Challenge

Moved 12.2 from 11.3 — 2020/05/28

Polished 12.2 — 2020/05/30

Began rewriting 12.1, polished 12.2 — 2020/06/03

Polished 12.1 — 11m55s — 2020/06/21

Polished 12.1 — 55m13s — 2020/06/22

Polished 12.1 — 46m34s — 2020/07/02

Polished 12.5 — 44m47s — 2020/07/03

Added 12.4 — 27m42s — 2020/07/04

The light of the day was upon them. Crea woke slowly. A deep exhaustion wore through her body. She was tired, dead tired. The fatigue wrapped through her muscles and sinew. It stretched down to her very bones. She was so tired she didn’t even want to cry—as the events of the day before peeked, and then flooded upon her. She prayed for oblivion.

In contrast to her wishes, the sound of the wind and the creak of the trees purred in the background. In the foreground, she could hear the shamble and huff of the older post runner as he worked about camp, sounding industrious and determined. Slowly, she lifted herself into a sitting position. The effort was ginger and slow. She glanced down and caught the rude oranges and purples numerous large bruises. She recoiled, morbidly fascinated by the swirl of soured blood under her skin. “Doidge!” Crea cried. “We hiked so late, and I am exhausted. Can’t we rest a bit longer?” she lamented.

The old, large post runner shrugged her off. “Do what you want,” he called, seemingly disinterested.

Curious of his tone, Crea poked her head from under her blankets. The old post runner was fully dressed and his gear just about packed. “You making to leave?” she asked with a quizzical frown.

Doidge quickened the pace. "It's for your own good. I have an oath, and I mean to honor it," replied. The post runner stood, buckled his sword in place, and put on his helmet; then began to situate his numerous bags. "The boy also has an oath,” Doidge glared at Malcolm.

The young page sat in a dejected manner as he stole glances of the young bruised woman before him.

“He'd be wise to tend my instruction," Doidge finished.

“You’re both sworn to carry the post,” Crea replied.

“Don’t pretend to tell me my office! I have many oaths, and I know their orders!” Doidge snapped. He pointed at Malcolm. "The boy carries the post and he takes it to Land’s End. I go south, to report to my betters, to tell them of the mess in this county! I go for Danya,” the old post runner explained.

"What if I would go to Danya? Or maybe just Gaetilly?" Crea asked.

Doidge stared at the girl. "Don't be daft! You’re talking five-six days to Land’s End and almost two weeks to Gaetilly—and you won’t get a horse before that!"

"I am subject only to myself," Crea asserted. “I shall go where I want.”

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

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

With a shrug, Doidge returned to his task. “The Holy Schrivnah don’t need me serving as escort to some willful brat,” he shrugged.

"Brat?!” Crea fumed and shook her head. “Now listen here! There’s no need for insults—” she began as she stood to her full height, with the dirt of yesterday still upon it.

Doidge interrupted with a haggard finger in her face. "No you listen!" he snapped. "I am a man of the post and I mean to honor my office: nothing less and nothing more! I am not your guard, and I have no interest in your life, so if you wish to give me commands, you better be reeeaalll good with that pig-sticker,” he hissed.

Crea eyed the fancy falchion as it lay next to her blankets. As much as she wished to take it up, 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 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 as she returned to her blanket. This way, if he should attack, at least she had the option of the blade.

Doidge leaned in close. “That, or you better have a way to pay me.”

She gulped, and thought it wasn’t fair for her to part with her coin. She doubted she enough for him anyway.

Realizing she didn’t have the coin, Doidge glanced at her tits—despite the bruises—and gave her a suggestive glance.

Crea backed away and declined with a slightly offended air. Still, she tried to reason with him. “We saw the fires last night. At least some of those murderers are out there, among the farmlands, causing calamity. They will have us if they can get us!”

"And what of it?!" Doidge glared. "You don’t know where they are! They could just as well be to the south! Who is to say they will not be in my way! Have you considered that?!” He snapped. “There is no safe road! Put your mind on that!" he turned and gathered the last of his bags.

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. She wondered how he could be so callous. As they’d escaped the city, he’d seemed affable—but maybe he simply thought it was easier to bring her along at that point.

He probably thought she meant to cling to him like a drowning cat—a thought that only irritated her all the more.

And why was he being so rude? Tears welled in Crea’s eyes. "Fine!” She snapped. “Run south, to your precious Master General, you coward!"

Doidge turned and struck her a slap across the face. “Watch the tongue, or you’ll end up with more of those spots,” he glared. "I saved your life! A little gratitude is on order!" He turned from Crea, then began on his way. "If you follow me, I'll kill you myself," he called over his shoulder.

Crea watched as he walked away. As he neared the limits of shouting distance, she called after him. "Run!" she yelled. "Run with your tail tucked, you cur!" She threw her hands up in rude gestures as he glanced back. He returned the familiarity of crude signal and continued on his way, thankfully.

Malcolm set a placating hand on Crea’s shoulder. “There is no need—” he began.

“Don’t touch me!” Crea snapped and bolted from him. She glared at the page.

"We must be quiet," Malcom said in placating manner. “They’re out there—somewhere.”

Crea turned from the boy and retreated back into her blankets. Silently, she huffed and sobbed, until she didn’t care about any of it. After a time, she wiped her eyes, then slithered out of her blankets, red-faced and haggard. The page had done nothing while she cried—nothing but watch. With a frown, she began to roll her blankets. “Gather your stuff,” she told him. “We’re leaving.”

“You’ll feel better when we get to Lan'd’s End,” Malcolm tried to reassure her as he began gathering his own items.

“We’re not going to Land’s End,” Crea stated.

“But I must!” Malcolm protested. “Will you not come with me?”

“I go south,” Crea answered.

“He’ll kill you,” Malcolm’s eyes bugged out of his head. “He’s as mean as he seems—and I’d be breaking my oath! He’ll do worse to me!”

“I have no oath,” Crea snorted. “And we’re not going after him anyway. I go to my father’s farm. Perhaps you can find some real men that are interested in going to Land’s End, if you wish to come.” She was so excited by the prospect of seeing her family, she almost smiled.

How fare is it?” Malcolm asked.

Crea shrugged, “Maybe a day and a half?”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 12.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Camping in the Valley of Carnage

The sun was settling below the west mountains when they stopped near a large placid lake with several massive peaks visible to the east.

"I do not like it," Scurra said as they spread about to set up camp. "Let's press on."

“This is a great camp,” Komotz scoffed. "We've camped here often. It is a perfect spot."

Saleos nodded. "We can fish for dinner. There isn't a better place for leagues."

"It is only a few hours to the base of the mountains," Scurra suggested. "We know the area. It will be easy enough to set up camp in the dark."

The others argued against her, especially when she would not say why she did not want to stop. She did not want to tell them it was because of a bad dream, because of so many crows. She wanted to say that sometimes the dreams were prophetic – but then she'd have to admit that sometimes the dreams were just dreams, and sometimes it was hard to tell the difference. "Why stop at all?" She argued. "We are not far from Jindleyak lands. If we press on, we can reach the border about midnight."

"We have prisoners and dead among us," Saleos argued. "What if we are stopped in the dark and have to explain both bodies and bondage to another militia, to a Pulbouge militia? Are we not more suspect? In the wee hours, as dawn approaches, we will be groggy, and more likely to misstep. What if a horse should stumble and throw one of us? We do not need more injured."

"If you wish to ride for the border, you are welcome to it," Homoth noted. "But some of us want to rest and take sup – and our friends most certainly want their lesson."

Scurra finally conceded once the tents were up and most everyone else was down at the lake to do a bit of fishing or practice under the tutelage of Carringten. She told herself it was only a dream, and that fear is the ultimate enemy. After all, it was only birds – and a storm of such utter cold that it could not be real.

"We are near the border?" Wenifas asked.

"That's it," Scurra pointed to the mountains. "Strawberry Pass is the low point between those peaks. The other side of that ridge is Jindleyak lands."

"And how far until Hearthstone?"

"Three days, and you shall see the great mountain," Scurra gave her a wan smile.

Andrus, Hesperus, and Baet saw to the prisoners as they were placed in a tent and given blankets. "Do not come out in the night," Saleos told them. "If you should come out, we may think you are up to no good, and we will kill you."

"And what if I need to piss?" Meriona asked.

Andrus whistled at Scurra.

She turned and he waved her over.

"Will you escort the Jay to a discrete bit of bush so she might relieve herself?"

Scurra nodded. She pulled the bow from her back and waved Meriona out of the tent, "Come on."

As the Jay passed, Andrus said, “We’ll take you out one at a time to do your business – and if you need to tinkle in the night, I suggest you all settle on a convenient corner of the tent."

~!@#$%^*()_+ 12.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Wenifas smiled at the shaman. “You’re hands better.”

Wenifas smiled back at her, and with his eyes he thanked her.

"How did you know?” Wenifas continued. “How did you know Kezodel would be struck down?”

I didn’t know exactly what would happen, Krumpus began. But I’m shocked nobody else could tell. It was making my hair stand on end. He shook his head. I didn’t know it was a meteor—but I knew something significant was coming our way, he said with his eyes.

“And you knew it had to do with the judge?” Wenifas asked.

Krumpus nodded. Doesn’t make much sense, does it?

“It does,” Wenifas smiled. “I was in your head—but I was such a mess of emotions! There was so much occurring; and I’m still trying to figure out what parts were me, what parts were you, and what parts were the wyrm,” she smiled. “But you tried to save him,” Wenifas shook her head. “Kezodel was such a corrupt and wicked man. Why would you try to save him?”

Because there was a chance, Krumpus shrugged. He might mock all powerful god, but he certainly knew there are powers greater than his own.

To think of such a man saved, Krumpus continued. He could have been a great prince; a true royal of cunning and power, like the Ewile Queen Smixsmaxsmia. The shaman shrugged. Instead, he is a stain, and just another reason for commoners to fear chimera.

“Then, there is a true and all powerful god?” Wenifas asked.

Krumpus nodded emphatically.

“And what would this god have from us?”

Our smiles and songs of praise, Krumpus answered. And when the suffering strikes—as it always does—it would have us struggle and survive; that we might smile and sing praise once more.

“Why must we suffer?”

We must suffer if we wish to grow, Krumpus shrugged. But the suffering never lasts.

Wenifas thought of Derris, and her heart sank. “I don’t think I can believe that,'“ she noted.

The world is rough on all of us. Krumpus shrugged. Beware of holding too tight to your suffering. You’ll summon more of it if you aren’t careful.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 12.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Creigal courts Meu.

A short distance from the camp, Creigal sat on a large rock and fished a calm creek that fed into the lake. As he dangled a bit of bait into a deep pool that gathered at the base of the stone, Meu approached.

"Oh, hello," the duke half jumped from his perch. "And how are you this fine evening?" he smiled at the quiet lady as his heart thumped in his chest.

Meu continued to smile as she climbed the rock and sat next to the duke. She set a gentle hand on his arm and stared into his eyes.

"Fishing," Creigal leaned in close and whispered the answer to her unspoken question. "Can you see them down there, close to the water's surface? It ripples with their passing."

Meu leaned over the water and watched the fish visible just under the surface. She took Creigal's free hand and held it in her own. As Creigal stared at the rippling stream, Meu licked venom on her lips. She leaned in on the duke. Out of instinct, Creigal turned toward the beautiful skin-walker. A trout took his bait as Meu kissed him. He pulled the fish from the waters as foreign thoughts crept into his consciousness. He held the fish up for Meu's appraisal. Well done, she said in his mind – a thing that quite surprised and fascinated the duke.

With a blush, Creigal set more bait on the line and dropped it into the river. To an unsuspecting observer, it might appear as if the two sat quietly on the rock, hand in hand, as he fished for their dinner – but there was a rush of conversation between them, occasionally interrupted by a trout on the end of the line.

It was not long before Creigal had half a dozen fish.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 12.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Golifett scanned the calm night skies and smiled. "The stars are in perfect position. Olbarra is exalted, and there is much tension among the others. I think the morning shall bring a significant storm.”

"There isn't a cloud in the sky—nor have we seen one in a week,” Maligno frowned. “I do not share your optimism," the hivra stated.

Golifett snorted, but then tried to hide his derision. He needed those that followed the hivra of he wished to capture the boy and murder the redhead. “Does the weather only change when you are not watching?" he finally asked.

“To call me dubious is fair,” Maligno replied. “Spell weavers tend to overstate their abilities.”

“I am not a braggard,” Golifett noted. “Would you prefer we wait and continue to follow? Were you not the one calling for haste?”

“I simply doubt your abilities to summon this storm,” Maligno answered. “Not only are they away from the towns and villages, they’ve made the critical mistake of camping next to the water. I should think even the full sun of say cannot save them.”

“Then it is set,” Golifett smiled. “And there shall be a storm like few have seen—for these lands were ours, all the way to the mountains, for a thousand years before the Yak invaded! Our ancestors will not forsake us as we strike against our enemies!"

“I am beginning to think I should make your share contingent on this weather you promise,” Maligno noted. "The fairness in me says we should first see how you fight.”

“I beat three of them, and managed to steal the boy once already,” Golifett said.

Maligno nodded. “Then one crept into your house, rescued the boy, and I can only assume did this to your face.”

Golifett frowned “This is a sacred duty. One at a time, we steal their future! And the adults we do not kill, we slowly break their spirits! With such straws, we will break their backs!"

"Since when are children hard to come by?” Maligno asked. “All creatures love to make them.”

"Life is a game of inches," Golifett countered. "A child here and a child there is a family in twenty years, and a clan in a hundred! We feast on the flesh of their children, and this strengthens our own nation as it weakens theirs!"

"I don’t care about all that,” Maligno retorted. “You’ve cost me good men, and entangled me too many quagmires over the years—but you’ve made me a small fortune for my troubles. Now, if we’re down with these little rituals of yours, I shall thank you for the chicken, and retire until this storm appears,” he finished as he made for the edge of the water.