” Crea replied. “Surely, they will help…” But the gate of the keep stayed raised.

As Crea started out over the valley, she suffered a sinking feeling. This was not going well, and she was convinced it could only get worse. She took a step to her hut.

Dolimerea grabbed her hand. "Where will you go?"

"Anywhere," Crea shook her her head. "This city burns."

Dolimerea grabbed her hand. "Don't be so cynical!" she pleaded as she wrapped the younger lady in a desperate hug. “We will be fine. Let us just stay here and be quiet.”

Although there were still sounds of violence, they were sporadic and far away. Crea let the old lady hug her and the sting of her inspiration dimmed. The city seemed to calm as she focused on her friend’s warmth.

But the dimming of conflict did not last, and she opened her eyes once more. Crea gasped and cried out as she noticed a wall of dust billowing toward the city. She knew immediately it was riders—and a good number of them!

Crea wasn't the only one to notice this fast approaching force. Screams, shouts, and curses caught in the air once more. The racket raised to a fevered pitch as the locals realized they must regain their defenses or find themselves quickly overrun. Fighting intensified as the locals threw themselves at the north and west gate houses in a last ditch effort to regain them. Dolimerea clasped at Crea—though the younger woman prepared to push away.

"It is closing!" Dolimerea gasped and pointed at the north gate. Indeed, the gate dropped several feet—only to stop and hang partially open as the riders appeared on the distant road. Then, as the rider's seemed within spitting distance of the gate, it dropped once more and locked them out.

Relieved, Crea turned to the west gate to see if it still hung open. Though the road twisted immediately out of view, she had a clear view of the gate and could see the fighting was intense. Local militia pressed the invaders into the guardhouse and did everything they could to clear them out. Figures dropped to the dirt, writhing and squirming—only to hold still in the end.

Townspeople were inside the gatehouse. Crea couldn't breathe. The gate dropped as bodies appeared on the other side of the arch—but it was too late. The invaders were locked out.

Crea took several long smooth breaths, though there were still sounds of fighting. Arrows danced over the wall and Crea could just make out their tiny silhouettes.

“What is that?” Dolimerea turned. Although the north and west gates were closed, the sounds coming from the distant east gate told that it was still open. The chaos grew, and Crea noted riders pushing through the streets.

Crea did the one thing she knew to do near the start. She pushed herself from Dolimerea, grabbed her bag.

Dressed as Trohls from the north, foreign men arrived at the base of the building. They kicked in the door, grabbed one of the doorman, and threw him into the street. The other guards poured out of the building to protect their brother—but the six men were heavily out numbered, and quickly surrounded by the invaders.

One of the guards yelled as he fought. "You fools! They come for us all!" He called back at the building before the invaders struck him down.

Crea did not pity him as he was cut down. She surmised that most the brave men of the city were already dead. She also felt a pang of guilt as she had not helped either.

"Don't leave me!" Dolimerea shrieked as she tried to catch hold of Crea.

"Come with me!" Crea shouted back—though the woman did not. Dolimerea chased for several steps, but did not follow down the stairs. Instead, the older lady fell to her knees and began to wail as she knelt among boxes of herbs.

Crea took the stairs two at a time as she cursed herself for a fool. She hoped it was not to late to save her own skin.

On the second floor, Crea came around a blind corner and caught the sight of two feathers. Someone was there—and far too close. A hand caught the side of her head and smashed her into the wall. Though she tried to raise a defense, she was too slow. A sudden sharp pain ripped through her head—and then nothing—as she blacked out.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 10.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Brankellus found himself on the edge of a slight plateau. The road curved down a steep embankment and switched back several times before it arrived on the valley floor. Down below, he could see the large town of Solveny, as fires smoldered in several quarters. Flame curled skyward and Brankellus thought he could hear the occasional scream drifting upon the wind.

The sky grew light as the sun threatened to peak over the horizon once more. Soon the flames would dim under the brilliance of the day, and although the sight would lose its grandeur, it was bound to retain its sorrow. With a sigh, Brankellus stepped down the road, quite sure that Petaerus was somewhere in this ruined town.

Numbed to the villainy of the Ministrians, Brankellus didn't flinch as he stepped around the lifeless bodies of the city's denizens. He passed a woman as she cried over the remains of a man and a child. To the side was a third body—the woman's own.

For a second, Brankellus stared at the woman with wide eyes. She turned and looked directly at him, which only added to his shock and confusion. The young lady stood and spoke. Brankellus shook his head. He did not understand the Saot tongue. With a shrug, the dead man stepped away with his head hanged in respect.

There were many more ghosts among the dead of Solveny. There was a hefty man that stood in the door of a church. Brankellus caught the barest glimpse of gore beyond the ghost and quickly turned away from the sight. There were several children of various ages, hands clasped to each other. There was an old woman—so old that Brankellus wondered if she could walk before she died. As a ghost, she certainly struggled with the task. She shook and huffed with each impossible step as she continued after Brankellus, and the growing number of dead that followed him. Why they followed, he did not know.

Under the noonday sun, a long column of Ministrians prepared to return to Rynth Falls. They loaded wagons with their spoils and corralled slaves and livestock together in a mass. Petaerus was not among them.

Brankellus continued through the town, led by his infallible sense. He stepped from Solveny and noticed that many of the outlying farms also smoldered. He walked on, south and east across the Noethrin Plain, only interested in his quarry. Several miles outside of Solveny, he looked back and found that a long train of ghosts now followed him.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 10.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Pangs of sensation ebbed and flowed from Crea’s core and pushed through the dull ache in Crea's head. There was a burning that hovered on a knife's edge between extreme pleasure and excruciating pain as she opened her eyes. A mad hope filled her heart, that a certain cobbler's son was doing his best to make a mother of her, as happened often enough in her fantasies. But the man that crushed into her was a blood soaked foreigner with a webbed scar on his face. She could not pull her eyes from his helmet, decorated with two extravagant feathers from a bird Crea could only imagine. The feathers, tan with red and green highlights, waved back and forth in a mock salute as the mad foreigner drove himself into her again and again.

Crea screamed and tried to push the man off—but he was well muscled and more than a match for the petite woman. In a flash, he grabbed her neck and squeezed. She choked against his rough hands as he ignored her striking fists. He snapped at her; curt violent words that matched the crushing force of his fingers. Though she couldn't understand his language, she got the message all the same. Struggle and he might kill her. She could fight no more as she edged toward unconsciousness. His hands relaxed, and one squeezed her tits in a rude manner as he continued his rough treatment. Crea tried to turn her mind to anything else. She wondered where he get such beautiful feathers. What sort of creature had such brilliant plumage? Then she realized he’d likely killed the beast, and she didn’t want to think about the feathers either. She wondered if it was better to fight and die, or go limp and live to see another day. Tears burned her eyes. She closed them so she did not have to see her attacker's manic pleasure. Although she knew better, she imagined it was indeed the cobbler's son as an endless flow of tears streamed from her eyes.

The assault seemed to go on for an eternity before it finally ended, though it truly lasted for only a few minutes. Crea returned to herself and shame took the place of her pain. He pulled away from her and she grabbed at the covers of a strange bed. She cowered as far from the man as she could.

With a huff, the scarred attacker dressed in his Trohl rags. He turned the garments this way and that, as if he did not know them, and Crea wondered if he was a Trohl at all. He did not look right. She thought he only meant to wear their clothing and figured it must be some sort of deceit.

Finally dressed, the foreigner proceeded to ransack the room. Crea didn't dare move as the man glared and threatened whenever she did. Instead, she stared at the brilliant feathers that stuck out of his helmet, and hated him all the more for having such a fine prize.

Whenever the foreigner looked at her, Crea looked out the window. She had no idea who's apartment she was in, only that it was still her building, and she was several floors up. She looked down where the door guards lay in pools of blood. Among them was the corpse of Dolimerea. Crea wondered if she was thrown from the roof, or if she jumped. For herself, she wondered if death would be easier. She fought against more tears as she asked herself why this was happening. She did her best not to think of her own bruised and battered body as she watched her beloved town slowly burn all around her.

The foreigner turned over tables and rifled through drawers as he jammed the occasional bit or trinket into his pockets. Crea thought she'd only have to wait until he left, then she might pick up the pieces of her life as best she could before and—what? Returning home to her parents? She couldn't bare the thought, though she could think of nowhere else to go. As she glared at the foreigner, she wondered if he might simply kill her and save her from the torment of living any longer.

Yet she did not tempt these dark thoughts. Whatever her reason, she meant to live.

Outside the window, a company of invaders decided it was time to stop yelling at the Keep of the Silver Service and employ the battering ram they made from the trunk of a heavy tree. Crea watched the escalating drama unfold, and hoped every last one of the invaders would die by the potent swords of the silver fish. She knew there were forty, maybe fifty men in the keep, but she also knew some of them were as green as dandelions, and a few were as old as time. Besides, there were easily a couple hundred invaders all about the keep.

Before the drama outside could unfold any further, another man burst into the apartment. This man wore a Saot uniform with decorations in black and red. There was a kite insignia, a mark that Crea knew. He was from Gaurring. He stopped and stared at the web-scarred foreigner. She thought the two men must fight. She thought she was saved as the two men turned on each other. For a second, her spirits soared.

The Gaur officer questioned the foreigner. It certainly was not Saot he spoke, but Crea knew it was none of the Trohl dialects either. She realized although this new man wore a Saot uniform, the two men were in league. She wondered what an officer of the Kingdom might be doing among these foreign invaders. She considered this fact as the Gaur's eyes settled on her. The foreigner with the brilliant feathers gave a nod toward the bed, where she huddled. A devious smile split the Gaur officer’s lips and a shiver ran up Crea’s spine. The foreigner left with a smirk as the Saot approached the bed.

“There is fighting,” Crea pointed out the window and hoped she might distract the man with the commotion below.

"Don't mind that mess," he began in perfect Saot. "You and I 're gonna play a different game," he leered at her as he undid his belt.

Crea knew what was coming. She knew the moment he came in the room, though she tried to convince herself it wasn't so. He meant to take her however he must. A rage enveloped her, though she hid it deep and kept a calm demeanor. She realized she could not hope to fight him from the start. He was a good deal larger, and she was already sore and worn from the rough treatment of the foreigner. Crea could not hope to take him in an honest contest. Instead, she hanged her head and begged him to be kind. "If you are gentle, I promise not to fight you," she said as she bit her lip. "There is no need for violence."

He grinned, "Well then, we should get along just fine. Pull up your dress," he ordered as he set his weapons aside and stepped out of his pants. He was already hard in anticipation. With bloody hands all over the blankets, he crawled across the bed. He licked his teeth and leered at the battered young woman as she held the edge of her dress in one hand.

She pulled it up over her ankles, knees, and halfway up her thighs. She offered her free hand for him to take with his own.

"Can't lie," he said as he crawled over her. "You're the prettiest thing I've seen all week."

He put his hand to hers and pressed his tongue to her lips. Crea allowed the kiss as she focused on her hand. She twisted her grip so she held nothing but his pinkie. Then, with sudden force, she bent it back and snapped it in several places, as she crushed it with all her might.

"YEEAARGGHH!" He screamed as he felt the delicate bones of his finger snap in several places. Rage filled his eyes, and he pulled back to hit her.

But Crea was already moving. With her other hand balled in a fist, she slammed it into the man's chin, as her father taught her. The attacker's jaw popped and the man went limp. He rolled off the bed with a blank expression on his face and crumbled to the floor in an awkward heap.

Crea grabbed her shoes, the bag of her favorite things, and the Saot officer's sword, as she ran from the room. She bolted for the stairs and ran down them as quickly and as quietly as she could. By now, the commotion outside the Silver Keep had developed into a full blown ruckus as a tight knot of men from the Silver Service fought in their own courtyard against an increasing crush of invaders. No one watched her building as Crea ran and ducked into a thick hedge between the tower and keep. She dived among the brush and glanced back as the branches settled about her.

She could hear the Saot swear and cuss as he came to the front door. He cradled his pinkie and massaged his jaw as he looked about for any sign of her. Crea lay among the soft deadfall below a thicket of lilac, chokecherry, and juniper. She held still as she stared at her second attacker through the branches. Finally, the Gaur settled on the wrong direction and stepped to the far end of the building.

As Crea huddled in the bushes, something touched her leg. She nearly jumped out of her skin as she kicked and turned to this new threat. She tried to get the falchion from its scabbard, but stopped when she realized it was two of her own countrymen that crept among the bushes. One was older than her own father. The other was about the age of her youngest brother. Both wore armor, large packs, weapons, and the simple insignia of the King's own post. Silver fish. The younger man had fright all over his face, while the older man wore a look of grim determination. The elder held a finger to his lips, a plea to Crea to keep her quiet. She wondered how they escaped the keep though she quickly realized it didn't matter. They were out, and so was she.

As the remainder of the silver fish were slaughtered in their own keep, Crea and the two men slipped into the park beyond. Slowly, deftly, the old silver fish led Crea and his squire through the burning town. Near the city wall, they came to a small hut. The old man had a key for it—though the lock was already smashed.

Crea saw nothing inside and was confused that they bothered to go in at all. The small hut was completely rousted, table and chairs turned over. Smashed dishes and crumpled linens. The old man closed the door then collapsed to the floor and began examining it in earnest. For a second, Crea worried about the man, and thought he might have lost his wits.

With a sigh, the old man pulled up a board, then with a great effort he pulled up an entire section of the floor to reveal a massive hole with a ladder that led into the dark earth.

Crea followed the squire inside. The older man produced a torch and set the trapdoor back in place. Below was a tunnel that went south, under the wall. As they continued to walk into the dark, Crea began to think they'd never come up out of the dirt. A part of her was not bothered by the prospect.

Finally, a ladder appeared. They came out of the tunnel in a fallow field with trees all around perhaps a mile from the wall. It was secluded and far from any house or barn. The old man closed the trap and immediately began on his way. The squire followed without hesitation. Despite a deep fatigue and a need for rest, Crea continued after the two men.

For several hours they marched south with barely a dozen words between them. Crea was sore and incredibly tired as she pressed forward—but she was also determined to get as far from Solveny as she could. Though she cried, she offered no complaint. She felt the old man set a brutal pace even though it was barely above a crawl. The squire was equally tired, but also refused to give up. Crea caught the sight of tears in his eyes and was comforted by the fact that her pain and torment was shared.

Their stumbling escape continued apace. Deep into the night, and several miles from town, they finally stopped. The old man led them to a cache set up by the Silver Service for just such emergencies. The three set about making a camouflaged camp by the red light of Olbarra and ate a hasty meal of cold rations.

As Crea lay in her ad hoc bed, she cried once more. Although she could no longer see the flames from town, she could certainly smell the fire. Her hopes and ambitions were all in Solveny, burned up by filthy invaders—along with her dignity. Though she could not speak the words out loud, she begged death to take her. Utterly exhausted, and finally out of tears, Crea fell into a deep, dreamless sleep that seemed to last forever.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 10.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

"What happened to your hand?" Gliedian asked.

Banifourd had no interest in telling the Baradha that some local girl had mangled it for getting a little frisky. He also did not want to talk about the fact that he’d lost Creigal’s fancy sword, and so he simply muttered insults in response to Gliedian’s question as he rubbed the pain out of his jaw.

Petaerus stood next to the High Commander. A knowing grin crossed his smirking lips. "The prettiest flowers tend to have the sharpest thorns," he told the Saot officer.

Banifourd glared at the man.

"Next time, see that you are more careful," Gliedian chided.

"Next time?!" Banifourd's eyes went wide. "Holy Ooroiyuo! Do you plan to massacre your way across the entire Noethrin Plain?"

Gliedian gave a devious smile as if that was exactly his plan.

"Is this because of the loss of Ebertin?" Banifourd asked.

Gliedian frowned. "Do not for a moment think that I’d let any minor setback cloud my judgment," he cautioned. "This is the strictest of calculations. We turn the Noethrin duke against the Trohls and Gaur in one fell swoop! And we do it with atrocity, that the Dunkels will commit to the cause and strike against their perceived enemies with a vengeance!"

"You mean to lure them into attacking the Gaur?" Banifourd looked at the man and tried to determine if the plan was idiotic or genius. It was certainly brazen. Only now did he realize why he was commanded to wear his uniform. Survivors would note it. Rumor would talk of a Gaur officer among the invading Trohl. The obvious conclusion would be that Guar was in league with the Trohls—or at least some of the Trohls.

Initially, he’d thought the girl's escape was a great misfortune, but it’d only fuel Gliedian’s ruse. Banifourd shook his head. "The Dunkels won’t be so easily tricked into attacking their enemies," he noted.

"Misdirection is what we do best," Gliedian smiled. "And when the time is right, King Gred duReb will condemn the acts of Gaurring and will assist the Dunkels by attacking Gaur along its western border. Then, Gaurring will be pinched. Meanwhile, we will maraud south until we reach the border. Then once we are in Gaurring, we will sabotage forces loyal to your own wayward duke."

"And put Aerindoun on the throne," Banifourd stated.

Gliedian sighed. "Yes, and give Aerindoun the duchy. But for now, we go south and east with all possible haste, and we will put every Noethrin village we come across to the torch."

Banifourd said. "I go nowhere until you tell me where Garf has gone."

Gliedian stiffened. He was unaccustomed to having people make demands. Slowly, he turned on the Gaur officer, his face a mask of cool unconcern. "I've sent him ahead of us,” Gliedian noted. “To sow the seeds of discord.”

"And what has happened to Bence?" Banifourd asked.

"I left him at Camp Calderhal. After meeting the man, I thought it best if Bence was not in court when we confronted your duke. I expected to meet him in Rynth Falls, but he was not there either,” Gliedian noted. “From what I hear, he must have died when the waokie attacked…" He shrugged as he studied the esquire’s reaction.

Banifourd frowned, suddenly nervous that he had neither of his men to watch his back among these treacherous Ministrians. "That’s unfortunate about Bence,” Banifourd said. “But I expected to meet Garf here."

"I do beg your pardon," Gliedian gave an exaggerated bow. "The Empress had need of your man. I apologize for commandeering his services, but he has promised to do a difficult task, and I have promised to pay him a heavy bounty for it. I assure you, he was quite agreed."

"Of course he was, but he is my man, and you have taken liberties," Banifourd charged.

"And I suppose I owe you a premium for the use of your man," Gliedian dug in his pocket, pulled out a gold sol, and held it out to Banifourd. "And how is this? Is it enough to be without your man for a week or two?"

Banifourd stared at the large gold coin and the man that held it. He had an inkling that he was damned if he took the coin and damned if he didn't. With a frown, he took the sol. "Sooner or later you shall find not everything can be purchased," he said.

Gliedian grinned. "I doubt that," he replied as he turned away.

Banifourd also turned away and found a petulant Petaerus in his path. "What's with the dumb feathers anyway?" he asked as he flicked at the decoration.

Petaerus sneered at the Saot. "I like pretty things—and I take 'em when I see 'em."

"Is there a reason this dog blocks my path?" Banifourd glared at the guard.

Gliedian waved his hand. Petaerus stepped out of the way and followed after his High Commander. Banifourd snorted as he walked the other way.

Gliedian turned. For several seconds, the Ministrians watched the Saot officer move away, then Gliedian locked eyes with Petaerus. "When you do what you do," he began in a low tone, "I’ll take my coin back."

Polished — 2020/03/14

Polished 10.1 and cut it with 10.2 to make 10.3 — 2020/04/02