Solveny

Polished 10.1, 10.2, 10.3, and 10.4 — 54m58s — 2020/08/12

Polished 10.5 and 10.6 — 1h12m45s — 2020/08/14

There is a reason they are called the Broken Legions of Tronde and Rigel and not the Broken Legions of Rigel and Tronde. Though both were generals in the Old Talian armies, Tronde led the fabled exodus with his warriors and fought the occasional enemy that stood against their escape; while Rigel defended their van from the Waoernok hordes, and the mercenary armies that pursued them.

The forces were not split evenly, but were heavily under Rigel’s control, as he had to fight a delaying action against their pursuers, while Tronde found little resistance, indeed, was often embraced by those the Broken Legions encountered on their way to the Bunderhilt Mountains; many of which joined their beleaguered cousins for fear of the Waoernok hordes. Rigel was tested in a different way, as he was always under pressure, and constantly fighting.

All in all, the Great Exodus took 525 days from the fall of the the great city, Jamijarie, until the blended forces of Tronde and Rigel beat back the last of their enemies along the Ridges of Mount Victorie and the Pass of Stoens.

Upon finally arriving in the Bunderhilt mountains, Tronde settled in the valley of the Heartflow, while Rigel went north to Melmorahn. Tronde continued leading troops, and living the life of a soldier all his life, while Rigel hung up his sword almost immediately, in favor of a farm. Despite their divergent courses, and what one might expect of their continuing experiences, Tronde’s later years were fairly quiet as an age of general peace and prosperity settled over the mountains. Yet, in the wilder north lands, Rigel was involved in number of violent confrontations. Although he was forced to defend himself on several occasions, Rigel’s sword never left its place above the door; until a week after he died, when it was taken down and presented to his eldest. Late in life, Rigel is quoted as saying, “those that attacked my farm never deserved the sword.” Indeed, it was always enough for the man to have a rake, a shovel, or even nothing at all. Of the two, Tronde was the charismatic leader, the diplomat, and negotiator; while Rigel was a hard scrabble tactician, a gruff strategist, and a masterful fighter of few words.

Seeing the men they’d eventually become, it might hard to imagine the two came up under very similar circumstances. Indeed, they met at an early age, and were fast friends for decades despite their contrasting personalities.

— The Divergent Paths of Tronde and Rigel, Wybrow the Wanderer, p. 10

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

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 Crea 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. The rent was a bot for every diem she brought in on the birds and herbs. Indeed, it was a proud day when she was able to give the landlord a silver diem. Two years later her latest rent was three and a half diems. Tucked in a discrete corner of her hut, she had a sock full of coin as she saved for a cottage of her own.

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, as she abandoned her tending, and stared out on the city.

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. The reasons for violence often escaped her—though several brothers and life in general 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, meat 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!" another revealed.

Many of Crea’s 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 stuffed this all into her bag and prepared to leave.

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. 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. Half a dozen men went with him.

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

"Help us battle the flames!” A growing crowd called. “They set fires in all directions!”

More and more of the building’s inhabitants ran to 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 the 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 her birds. "They have locked the gates and keep the door. The fish will guard their precious post and nothing else!" she sneered.

"They cannot be so selfish,” Crea reprimanded. “Surely, they will help.” But the gate of the keep stayed raised.

Crea stared out over the city. 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. She meant to gather her bag and be off, while she might still escape.

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

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

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

Admittedly, the roar of violence was now dim in the distance— sporadic and far away. Crea let the old lady hug her as the city seemed to calm. She focused on her friend’s warmth.

But the ebb of conflict did not last. Crea opened her eyes once more. She 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 to boot!

Crea wasn't the only one to notice this fast approaching force. Screams, shouts, and curses seemed to catch in the air all at once. 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 was beginning to feel smothered.

"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 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 out of view, she had a clear sight 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 riders appeared on the other side of the arch—but it was too late. Half open, the invaders poured into the city proper and secured the gate—then rushed up the streets, cutting down everyone in their way.

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

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 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. But what could she hope to do?

"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 simply blacked out.

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

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 her 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.

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

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, and murder in his soul. 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 Crea couldn't understand his language, she got the message all the same. Struggle and he would kill her.

She could fight no more as her mind unraveled and edged toward unconsciousness once more. Then, his hands relaxed. She coughed and choked. He held her down and rudely squeezed her tits as she tried to get air.

Aware that she could do nothing about the assault, Crea tried to turn her mind to anything else. She wondered where this brute got such beautiful feathers, and hated him for having them. She wondered what sort of creature had such brilliant plumage and assumed he must have killed it.

As Crea suffered, 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 pain. Her attacker pulled away and she grabbed at the covers of the 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. Who had attacked them? Why?

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—what? Returning home to her parents? She couldn't bare the thought of seeing her father and mother after what this brute had done to her—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 reasons, 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 into the room 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 and began to undress.

“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 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 his 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, snap, snap. 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 didn’t waste a second. She 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 the time she reached the ground, 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 over her.

She could hear the Saot swear and cuss as he came to the front door of her building. He cradled his pinkie and massaged his jaw as he looked about for any sign of her. Crea lay among the soft dead fall 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 fancy 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 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 smashed.

Crea saw nothing inside and was confused that they bothered to go into the hut 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 wasn’t 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 Oblarra 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.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 10.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

"What happened to your hand?" Gliedian asked the minor Saot noble as he approached down the ruibned street.

Banifourd frowned, as he 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 sword, and so he simply muttered insults in response to Gliedian’s question, as he rubbed the pain out of his jaw.

"Some flowers have thorns," the scar-faced copal told the Saot.

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 smirked as if that was exactly his plan.

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

“Ebertin is not lost,” Gliedian frowned. “And I will not let some minor setback cloud my judgement.”

“Minor?” Banifourd questioned.

“Do not forget that we are at war,” Gliedian informed. “Our enemies are not all weak and weaponless—or have you forgotten the resources of your own former master?”

“I haven’t forgotten—but you can’t pretend like you expected to lose the judge,” Banifourd responded.

“I pretend nothing. I merely adapt,” Gliedian stated. “Now prepare to march. We take the bulk of Trohls south, and we burn our path.”

“Then we make for Gaurring…” Banifourd began—though none of their actions made sense to him of late. “And why should Trohls attack my homeland? Do you think my cousins will simply allow an invading army into the duchy?”

Gliedian stared at the man and wondered that he was daft as well as incompetent. He hoped the rest of Aerindoun’s men were not so useless.

But of course they were not. Aerindoun would not have agreed to spend this man in such a cheap way if he was good for much. What did the emissary say? He was good at keeping his mouth—and that was about it.

Gliedian smirked. "Rest assured that every last one of these men will be spent on giving Aerindoun the duchy,” the High Commander replied. “For now, the Dunkels have given us a path and asked to burn out some more of their enemies. We have only to keep away from the Count of the High Plains, and his army, and we are in the clear."

Banifourd glared as he hated being in the dark almost as much as he hated being alone. “I was told my man would meet me here. Where is he?”

“You’re man?” Gliedian replied.

Banifourd placed his hands on his hips. “I go nowhere until you tell me where I’ll find Garfindel.”

Gliedian stiffened, as he was unaccustomed to addressed so brusquely. He took a deep breath, relaxed, and smoothed his shirt as he thought about the other Saot—the useful one. "Ah, yes, you'r man, Garf,” the High Commander forced a smile. “I've sent him ahead of us—to sow the seeds of discord.”

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

Gliedian shrugged. “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 shrugged. “From what I hear, he must have died when the waokie attacked," he faked a frown.

Banifourd huffed—but decided it was best to push his luck no further. he was nervous since he didn’t have either of his men to watch his back among these treacherous Ministrians. "Well that’s unfortunate,” he said about Bence. “But I expected to meet Garf here nonetheless."

"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."

"You have taken liberties," Banifourd charged. “He was my man.”

"And I suppose I owe you a premium for the use of your good man?" Gliedian nodded and dug in his pocket. He 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 few weeks for such a trinket?"

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 to the Ministrian.

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

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

"I like pretty things—and I take 'em when I see 'em,” Petaerus sneered.

Banifourd raised his voice and called to Gliedian. "Is there a reason this dog blocks my path?"

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

Petaerus nodded and smiled at the command. Such work came with a premium.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 10.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Toar decided to step into town while the other men sparred. Considering how long it took them to crown a champion yesterday, he figured he had a bit of time to mosey about one last time.

As he wandered, Toar noticed a pistol musket in the window of blacksmith’s shop. He stopped and stared at the weapon. Only yesterday the duke had made good on the money owed to the Trohl since all the way back at the Invader’s Fort. He was feeling flush, so he stepped into the shop and inquired after the weapon.

“Two lunes,” the smith answered.

Toar frowned. "Why so cheap?" he asked the blacksmith.

The smith shrugged. "The Soat was hard up for coin and he sold it cheap. I have no interest in such weapons, and it’s been cluttering the window for nearly a year,” he answered. “Why bother with a musket?” he added with a wave. “A bow and arrow is just as deadly, and far quicker to reload."

“It’s a weapon of intimidation,” Toar said.

The blacksmith smirked. “Says who?”

Toar shrugged, also unconvinced by Baet’s argument, “It’s what I heard from a friend.”

The blacksmith scoffed and pulled a knife from his belt. It was nearly a foot long and serrated on one edge. “This is intimidating,” he said as waved the weapon appreciatively. “that is a rock thrower.”

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

The smith put his knife away. “So you do know a thing or two about musket,” he said as he searched a crowded bench. "I got what he had—good Gaurrish powder—or so he said," the smith lifted a slight bag. He opened it. Satisfied with the contents, he passed the pouch to Toar.

With a nod, Toar gave the smith two lunes, then stepped to the door.

“What’d you find?” A high, fine voice asked.

Baet jumped and turned to find Celesi at his elbow.

“Ooo! You got a musket?!” she beamed. “How’s it work?"

Toar shook his head. “This isn’t a toy, Celesi.”

“I’m old enough to know a weapon when I see it,” she reprimanded. “Come on,” she pouted. “Tell me about it.”

With a sight, Toar gave her a cursory explanation. "Well, you put the fire powder and a ball in the barrel; then, you jam a bit of cloth down after it with this rod. Next, you pull back this lever, and aim it at the thing you want to kill. 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. The ball then smashes through 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—but we couldn't fire them for fear of attracting bugbear or Ministrians. He says they’re incredibly loud."

“What does he know?” Celesi frowned.

“I should think he knows about muskets,” Toar noted.

"Well, there are no bugbear or Ministrians about us now. Perhaps we shall have an opportunity as we camp,," Celesi smiled.

"I’m giving it to Baet,” Toar shrugged. “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,” she mused. “And dangerous, you say?”

“Very.”

“Let me have it.”

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

"What if we should run into trouble again?”Celesi shrugged. “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’s not all that," Celesi claimed, wide-eyed and innocent—though he was perfectly right. "I'd like a better way to protect myself is all,” she feigned innocence.

“You really want it?” Toar frowned.

Celesi gave a solemn nod.

"Then you will trade me for your blades?" he 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. “It’s a deal," she said as she offered him the collection of blades.

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

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

Toar studied the girl.

”Please!” Celesi begged.

"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.

"If I wanted his help, I'd ask him," Celesi frowned. “I asked you.”

“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, Toar held the weapon out to Celesi. She moved to take it—and at the last second he pulled it away.

"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," Celesi 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 notice.

Scurra approached on horseback with two more mounts in tow. “There you are,” she said. “Let’s go catch the others.”

"Where are the others?" Celesi asked.

"The last I saw them, they were almost on the edge of town," Scurra explained.

“But what of the contest?” Toar asked.

“Our dark friend ended that rather quickly,” she said with a smirk.

Toar and Celesi saddled up and followed. Scurra stared after a murder of crows that gawked and cawed as they gathered in the trees. She frowned to hear their racket and felt like many of the birds were staring at her. Run! Run! They seemed to say. Death comes for us all! She shuddered—yet, the day was warm and bright, as she rode after the others; and she did her best to forget the darkness of her dreams.