Chapter 11: The Slow Road East

The door to the small cabin cracked open. Carringten sat up and put a hand on Bence's short sword, as he blinked awake. He relaxed as he realized it was just the duke. With a huff, Carringten lay back in his bed, and closed his eyes once more. "It is impossible to guard you if I know not where you go," he noted.

"At such times, you are free of your responsibilities," Creigal waved as he gathered his scattered possessions. "I should think even you would like a break from time to time."

Carringten snorted. "One day you will be gone, and I can hang up my sword for good—until then, I'd rather keep you alive."

Creigal paused as he regarded his adopted son, "Will you do it? When I finally pass from this world, will you quit the profession?"

"Who else deserves my life's blood?" Carringten shrugged.

"What of my cousin, Varius?"

"He has his own men," Carringten answered with a shrug.

"The day I am gone, what will you do?" Creigal continued. “How will you live?”

"Despite what the other guards say, I haven’t spent all my money on weapons," Carringten answered. "As for a profession, perhaps I shall build bridges, or teach among the children. I might farm, or I might simply travel for a time,” he shrugged again. “I should like to go among other nations and see how different peoples live. I should like to view the Tallian Sea—or perhaps what lies beyond the jungles of Borzia…”

“Do you care so little for your adopted home?”

“I was never so loyal to the duchy—only the man that rescued me from a rough beginning,” Carringten answered. “If Daphne survived you…” he shook his head. “But she did not. For Varius, there are other effective and cunning men. Let them protect him and your other ministers—that is, in the unfortunate event that I shall outlive you.”

Creigal scoffed. "Do not think it is such a grand thing to go before me, not into the underworld! It is never fortunate for a son to proceed his father in death! Indeed, it is against the very order of nature!"

"If it is nature that takes you, and not some villain, then I shall be happy to outlive you," Carringten replied. "But enough of the unknowable future."

"Agreed," Creigal nodded.

"Have you spoken to Duboha?" Carringten asked.

"I have not," Creigal admitted. "I spent a wondrous night under the trees, and only now have I returned.”

Carringten gave a nod. "Duboha and Aim have asked our pardon. They intend to go back to Ebertin, with the Pan Iskaer, where they will stay."

"Oh?" Creigal cocked his head.

"They mean to see whatever happens in Ebertin. They leave Saleos in charge of the others. They say there is little chance of trouble—though I have my reservations," Carringten admitted.

"Anything specific?"

Carringten shook his head. "General misgivings. Mine is a suspicious line of work."

"Indeed," Creigal nodded. "I asked Toar for his assessment, but he says he has never been so far east and has nothing to offer as a guide except speculation."

“He certainly knows the people better us. He can still serve as an interpreter,” Carringten noted. “He is well worth the price, though I must say I worry about the young Trohl on one front. I wonder if he is not overly distracted."

"By Celesi?" Creigal smiled and shook his head. "Yes, yours is a suspicious line of work indeed! We are no longer in the wilds with only our enemies about us, and Toar's attention is not so singular as your own. Yet, he has performed admirably since the first day we met. If he believes we are safe, I am apt to believe him. Besides, do you not want for a bit of holiday?"

"I shall welcome it if our journey should remain as simple as all that," Carringten admitted. "But I shall prepare for the worst."

"That is your training," Creigal agreed. "And let us hope you do not summon trouble with such dark and foreboding thoughts."

"Ah, but you are in charge,” Carringten replied with a grin. “And so we shall be greeted by sunshine, rainbows, and nothing more, I am sure of it!"

Creigal stared at his captain. "Now, now. There is no better way to tempt trouble than to say there can be none of it."

Carringten laughed. "And now who is suspicious?!"

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

Crea woke slowly. There was a heaviness in her heart and a deep exhaustion in her bones. There were heavy bruises about her thighs, knees, and ribs. The light of the day was already upon them, and Crea thought she had overslept—though the thought seemed ridiculous in retrospect. Overslept what?

She could hear the sounds of the older post runner, Doidge, as he packed. “Sleep a little longer,” Doidge said. “ We’re well hid at the moment, and with a good view all about us. You’re as safe as your gonna be.”

Despite his instruction, Crea crept from under her blankets. She poked her head from her tent, curious to see what the old post runner was doing if he was not preparing to leave. Doidge was fully dressed and his gear just about packed. She gave him a quizzical frown.

Doidge frowned back at her. He turned from her and quickened his pace as he stuffed the last of his supplies in his packs. "It's for your own good," he began, then continued without prompting. "I have an oath, and I mean to honor it." He stood, buckled his sword in place, and put on his helmet. "The boy has an oath too,” he glared and nodded at Malcolm, as the young page sat to the side, looking forlorn and pathetic. “He'd be wise to tend my instruction."

"But you honor your oath. You carry the post, and now you take it to Land's End," Crea replied.

"He takes the post to Land's End," Doidge pointed at the page. “And his contract best be honored. My post goes south,” the old runner explained. “So I leave you for Gaetilly."

"And what if I would go to Gaetilly?" Crea asked. "I have no interest in Land's End."

Doidge's expression turned sour as he stared at the girl. "Don't be daft. You are subject to the Dunkels. Why should you wish to go into Danya?"

"I am subject only to myself," Crea asserted.

"Spoken like a true Solven,” Doidge snorted. “And no wonder the city was torched with such empty loyalties.”

Shocked by this callousness, Crea’s mouth hanged open. She stared at the old post runner as a fire caught in her belly.

With a shrug, Doidge continued to talk. “You must do as you will, just as I must go south. But I will not serve as an escort to such a willful brat. Not unless you can pay me!"

Crea fumed and shook her head. "Brat?!” she snapped at the old man as she stood to her full height. “Now listen here! There’s no need for insults…"

"No you listen, missy!" Doidge turned on her and shook a haggard finger in her face. "I am a man of the post and mean to honor my office—nothing less and nothing more! I am not your guard, and have no interest in your life, so if you wish to give me commands, you better have a fair bit of coin.” He leaned forward and put his face in hers. “That, or you better be reeeaalll good with that fancy pig-sticker of yours.”

Crea turned and glanced back at the falchion she took from the Gaur officer. As much as she wished to take it up and even cut the a bit, she knew it’d do her no good to fight the man. She could tell the sharp edge of a blade and wasn’t afraid to murder a chicken—but that was a long way from fighting a full grown man, twice her size, with a heavier weapon, and years of practice. She backed away from Doidge and gave herself some space. She lowered her head. "It is a plea," she admitted. "Those men—the ones that destroyed Solveny—that cavalry is still out there. We can see the smoke. They are not done causing calamity! They will have us if they can get us."

"And what of it?!" Doidge glared. "Who is to say they have not gone south and will not be in my way! Have you considered that—or do you think of direction at all?!" he snorted. “So like a Solven to think only of yourself... but there is no safe road! Put your mind on that!"

Crea knew he was lying. She caught it in his eyes. He thought the southern road was safe—or safer—and he knew he could move faster and with more stealth if he went alone. Her eyes narrowed. Her heart broke to consider that although he helped her escape the city, he was determined to abandon her and even his own page. On top of that, he was being quite rude about it! It was all too much. Tears welled. "Fine!” she snapped. “Run south with your precious post, you coward!"

Doidge turned and struck her, a hard slap across the face. He glared at her as he waved his clenched fist. "I saved your life!" He snapped as fury and frustration mixed in his expression. "It'd be proper of you to show a little gratitude!"

Crea wanted to say she’d saved herself, and he’d only led her from the city, but figured he’d ignore the finer points of her argument. Instead, she simply glared at him and wished for bad things to happen.

Doidge turned from her, lifted his various packs and bags, and quickly began on his way. "If you follow me, I'll kill you myself," he called back.

Crea allowed him to leave, then, as he dwindled in the distance she called after him. "Run!" she yelled. "Run, you cur! Run with your tail tucked!" Rude gestures accompanied her words.

Malcolm set a placating hand on her shoulder. “There is no need…” he began.

Crea shook him off and glared at the page. “Don’t,” she snapped with a violent anger in her tear-streaked eyes.

"We must be quiet," Malcom said as he looked about the empty landscape. “Our enemies are out there—somewhere…”

Crea turned from the boy and retreated to back into her tent.

“Then we are not leaving?” Malcolm asked.

Crea didn’t bother to answer.

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

Along with horses, the Jindleyak paid for a wagon so they could transport the corpses of Apulton and Traust. A spare horse was tied to the back of the wagon for Elpis, though he laid in the wagon with the corpses for the time being—a thing he did not like. As the young brothers, Homoth and Komotz placed him in the wagon, Elpis complained bitterly. "I am not dead yet!" He scolded his young cousins.

"Hush, you," Homoth chastised the injured man. "They are not such bad company," he frowned as he patted the shrouded corpse of Apulton.

"Let it motivate you," Komotz suggested. "You must join us, or you must stay with them."

Elpis snorted and spit to hear this. He felt better than he had in days—though he could barely sit up for any real amount of time. Still, the back of the wagon was spacious, and his cousins did buy him a copious amount of padding, yet Elpis used what little energy he had to complain.

The others were happy to have him show such vigor. They continued to tease him good-naturedly as they left The Copper Kettle and Rooms. They smiled and waved to Duboha and Aim, and also the Pan Iskaer men, as Saleos drove the wagon.

There was a fair deal of traffic on the road east. Most were common men of craft and land as they took their wares to one of the small towns—or on their return home with needed supplies. The company was in no rush, and the weather was fine, as they walked their mounts among the commoners. The occasional patrolling militia passed from time to time. Curious glances were exchanged as the party passed these patrols—but they were always respectful and never tried to stop the group. If an officer of a militia wished to question the party, they invariably turned and walked their mount among the group, and asked what they would. One patrol must have been a hundred strong as it marched down the road with waving banners—yet, even with such a glut of men, they did not stop the party. Like several other men before him, this officer walked next to the wagon and asked questions of Saleos as he drove the wagon .

Saleos smiled and politely answered his questions, which were always about the road, and what the officer and his men might find ahead. Satisfied, the officer turned and rode after his men.

"They do not stop us at all," Creigal said.

"Why should they want to stop us?" Saleos asked.

"We travel through their land."

"And we will be through their lands all the quicker if they simply allow us to proceed," Saleos noted.

"Half of them barely care to question us," Creigal replied.

"They ask after the road. They ask after any complaints," Saleos shrugged. "You can be certain if there were any troubles, we should not pass so easily, nor would they say so little to us. If there was trouble ahead, they would willingly disclose it."

"I've never been in a foreign country where there were so few questions," Creigal admitted.

Saleos gave a satisfied nod. "Welcome to the free lands—the truly free lands."

"Then we are among the Jindleyak?" Creigal asked.

Saleos shook his head. "There will be notable differences when we reach the Jindleyak border, most notably a greater lack of fences.”

“Fences?”

Saleos smiled. "I thought the same. You will see. We are still among the Pulbouge—but they take after the Jindleyak more and more."

"I have heard of these Pulbouge," Creigal said. “They were Bouge—but no more?”

“Correct,” Saleos nodded. "Kezodel caused the rift. East of Ebertin, the people now call themselves Pulbouge, after the man, Puli Haschek, an agitator against the Degorouth."

"This Puli Haschek leads them?"

"In spirit alone," Saleos answered. "Puli Haschek aggitated against Kezodel's corruption of the courts and opened a lot of eyes among these people. He was murdered for his efforts. The Degorouth tried to keep their order for several years, but the people would not have it. They installed their own judges, men that honored peace and righteousness. The Degorouth retreated to Ebertin and tightened their grip on the west. No longer under the thumb of Kezodel, these people made a new name for themselves. In proper Trohl fashion, they married the old and the new: Bouge for the people they were, and Puli for the man that inspired them to be different; hence Pulbouge. Now we are nine nations once more."

As Creigal and Saleos discussed politics, the brothers Homoth and Komotz, and their cousin Andrus, brought up the rear. They allowed the others to go ahead of them a good distance, so they could race their horses and bet on who would reach the wagon first. Claiten stared after the racing horses. He rode with Meu on a patient nag that was all too happy to walk alongside the wagon. Though the others might not notice, there were several glances exchanged between the skin-walker and the duke.

After the second short race, Baet stopped his horse and waited while the others rode on. He meant to race with the brothers—but as they allowed the others to pass and gain distance, Komotz pushed Baet's mount and complained to the guard in his native tongue.

With a furrowed brow, Baet turned to Andrus—the only one of the racers that knew any Ministrian. "What’s his problem?"

"He doesn't want to race with you," Andrus noted.

The older brother, Homoth, also snapped at Baet and spit on the ground.

Baet frowned.

"They say you have a fresh horse—and they grow tired of you always cheating them," Andrus answered.

“Cheating?!”

Andrus shrugged. "You should go. Leave us to our sport."

Put off, Baet trotted his horse and joined the others once more.

The brothers charged passed the wagon once again. Claitne cheered as they raced past. Elpis rubbed his good eye, sat up in the wagon, and peered down the road. He noted a number of figures far behind. Grumpy and alone, he stared after these distant trailers. The wagon continued down the road at a steady plod. He watched for some time, and slowly his irritation turned to suspicion. These distant riders did not gain on the party, nor did they drift further behind. Instead, they seemed to be matching the wagon’s pace.

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

At the height of the day, the party stopped in a small village and attended the market. As the others searched for food and bought small things they wanted, Toar stopped at a blacksmith and stared at a musket. He thought it was a fine looking weapon and quite a bargain to boot. "Why is it so cheap?" he asked the blacksmith.

The blacksmith shrugged. "I got it from a Soat that was hard up for coin. I have no interest in such weapons, and since he sold it cheap, I intend to do the same,” he answered. “Besides, why bother with a musket? A bow and arrow is just as deadly, and quicker to reload."

"Do you have powder, shot, and wad?" Toar asked.

The blacksmith gave a snort as he searched about a crowded bench. "I got what he had. Good Gaurrish powder—or so he said." He lifted a slight bag and handed it over.

Celesi approached as Toar completed the purchase. "What'd you find?" she asked as his business concluded.

He showed her the musket.

"How does it work?"

"First you put the fire powder and a ball in the barrel. Then, you jam a bit of cloth down after itl with this rod. Next, you aim it at the thing you intend to kill and pull back this lever. Finally, you pull this bit. The hammer smashes the flint and causes a spark to light the powder. The powder explodes and propels the ball through the barrel. Then, the ball rips a hole in your target and lets out all its blood."

Celesi stared at the foreign device. "Savage," she gaped.

Toar shrugged, "It's made to kill."

"Have you used one before?"

"No," Toar admitted. "Baet showed me the ones he had. We couldn't fire them for fear of attracting Ministrians—or bugbear. He says they’re incredibly loud."

"Well, there are no bugbear or Ministrians about, so you shall have an opportunity," Celesi smiled.

Toar shrugged. "I mean to give it to Baet, though he is likely to let me fire it."

Celesi frowned. For several seconds she stared at the weapon and she considered her dislike of the Saot guard. "Such an easy thing to use, and dangerous, you say?”

Toar nodded.

“Let me have it.”

"And what do you want with it?" Toar asked, suspicious.

Celesi shrugged. "What if we should run into trouble again? I should think it is easier to use and more effective than my knives."

Toar shook his head. "You want it so I won’t give it to Baet because you don’t like him."

"It is not so much as all that," Celesi claimed, wide-eyed and innocent—though he was perfectly right. "I'd like a better way to protect myself is all.”.

Toar considered her request. "Then you will trade me for your blades?" He finally asked.

Celesi frowned. She meant to keep them both.

Toar turned and began down the street. Celesi ran after him. She stopped in front of him, pulled up her skirt and undid the throwing knives from her thigh. “Then it’s a deal?"

"I do not know why you want it at all," Toar replied. "Are you not attached to these knives?"

"I got them from Meriona,” she scoffed. “Why should I want to keep them?”

Toar walked on. Still, she persisted as they returned to the others. "Fine," he acquiesced and held out the musket. "But give me the blades first."

Celesi handed over her knives.

Despite his reservations, Toar gave her the musket.

"Show me how to load it?" she asked.

Toar shrugged. "I've never done it," he said. "I only know the theory."

"Then show me what you know."

"Let us ask Baet. He knows the proper way of it," Taor replied.

Celesi frowned. "If I wanted his help, I'd ask him."

“Fine,” Toar replied with a huff. He poured a bit of powder down the barrel. He stared at Celesi for a long moment, added a bit more, then shrugged. "Should do..." he noted, then added an iron ball and a bit of cloth. He used the rod to ram them into place. Having finished the operation to his satisfaction, he held the weapon out to Celesi. She moved to take it and he pulled it away from her. "This isn't a game," he stared at her. "This will kill a man, sure as lightning. It’ll kill you if you aren’t careful.”

"I know when a thing is serious," she glared back. "Do I look like I trifle?" She snagged the musket. “We shall fire it later, when we have the time,” she smiled as she jammed it in the holster, then wrapped her shawl over it so the others might not see.

Toar and Celesi made their way back to the stables, where Scurra waited.

"Where are the others?" Celesi asked.

"They are on the road," Scurra explained. “We will catch them shortly."

The three saddled up. Toar and Celesi trotted down the road. Scurra stopped as she noted a murder of crows gathered in the trees. They eyed her as they cawed, and she frowned to hear their racket. Run! Run! They seemed to say. Death comes for us all! Scurra shuddered—yet, the day was warm and bright, as she rode after the others.

polished 11.1 — 2020/03/14

polished 11.1, 11.2, 11.3 and 11.4 — 2020/03/18