Pursuit

Polished 7.1, 7.2, 7.3, 7.4, and 7.5 — 2020/04/30

Polished 7.6 — 2020/05/01

Polished 7.7, and separated 7.8 from 7.1. I like sandwiching the chapter with Brankellus. — 2020/05/03

The first night after his death, Brankellus found a hollow, and since he was neither warm nor cold, he laid near the trunk of a tree and closed his eyes for several hours. A deep and profound tiredness washed over his body, and he hoped to cure some small part of it in the way he always had. He settled among the debris of the forest, rested his head, and closed his eyes. He listened to the roar of his breath and the night’s dim sounds drifted in the background. The taste of the cool night chilled him to the edge of chattering, and the pressure of small needles never let up. The faint scent of his death, both rancid and sour, gathered and grew. He gave up his fight for the earthly pleasure of sleep in a fit of disgust.

Brankellus grudgingly rolled to his knees, got up on his feet and hands, then grunted as he stood straight-ish, and trudged back out onto the roadway. He concluded there was only one rest for the dead; the eternal rest—and though he knew how to enter that blissful realm—he was unwilling to take that step. Not yet, anyway. Not until he caught his quarry.

The stars continued their call as Brankellus sloughed along the road. There was something about them that lit the faintest whisper of hope deep in the dead man’s chest. They poked at his heart, as they stared down from above, and begged him to take his eternal rest.

The night slipped away and the sun crept over the horizon once more. The drudgery of the day was no less and no more than the torture of the night. He felt he should be strong and capable of a steady march; but his pains and ailments shifted and overlapped, always causing his gait to be slow and jumbled. If it was not the heat of the day, then some strange nausea, or an extreme exhaustion that overcame him. If not one of these calamities, then he was limp with a sore ankle or foot—or perhaps his breath would catch, and he’d struggle for air—gasping and hacking as it finally came.

Sometimes his weakness completely overcame him. He’d stumble or pitch into the dirt. There, he’d lie for several minutes, doing absolutely nothing, totally overcome, and given the respite of knowing he’d done all he could do…

…and the the slow creep of the earth came upon him once more. He remembered the deep chill of the night. He itched, and a burning vengeance gripped his heart. Teeth clattering, he grumbled to his feet, and shuffled after the scent of his enemy once more.

Brankellus drifted south and east along the road, blessed with a sixth sense. He did not understand the sensation, only that he was called south, as if by the voice of a sad and suffering people. He imagined they were the many victims of Petaerus and his ilk. Their dirges helped fuel his rage.

Eventually, Brankellus arrived at the north wall of Rynth Falls. In his living years, Brankellus had once visited the small Trohl settlement. The little town was not as he remembered it—mostly because Rynth Falls was no longer little. At first, there were a number of tents, most of which he witnessed before he even reached the wall, which was taller and thicker than he remembered. He was forced to stand and wait at the wall for nearly an hour. Brankellus itched, as he tugged and struggled to work past the gate with no effect at all. He howled and cursed as his impatience grew. Finally, the gate opened to allow for a changing of the guard among men that slept in the tents. The spirit lurched into the old city.

Beyond the familiar wall, the town was much bigger and more established than he remembered. Were there not a few small farms the last time he was here? But now the houses were pressed quite close together, though a few still maintained a small garden her or there. Most of the buildings were now two or three levels high.

Near the outlook, one building stretched to the impressive height of eleven stories—but then, Brankellus was far more impressed by the outlook itself. There was nothing but clean clear granite for some 300 feet—and then a lateral drop of some thousand feet or so, with all the valley below, stretching out to the great plains of the Noeth. To the west were the falls, as the mighty river soared into open air, only to plummet with a mighty swoosh.

The roaring plume of the river turned to thin ropes. These ropes of water frayed, and small sheets of liquid fabric, tattered and blown, drifted to the earth, most of it falling in a great pool. Next to the pool, the second part of the old town stretched out as Brankellus remembered it; only grown up, like it’s sister city up top. The sprawl of new building, another wall, and a flood of tents stretched out into the patchy forest beyond.

Brankellus remembered people picnicking in this open area, at the edge of the cliff. Some of the revelers stepped so close to the edge. They dangled their heads, hands, feet and legs over the edge. In life, Brankellus was never interested in staring off the edge, and could hardly stand to see others so cavalier around it—especially the children! It gave him a bad case of nerves.

But now things were different. In the dead of night, there was no one around, just Brankellus as he stepped along the rock until there was nothing but air before him. He was strangely unconcerned with the consequences, should he fall. It was not as if it could kill him—or so he thought.

But then, Petaerus was down there, somewhere in that forest of soldiers—and the road down the cliff was winding and long. This was much quicker, and perhaps it’d prove to be a pleasant way to skip the drudgery of switchbacks—a long slog of several miles… Instead, he dropped with the care of a feather in the wind—and impacted with the seriousness of meat hitting rock. The flesh and bone of his body mashed into the granite, bounced once, and rolled to a slow stop. The pain of it was excruciating—but only for a split second—and then he died for a second time.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Komotz stepped into the dark room and looked out the window. He leaned toward Duboha and whispered. "How long have they been out there?"

“Long enough,” Duboha shrugged. "I suspect they arrived when our friends returned."

"Will they attack, or...?" Komotz continued.

Homoth lumped his younger brother on the shoulder. "They're not sneaking around for the fresh air, you moron! It's the middle of the night!" He said in a harsh whisper. "Go put on your colors!"

Komotz opened his bag and began to search for his tabard.

Homoth turned to Duboha. "How many are out there?"

Duboha shook his head, "We've spotted at least a dozen out front and that many more out back, so, maybe fifty? Sixty altogether?" he shrugged.

“Seems like a lot,” Komotz blanched.

“I wouldn’t bring any less,” Duboha noted.

The younger brother hissed and looked to Homoth with wide eyes. "Can we fight that many?"

"Gonna have to," Homoth shrugged.

"Is everybody awake?" Duboha asked.

"The word's going 'round; ten minutes and git downstairs," Homoth answered.

Duboha gave a nod. "I go to gather my stuff," he said and stepped from the brothers. He gave a nod to Traust as the commander came down the stairs.

Traust wore a chain mail shirt and the tabard of the Oak and Beast. He set his pack on the floor and an ornate shield next to it. The shield bore a great tree done up in jade detail with a large, hairy, wolf-like beast, made of onyx, asleep in its shade. On his hip, Traust wore the sword he always wore, with a sculpted black hilt in the shape of a beast's head. The beast had emerald eyes and ivory teeth. "What do see?" Traust asked as he stepped between the brothers.

"Degorouth. Ministrians," Homoth shrugged. "Duboha believes there may be as many as a hundred."

"That many?"

"I wouldn't bring any less," Homoth shrugged. "What do you think? Do we wait for their attack? Do we try to break a line and make a run for it? If so, do we rush the front or the back?"

Traust shook his head. "This house is tinder. We can't stay. Once the others are ready, we'll fight our way free, and make a run for the wall."

Komotz gulped. "How long do you think we have?"

"Minutes at the most," Traust shrugged. "Let's hope we're ready to leave before they're ready to come in—otherwise we'll have to start the fighting before we start the running."

"Simple enough," Homoth said.

“I should think it is too simple,” Komotz gulped.

Homoth turned to his worried younger brother. "Don’t fret. Complicated plans tend to go right out the window once the swords start swinging. Let their plans be complicated, so once we disrupt them, they can fall all over themselves,” he grinned as he checked his weapon in anticipation.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Andrus rushed into the room as Saleos and Toar rested in their chairs. Elpis lay in the bed, heavily bandaged and completely out of it.

"He'll live?" Andrus asked as Saleos began to stir.

Saleos gave a nod. "Give him a week or so and he should be alright—though I'm concerned about the eye. The other is good, which is good, but all this says nothing of his emotional state,” he finished with a shrug. “Of course, we won’t see any of that until the drugs wear off.”

"What if we have to move him?" Andrus asked.

"Like, to another room?" Toar replied.

"More like out of the city," Andrus answered.

"Now?!" Toar sat up in his chair, suddenly concerned.

Andrus nodded.

Saleos shook his head. "He's drugged to the gills. We'd have to carry him. Why? What's going on?"

"We’re discovered. We think they were followed,” Andrus gave a nod to Elpis. “Traust wants to make for the wall."

"The wall?" Toar stood. "What good'll that do? The gates won't open 'til dawn!"

"That's maybe an hour away," Andrus noted. "If they put up half a fight, it'll take us that long to get there."

Toar didn't like the idea. "You expect to run and fight for an hour?!" he began. He was about to complain further when Aim stepped into the room, a massive intimidating beast of a man. At the sight of him, Toar swallowed his complaints.

"I hear we have to go," Aim said as he looked at Elpis.

"That's the word," Andrus said to the massive man.

Aim pointed at Elpis. "I assume he's not going to carry himself?"

"Not a chance," Saleos answered.

"Well then, I suppose I better bring our friend." Aim said as he gently scooped Elpis from among the covers and placed the man over his shoulder. Saleos assisted and helped him settle the injured man on the giant’s shoulder, then arranged a thick blanket to cover the comatose warrior.

"It'll do," Saleos shrugged.

"Let's hope so," Aim grinned. "Komotz says there might be two hundred of ‘em out there. Get what you need and get downstairs," he said as he left the room. "We leave immediately."

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

"Not you too!" Scurra fussed as Duboha stepped into her room. "Why won't you people just let me sleep!" she bawled as she launched a shoe at the man.

Duboha brushed the shoe aside. "Andrus says you threw a cup at him."

"I'da thrown a knife if I had one close!" she complained as she buried her head in her pillows once more.

"Wish I didn't have to bother you, cousin, but we have company," Duboha noted. "Degorouth. Ministrians? Either way it doesn't look good."

Suddenly aware of the implications, Scurra stared wide-eyed at the man. "We were followed?"

Duboha shrugged. "That's what I think."

“Argh!” Scurra rolled over on her back and huffed. "Dear Jeiju! I was finally comfortable!"

"It isn't meant to be," Duboha shrugged. "Your brother gave me this. He thought you might want a bit," he held up a small leather pouch. "Indeed, f it is what I think it is, I wouldn't mind having a pinch myself," he noted as he offered the pouch to Scurra.

Scurra opened the pouch and removed a slight spoon, then sniffed its contents. Her eyes went wide as she identified what was offered, “fio.”

With a sharp inhale, she sat up straight.

"Alright then, let's do this," she said as she stuck the spoon into the pouch, removed a bit of fine green powder, and ate it. She wiped the spoon clean with her fingers, then passed the spoon and pouch back to Duboha.

Duboha took a dose himself. "Invigorating," he grinned.

"Never been a fan of the stuff," Scurra shrugged. "Makes me feel jittery—but if there was ever a time to take it," she threw off her covers and peeled off her nightgown.

Wide eyed, Duboha turned from Scurra as she wore nothing but her small clothes—though he fought the urge to take another look at the athletic woman in all her unadorned glory.

"Where do you want my bow?" Scurra asked as she pulled on her travel leathers.

"Apulton and Andrus are up on the roof, if you care to join them," Duboha answered. “Though most of us gather in the main hall.”

"The roof it is," she nodded. "So what's the plan? Do we stand and hope to outlast a siege, or do we make a run for it?"

"We run,” Duboha said. “We make for the wall. If you get separated, make for The Copper Kettle and Rooms, six hours on the main road east."

"Six hours, eh? That's not so bad," Scurra noted.

"It's six hours on horse," Duboha shrugged. "It'll take you two days on foot—more like four or five the way you been traveling."

"Haha," Scurra scowled.

"There's maybe fifty men out there, and they don't mean to see us go peaceful," Duboha frowned. "When things go sideways, we'll be lucky if half of us make it out."

Scurra studied Duboha with a critical eye. "Have a little faith, my friend. You never know what might happen."

Duboha shrugged and stepped from the room, "Pray for the best, prepare for the worst."

~!@#$%^&()_+ 7.5 +_)(&^%$#@!~

In the main hall, as the party crowded around in the dark, Celesi stepped close to Toar with Evereste in her arms.

"Why do you bring the baby?" Toar asked. "Why don't you give her to her mother?"

"That one is a bit of mess right now," Celesi whispered as Toar caught sight of the priestess. Wenifas leaned heavily on Krumpus as the two slowly navigated the stairs. "I'm just happy to see she's on her feet again," Celesi continued.

"That bad, eh?" Toar stared at Wenifas as a wicked looking dagger dangled from the priestess’s hand. Toar turned back to Celesi. "Do you need a weapon?" He asked the former Jay.

Celesi lifted the hem of her dress that he might see a set of blades attached to her thigh.

"Throwing knives," Toar smiled. "Are you good at tossing them?"

"No," Celesi admitted. "And I don't intend to throw a single one—but I know which edge splits skin,” she pulled a blade and waved it about menacingly, then placed the knife back in its sheath. "Besides, if I need to fight, we've already lost. Instead, I'll care for the baby and let the mother handle a weapon. She looks like she'd enjoy cutting someone."

"Let's hope it's not Baet," Toar muttered under his breath. He shook his head. "I'm not much better myself," he said as he eyed the sword at his waist.

Celesi looked about the others. "There are a few fighters here. We'll be alright," she said, and hoped that saying such a thing might make it true.

Though the fighting men all wore the colors of the Oak and Beast, they wore varied armor and brandished a wide array of weapons. Saleos carried a bow in hand, a quiver at his waist, and two short swords on his hips. Duboha was heavily armored with a shield and a long sword. Homoth was also armored, but had no shield. Instead, he had a long mallet in his hands, and a pair of short swords on his belt. Komotz wore chain mail as he carried a shield and his long sword. Aim carried a long pole axe, and Elpis on his shoulder. The giant man also had several edged weapons about his waste including Elpis’s axe on his back. Creigal carried a long sword in one hand and a small shield in his other. He wore thick leathers and a metal plated helmet. Carringten had a long spear, a large shield over his back, and Bence's short sword at his hip. Baet had Derris's sword and a long knife in his other hand. Krumpus was draped in his dirty travel cloak and carried his staff with the metal point on the end. His other arm was looped around Wenifas, as the priestess leaned against him. A wicked looking dagger dangled from her fingers.

For himself, Toar carried a short sword in one hand and a large hunting knife at his side. His free hand looped around Celesi's elbow as she held Evereste with both hands, all too happy to have Toar standing so close. She drew strength from his touch.

Of all of them, Traust was the most formidable. His armor shined as he brandished his extravagant sword. His other arm held a large shield decorated with silver, jade, and onyx. Celesi smiled at the regal look of the man and thought nothing could happen to the party with such leader at their front.

Toar looked about the room. "We're missing Apulton, Andrus, and Scurra," he noted with a frown.

"They're on top of the house. As soon as we start running, they'll cover us until we get free," Saleos whispered. "Once we're free of the house, they'll cut loose and follow."

"That's the plan?" Celesi asked, horrified that it was so simple.

"Just about all of it," Saleos shrugged. "Make for the wall. If you get separated, go for The Copper Kettle and Rooms. Its a good distance down the east road, maybe thirty miles on your way to Hearthstone..."

As Saleos spoke, shadows grew and danced among the group. Komotz turned and pointed to the front of the house. "Fire," he noted in a calm manner.

Celesi turned and saw flames as they crawled through the cracks of the window and the frame of the door.

"We go now," Traust ordered. With a nod, he stepped to the back garden door while the others pressed close behind. He pulled open the door and stepped through.

A barrage of arrows screamed out of the night. They shattered against the armored form of Traust and fell away harmless—all but one. One slipped just above the edge of his shield and buried itself in the slit of his visor. With a jerk, Traust backed a step, foundered, fell to the floor, and jerked about. Celesi watched in horror as blood poured from under his helmet. He convulsed and twitched until finally his body went limp.

With a curse, Duboha charged through the door. Several arrows slammed against his armored form—though there were significantly fewer missiles. This time, none of the arrows caused any damage as Duboha surged into the garden.

Homoth followed immediately and the others quickly emptied out of the house behind his heavily armored form. Creigal set his small shield aside and took Traust's massive round with its intricate detail instead.

As she left the house, Celesi looked up and saw arrows fly about the roof of the house. With her stomach in her throat, Celesi cradled Evereste as she ran toward the sounds of conflict. Panic rose in her chest and threatened to overwhelm her as Toar pulled her forward, toward the mayhem.

A figure toppled over the edge of the carriage house and landed with a sickening crunch only a few feet away. Another slipped from the roof as he clawed and screamed, his voice filled with pain and panic, as an arrow protruded from his side. Then, another arrow stuck this man in the shoulder, and he fell to the ground, screaming.

Ahead of her, metal banged against metal. Curses, yells, and screams quickly followed. If not for Toar, Celesi would have run in any direction, and hid in the first convenient patch of shadow. Instead, she kept her eyes on the brave, young Trohl and gripped his hand as tight as she could.

Toar led Celesi through the back garden gate as they chased after the others. She passed Saleos as he aimed his bow back the way they came. She glanced back and saw his arrow impale a shadow. The attacker lost his feet and his weapon crashed to the ground. The sword slid and clattered to a halt near her feet as it's former owner gargled and died a short distance away.

Ad then she was running again.

Toar pulled Celesi along. They passed a number of dead and injured men. One man sat against a fence with his stomach cut open. Shock and horror danced across his face as he ignored everything else and tried to gather his intestines. Despite a frantic effort, he simply could not put the slippery knots back inside his belly. Celesi felt sick. She pressed her mouth into the screaming form of Evereste and suppressed an urge to vomit. Thank the gods she did not recognize the man.

Toar pulled Celesi down a thin alley at break neck pace. She turned her focus to Evereste and did her best not to jar the child as she ran. They turned a corner. Suddenly, Toar stopped, and Celesi ran into the back of him. He pushed off of her and they reeled away from each other.

Something heavy split the air between them.

An axe looped end over end through the space Celesi just occupied. She backpedaled furiously, but couldn't keep her feet. She lost balance and rolled on her back, careful to cradle Evereste, as she crashed to the ground. Her breath caught as she tried to ignore the pain that rang through her rump, and back. There'd be bruises for sure.

Toar helped her up as large form appeared behind him. A Ministrian stepped out of the night and Celesi screamed. Toar turned and just managed to dodge as the Ministrian brought his sword down. Toar countered, but the Ministrian swiped aside his strike and stepped close to Celesi.

The Ministrian grabbed her and nearly pulled her off her feet. Celesi screamed again and did everything she could not to drop Evereste.

Toar slashed at the attacker. The Ministrian turned the blow—though he was forced to let go of Celesi. She backed from the conflict, looked about for the others, and wondered where they were. Outmatched, Toar backed away from the Ministrian—only to realize he was cornered.

Something dropped out of the sky and wrapped about the Ministrian—a serpentine thing with massive wings. The attacker screamed and tried to throw the beast off as it bit him again and again. Toar took the opening to attack. For a split second, he wondered if he should go after the man, or the serpent, and decided at the last second to stab the Ministrian. The tip of his sword pierced the man's chest between his heart and shoulder. The man gaped at Toar, shocked by his sudden misfortunes. He backed away in a rush as he wrestled with the winged beast.

The serpent separated from the man—though the man continued to fight. He clawed mercilessly at his own throat and screamed his panic and terror. Blood streamed from his neck and hands as he buried his nails in his own soft skin. He jerked and convulsed, and his screams turned to a gurgle as he fought only himself. A few seconds more, and the attacker slumped on the ground, his life fled with his blood.

Celesi yelled as the giant serpent turned toward her, wings extended, fangs exposed. With a hiss, the beast spread its wings and launched itself into the air. Wide eyed, Toar and Celesi stared after the creature—but it disappeared just as quickly as it came.

Scurra and Andrus appeared from out of the dark as they ran down the alley with bows ready. They glanced nervously after the unexpected beast. "What the bloody hell was that?!" Andrus asked as he took Celesi by the arm and pulled her along.

Celesi shrugged and wondered how half the city wasn't awake with so much bloody screaming and fighting. She looked about the nearby buildings to see that many windows were indeed lit. Now that she thought to look, she noticed much of the neighborhood was in fact awake! People streamed out of their houses, most with weapons in hand. Panic gripped the apprentice Jay, as she realized they’d never fight through all of them!

"Let's go," Toar urged and pulled Celesi down the street. There were several more bodies. Celesi only looked long enough to see that she didn't recognize the dead. She turned quick from the pooling blood. Scurra and Andrus followed close on her heels.

A shout went up to her left, "Ministrians! Ministrians!"

Celesi turned toward the voice and saw several shadows as they bolted across the street.

"Ministrians!" The call was repeated and started to sound all around. "Ministrians!"

The sounds of fighting erupted everywhere, instead of just ahead of them. As the fighting intensified, it also drifted away. Slowly, the tension eased from the air, and Celesi felt she could breathe once more. For the first time since she stepped from the house, she thought she might live through the night.

The rest of her company no longer fought. Nor did they run. They were stopped in the middle of an intersection. They gathered about and stared down the streets in all directions. Celesi glanced about her friends. Although there was a good deal of blood among them, most kept their feet. As she counted heads, she noticed armed shadows gathered about them. Slowly, a crowd of men closed in on them from every direction. A knot of dread formed in the pit of her stomach.

Celesi was pushed to the center of her companions. She came eye to eye with Wenifas. The priestess looked just as harried as Celesi felt. "My baby!" Wenifas exhaled and claimed the crying child. Although Evereste whined, she seemed no worse for the wear as Celesi handed her over.

Also pushed to the center, Toar leaned close to Celesi. "So much for making the gate," he frowned.

"Who goes?!" Duboha called to the men that gathered around them.

"We ask the same!" Came a reply. "We are the Pan Iskaer, and you have broken our peace! Put down your weapons or perish!"

Saleos let out a sigh of relief as he set down his bow and sat in the street. He put his head between his legs as the others sheathed their weapons and set them on the ground.

"Do we know them?" Celesi asked.

"We know 'em,” Duboha nodded. “It's their neighborhood after all."

“Wait,” Celesi began, suddenly suspicious. “You expected them to intercede, and you made me think we had to run all the way to the wall?!"

"Expected?” Duboha shrugged. "We certainly hoped it might happen. Still, I'd prefer not to be at anyone's mercy,” he said.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Claiten woke from his sleep and sat up in a luxurious bed. He considered the room as a light haze poured through the windows.

The sun was about to come up. Despite the early hour, Meu was missing. Claiten was unconcerned—though he didn’t like being alone as much as he used to. The serpent came and went as she pleased and kept strange hours—but she always came back. Besides, he didn't want to distract her from the task at hand. She was looking for his mother, and nothing could please the boy more.

Although Claiten saw Meu with the Ministrians several times, the boy was forbidden to talk with the men. She stared into his eyes and warned him of the harm that might come to his mother and even his sister. Cautious of what might happen if they realized who he was, Claiten kept his distance and remained silent.

Over the last few days, Claiten went out himself, during the heat of the day, when the nagas were least likely to be slinking about. Despite the sun’s brightness, he refused to go into the parks. He took several coins with him and often treated himself to pastries and sweets while he looked for his mother, or any of their other comapnions, among the many streets and shops. Once, he noticed a man with such black skin and thought he must be the dark warrior. But he was not the first to find him. Several guards marched the dark man away, but as he passed, Claiten got a good look at the man. They stared at each other for a long moment, but there was no recognition on this stranger’s face, which had a different shape and a sad hollowness about it. The dark man Claiten knew was always confident and serious.

Now, it was morning once more. Claiten pulled on his pants and went to the balcony door. He pulled open the door and stared off to the east as the sun began to peek over the horizon. There was a chill in the air and it made Claiten feel alive to face up to the brisk wind. For several seconds, he listened to the birds chirp as the world was painted red. He breathed in the new day, as a defiance surged through him. Then he crowed, long and loud, like a proud rooster should. "ERRR-AY-ERRR-AY-ERRRRRR!"

He turned this way and that to see if anyone cared for his crowing. If anyone minded, they kept it to themselves. He gathered his breath and gave another call, "ERRR-AY-ERRR-AY-ERRRRRR!"

He stared out over the city streets. He was about to crow a third time when he spotted Meu, as she flew straight toward him. Claiten pushed the balcony doors wide and stepped out of the way. Meu shot into the suite and swirled about before she settled on the bed. A darkness swallowed her and Claiten turned away. As soon as the darkness faded, he knew she'd be naked as the day she was born.

Meu whipped on a sundress and ran to Claiten. She grabbed his hands and pulled him inside as she said the only thing she ever said out loud. "Druss meu!" She said excitedly. She’d done it! She’d found his mother!

Meu gathered her scant belongings. Claiten gathered his purse and the naga dagger he’d carried from Beletrain. He left the ill-fitting outfit Meu found him that first night, since they'd purchased him a proper set of clothes the next day.

"Druss meu!" Meu exclaimed again as she dragged Claiten from the room and out of the inn altogether. Somehow, she’d done the impossible! Somehow, she’d found his mother, and all the others!

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.7 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

A limp child hung from Golifett's arm. He'd gone through a great deal of trouble to secure the young boy. He certainly it'd live at least a little longer. They had a better texture when fresh.

He leaned his ear to the boy's face, satisfied to hear the child breathe, long and deep. This child was smaller than the last, and didn't come with a surprisingly large bag of coin—but it was a worthy prize, and should do as the centerpiece of a feast. To think he'd found the other child almost by chance in the very halls of Beletrain—only to have him stolen away!

Golifett was above ground as the light of day grew—but he didn’t have to worry. There was a spot in the stream that was much deeper than it looked, a bolthole that would carry him down into the safety of Beletrain. The cold of the water would shock the boy awake—but then he'd be in Beletrain—all the screaming in the world wouldn't save him.

This night was strange for the naga. The normal quiet of the morning was shattered just after he grabbed the boy from his bed. At first, he thought he was discovered and might have to fight his way back home, but then he saw a fire, and knew there was other trouble afoot. Thankfully, it turned in the opposite direction, and immediately traveled away from him.

As Golifett slipped among the shadows, he wondered if the rumor was true; were the men fighting more among themselves? He could certainly hope. Let the humans fight! He thought. With luck they’ll reduce Ebertin to ash—and then the naga will to return the surface once more!

As Golifett thought cruel thoughts, another note caught in his ear. Although it was immediate and send a jolt through his spone, it was a most pleasant and appreciated sound—indeed, he liked it more than the fighting! Somewhere to the east, a young boy mimicked the sound of a rooster. It was the boy he’d found in the halls of Beletrain. He listened to the call once... twice... There wasn't a third. He frowned.

The frown curled into a smile. So the curse stuck. As long as it lasted, the child would be fairly easy to follow—until the boy eventually slipped the naga’s magic and thought no more of courage and chickens.

He’d need a little help.

Golifett wondered if he might get the child, the gold, and perhaps the woman's infant too boot. He touched the scarred tissue of his burned face, and thought it proper to take both of the witch's children for what she did! With any luck, he'd get to kill the witch too!

Day was upon him. Golifett didn't dare stay in the city any longer. For now he'd satisfy himself with this other child. He'd prepare a feast and gather his goons. Then, as night fell, the hunt would for this other child would commence once more.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.8 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Yet, Brankellus had sworn a pact with the gods of vengeance and strife. Slowly, they stitched their acolyte, weaving scar tissue that could only add to his aching and misery. They pulled him back together, as easily as a mother darns a cloth doll. Then, the howl of the dead rushed across the valley, and ignited the secret purpose deep within his chest once more. There was a man to kill.

Brankellus coughed and spit dirt as he rose from the earth. He picked himself back to his feet and noticed it was no longer night. Now, it was day—and most of the tents were gone. How long was he out before the itch of his hatred caught hold, and he finally came back to this scratchy and irritated existence?

There were still a few tents at the edge of the city—but they would not be there for long. Soldiers prepared to march. They were thick as hornets as some loaded provisions. Others waited to march, already ready, or simply scoffing off as they might. There were a good number of Trohls among them, with some few Saot and Hebronese mixed in—even a Gressian or two. It was a mixed force, though they all wore Trohl garb, including the Ministrians. Brankellus realized the Empire continued to wage war under false pretenses.

As Brankellus slogged along the road, some commander of the troops meandered down the street near him. This high officer inspected the troops as he just happened to match the unseen ghost stride for stride. A weather worn scout stared up at the commander as a knot of other officers and soldiers pressed around them.

“How far out were they when you left them?” the commander asked without looking at the scout.

“Eight days,” the scout answered.

“And that was…?”

“Four days ago.”

“In what condition did you find them?” .

“They were in good health; body, mind, and spirit. If they are late at all, I should think it will only be a day or two,” the scout finished.

“No troubles? No sign of Waokie on the south road?”

“No, sir. Not by me, or any man I met.”

For several seconds the commander stared at the scout, then continued down the line of soldiers. Word carried on the wind before the approaching knot of rank. The common men were all engaged in a flurry of sudden activity as they watched the high officer pass, pleased to see the commander taking little notice of them.

“Is there something you’re forgetting?” the commander asked as he continued to stare at the scout.

For a second, the scout simply stared back, terrified and dumbfounded; then he remembered the letters in his bag, retrieved them, and handed them to the officer with a crisp salute.

“Thank you,” the officer said with a wave and a smile. He turned from the scout. “That’ll be all.”

The officer moseyed down the street, opened the first letter, and read it to himself. With a smile, he spoke to no one in particular—though the gathered men all hanged on his every word—“It seems we’ll have the second and third legions here almost as quickly as the first! They shall be here by the end of the month, with another seven expected by the end of summer!” A swell of cheers and glad handing broke out among the gathered rank, but the commander’s grin quickly turned to a frown, as he continued to speak. “And we shall need them all, since we must now fight on two fronts.”

“Do we pursue the waokie immediately?” asked one of his men.

“No, the war is broken. They will not attack again for some years,” the high officer answered. “They will retreat to their stronghold, and retrench. Nonetheless, we shall keep half a legion here to watch the town. The Trohls leave four hundred of their own men, and no one has seen a single beast within a day’s ride since they melted away. I should think the waokie are properly thinned and satiated for now,” he speculated. “When the first legion arrives, we shall begin splitting the men for our multiple tasks. We shall need to clear out Valcovour’s Pass,” the stated with a frown.

“We retake the mountains,” the commander stopped and turned on the last man that spoke, “and this time we take them for good! We’ll control the Bunderhilt from Wibbeley to Ebertin, from the plain of the Noeth, to Crestone Ridge at the north edge of the Gopi lands!”

At this point, Brankellus outpaced the lecture, and was happy for it. Eventually, he approached the far edge of the army and left them all behind—as Petaerus was not among them.

He walked. Brankellus wondered how long he was out after his fall from the ledge, that so many of the troops had already left. Was it just the remainder of that night, and the first part of the next day… Had he lost another rotation? Did he lose a full day, or even days, while he was blissfully unaware?

He remembered nothing of the episode except an impossible pain, the briefest glimpse of some strange oblivion, and a vague sense of bliss and comfort; only to slowly rise and return to the burning, itching, dreadful discomfort of his quest.

For hours, Brankellus walked. The sun rose and slowly approached it’s zenith. Eventually, the column of Ministrians and Trohls appeared, and marched from Rynth Falls on their way to…? Brankellus wasn’t sure. These were lands of the Noeth and he did not know them.

Brankellus did not notice the train of troops as it appeared behind him and proceeded to catch him. He did not notice the shake of the earth—until the first of the horsemen was immediately behind him—the beast brushed him and immediately spooked to find a spirit in its way. It reared and nearly threw its rider. Brankellus suddenly feared the pain the of a trampling.

The horse stared at the ghost and did everything in it's power to avoid any further collision—as the rider tried to settle the animal and coax it forward in a neat line. The mount passed to one side, as it pressed into it’s neighbor, and took several quick steps before it finally calmed under the veteran hand of it’s rider and gave its neighbor some appropriate space. The next horse also stomped and fussed as it veered and gave the spirit a wide berth.

"What's up with ‘em?" this rider asked, as he too struggled to calm his mount.

"Dunno," another shook his head. They stepped around the unseen ghost, giving Brankellus an ever increasing berth. Intrigued, Brankellus stepped close to one of the horses and held out his hand. His fingers brushed the animal's coat and an electric jolt passed from him to the beast. The horse jumped at the touch and gave a panicked whinny. It collided with the next horse, and caused several more mounts and riders to collide—though none fell. Well trained, the riders managed to stay on top of their horses and return them to a semblance of order. Now, the flow of soldiers stepped off the road to either side of the ghost for a good twenty feet. Aware that something was up, several horsemen eyed the spot where Brankellus stood with out and out suspicion—though they invariably looked straight through him. From among the whispers and murmurs of the men, a general call went up.

"Voressa! Voressa! See what cannot be seen!" they shouted.

The horsemen parted and a young page led a weary donkey into the clearing. Upon it sat a withered old woman in gray sack cloth. The page brought her into the circle, and stopped at the old woman’s word. Slowly, she dismounted, stepped from the beast, and approached the spirit. Her eyes were cloudy. Brankellus wondered if she could see anything at all—until she stopped maybe a foot in front of him stared up and locked her gaze on his eyes.

"Why do you trouble us?" she asked, her voice shrill and weak, though her manner was familiar, and her question unafraid.

Brankellus noted the pin she wore with two fangs, one of silver and one of gold. He did not need much encouragement to treat this old woman poorly. The fact that she wore some mark of privilege sent him over the edge. A snarl curled over the dead man's lips as he glared and growled at the old woman.

Voressa frowned as she raised a weathered arm at Brankellus. "Do you challenge me?!" She pulled a charm of fine metals and delicate crafting from under her sack cloth cloak and pointed it at the spirit. Brankellus got a good look at the pendant, all flowers and stars knotted together. "You will learn that this is a world for the living, first and foremost!" she screeched.

Brankellus did not recognize the relic, but he could feel a strange power radiating from it's five point forms. Caught in a wash of hate and vengeance, he lunged at the old woman in hopes of somehow causing her damage.

"Begone, troublemaker!" Voressa yelled as she twisted the amulet.

His hands passed right through the old woman—though he he could feel the metal of the amulet as his fingers brushed it. A wall of air crushed into Brankellus, and the spirit shot backward into the trees, flung like a rag doll. He came to rest in a thicket of undergrowth, a good forty or fifty feet from the road.

Voressa scowled from the center of the road, crept to the edge, then turned to the soldiers and waved them onward, as she continued to glare at Brankellus.

Assured there would be no more trouble, the column proceeded once more as the old, blind woman stared through the trees at the vengeful Trohl spirit. Caught by the old woman's uncanny gaze, Brankellus didn't dare move. He simply watched the troop proceed, as he wondered at the old woman’s power.

With the page’s help, Voressa eventually struggled back on top of her donkey. Then, the page led the weary donkey after the troop. Two mounted men with armor and weapons stayed back with her, and flanked her protectively as they followed the others.

With their supernatural protector at the van, the troop quickly disappeared among the trees. Brankellus began the wearisome process of standing up. He slogged after the soldiers, though they progressed quickly. Soon, he could not even hear the clomp of their hooves.

The day stretched, and for several minutes it took on the red hue of evening. The blue stretched into black, and slowly, the stars peeked out of the night. Once again, thin pricks of hope occasionally shot down from distant stars, and begged the ghost to surrender.

Near midnight, Brankellus hobbled passed the same troop of soldiers as they rested at the side of the road. Not wanting to run into the old woman, he kept his distance, which was easy since he simply had to keep the road. Indeed, Voressa was awake and near the center of camp. He glanced at her from time to time, as he made his way past. She turned and glared at him with her strange eyes. "Trouble us again, and I will send you through the veil!" she yelled as Brankellus moved through the trees on the far side of the road. He wondered if she could do such a thing, and thought it best not to test her.

For two days, Brankellus played leapfrog with this column of Ministrian shock troops. Each day they passed him earlier, and each night he passed them later. Although he never stopped, they traveled at a faster clip—even as they made camp each night. Brankellus realized he would only catch his quarry if Petaerus stayed in one place for a while.

They must all be going somewhere, Brankellus concluded. Eventually, the soldiers would get where they were going—and then the ghost must surely catch his quarry! But he did not think of what else he might find first.