Slow Road East

Polished the entire chapter. Moved 11.3 from chapter 9 and expanded it. I’d still like to put Claiten in it some more. I think I want him to attack Homoth, or maybe Aim, on the first day of the sparring — 1h27m41s — 2020/08/11

Polished and moved 11.5 from supplemental material to here. It is a split conversation, one that is continued much later, maybe 17 or 18, when Krumpus reveals a secret… We’ll see… — 52m52s — 2020/09/20

Worked on 11.5, mostly formatting — 12m34s — 2020/09/20

Creigal approached Meu as she stood under the willow; curious to know what she cared to say. Would she mention the song, perhaps speak of being a wyrm, or would she simply accuse him of snooping?

For her part, Meu had taken little notice of the old gentleman, other than his proper and cautious ways. Indeed, he was as new to her as these other Jindelyaks—and a bit less interesting. From what she’d seen, he was a calculating and tight-lipped noble; aloof and dispassionate—except when it served his purpose. She remembered his speech, and how it worked the others into a bit of frenzy, especially the priestess. But Meu was not so easily manipulated, she was old as he, and wise to many ways of the world. Not that her suspicions mattered. What mattered is that he might have caught her as she shifting shape—and although she had no reason to fear such a revelation among the others, she preferred to keep her secrets. She blushed as she asked him what he saw.

Creigal marveled that she could speak with nothing but her eyes. He showed his hands and hoped to alleviate any fears. “I apologize, I didn’t know what I was seeing until I saw too much,” he admitted. “I have met wyrms, and I have met skin-walkers, but you are the first wyrm I met that could skin-walk,” he smiled. “At least, I have not met one that let me know it.”

You mustn’t tell the others, Meu replied.

“I wouldn’t think of it,” Creigal said with a bow. “But if I am to keep your secrets, I must ask a few questions. Shall we break fast away from the others, and we can talk more?” he offered the slight lady his elbow.

With a wry smile, Meu took his arm, and allowed him to lead her.

As the two ate, they spoke of their daughters, and also their sons—then Creigal proved to be tight-lipped as Claiten approached and picked from the wyrm’s plate—but Meu spoke freely in front of the boy, and the duke realized others among the party were privy to her secret, including the child.

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

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

Creigal gave an absent wave. "At such times, you are free of your responsibilities," he said as he gathered his scant possessions. "I should think even you would like a break from time to time."

Carringten snorted. "One day you will be gone, and I can hang up my sword for good. Until then, I remain vigilant."

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

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

"What of my nephew, Varius?"

“He is admirable, but he has his own men.”

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

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

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

“I was never so loyal to the duchy—indeed, there has never been a land I’ve considered home—there is only the man that rescued me when I was too young to defend myself,” Carringten concluded. “If Daphne survived you,” he shook his head. “But she does not. For Varius, there are other effective and cunning men. Let them protect him and your other ministers—that is—in the unfortunate event that I shall outlive you.”

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

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

"Agreed," Creigal nodded.

"Have you spoken to Duboha?" Carringten asked.

"I have not," Creigal admitted. "I spent a wondrous night under the trees, and was distracted during my breakfast.”

Carringten gave a nod. "Duboha and Aim have asked our pardon. They intend to go back to Ebertin, with the Pan Iskaer. I gave them your thanks and a little coin to prove it.”

"Of course," Creigal nodded, ignoring the fact that all his current coin was borrowed from his new Jindleyak friends. It’d be easy enough to repay, and nothing watered a fledgling friendship like a little free-flowing coin.

"Duboha says there is little chance of trouble and leaves Saleos in charge of the others,” Carringten shrugged. “Of course, I have my reservations.”

"Anything specific?"

“No, just general misgivings,” Carringten shook his head. "Mine is a suspicious line of work."

"Indeed."

"I asked Toar for his assessment, but he says he has never been so far east and can only offer his speculations," Carringten said.

“He still knows the people and their customs,” Creigal replied. “His use to us as a guide is undiminished, so long as he wishes to continue with us.”

“He has said nothing to the contrary, Still, I worry about the young Trohl,” Carringten continued. “I wonder if he is not overly distracted."

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, I may be suspicious,” Carringten grinned. "But it seems that you are the worse, as you are superstitious."

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

Baet spent the late morning in the pools one final time. As he soaked and relaxed, he heard the patter of small feet. He looked up to see Claiten rushing at him, dagger drawn. The boy crowed, “ERRR-AYE-ERRRRRRR!” And jumped at the Saot. Baet sucked his breath, backpedaled, and stretched out his arms. He grabbed the boy out of midair and swiped the knife away before the child could do any real damage. Then, he carried the flaying youth to the edge of the pool and launched him over the walkway, into a larger and deeper pool.

Claiten hit the water, submerged, then rose to the surface as he paddled to stay afloat. He caught sight of Baet, then turned and swam for the far edge of the pool as he noticed the guard had his knife, was out of his pool, and was now advancing on the boy. His heart thumping, Claiten looked to evade his enemy—but the man had him cornered, and the only blade to be seen.

“You want to fight, boy? I’ll teach you how to fight,” Baet said, and sunk down on his haunches. “Hah!” He roared as he jumped at the boy—then dodged back immediately.

He stood up straight and stared at the boy.

“That’s a feign, child. I do that to check your reflexes,” Baet grinned. “You got that youthful agility, but I got the years of experience.”

“This…” Baet waved his the blade as he advanced on Claiten. “…is a distraction,” he said and poked the boy in the chest with his other hand.

Baet stood up straight and stared down at the boy, his expression stern. Claiten stared up at him, barely able to breathe, his fear rising to a choking level.

Baet leaned over the boy and poked him the chest once more. “That’s a direct assault,” he said.

The guard hobbled away and pretended to be injured—then swung the blade about and advanced once more toward the child.

“That’s feigning an injury to lure you in,” Baet informed. “It works best right after getting nicked—or even if its really close—but you can get some of the dumber ones to fall for it all the same.”

Despite himself, Claiten smiled.

Baet waved the knife at the boy, and set him on edge one more time. Then stood up and smiled. He jostled the kid’s hair. “I wish Toar had some of your fire.” He leaned over and got right in the child’s face. “You got the courage, kid. What do you say I teach you fight?”

Slowly, Claiten agreed. He reached his hand out for the dagger.

Baet shook his head and set the knife behind his back. “If I give it to you, you have to quit trying to stab me with it.,” he said. “If I take it from you again, I’m keeping it.”

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

The departure from the Copper Kettle and Rooms, was slow and drawn out. The militiamen decided to practice before Aim and Duboha left for Ebertin and the rest of the Oak and Beast continued on their way home. Scurra was fine to watch them go through the forms, to grapple and roll a bit; but when they decided to hold a tourney with sparring sticks, she complained long and loud. “Is this how it is?” she chided. “While the lot of you scrap for a day’s glory, Traust and Apulton long for their eternal rest!”

“We haven’t practiced for days,” Homoth complained as he took the first point from Andrus. “We are safely away from Ebertin. It is time we return to our exercises.”

“A game is fin—for those days when we have nothing better to do,” Scurra scowled. “But I mean to go home, and would like to arrive sooner than later.”

“I shall defeat them as fast as I can,” Homoth shrugged. “But first I must wait for them to defeat each other,” he said as he took a second point from Andrus.

“We’re wasting time!” Scurra fumed.

“It’s not a waste!” Homoth shot back. “Practice keeps us on the knife’s edge! If trouble should come again, you will be most happy to have us at our best!”

“And sometimes he does not win,” Aim interjected. “We’ve all been champion a day or two—even Andrus is champion from time to time.”

“I win as often as the rest of you put together,” Homoth noted.

“You do get lucky,” Aim shrugged.

“Tell you what,” Homoth turned to Scurra “If you should beat me, we’ll call it a day and march immediately.”

Scurra glared at the man, “You provoke me.”

“I do indeed!” Homoth admitted as he took a third and final point from poor Andrus. “But I am the last champion, so I can leverage the rules—so long as I do not give me unfair advantage.” He turned to the others. “What say you? Anyone object to calling it a day if Scurra can land three strikes?”

The others shrugged and continued with their own sparring, quite sure Homoth would not lose.

“Come, let us get our blood pumping,” Homoth grinned at Scurra. “Show these others what the fairer sex can accomplish!”

Still glaring, Scurra took the tourney sticks from Andrus and squared off against the older brother. She went all out from the beginning. She hacked and swiped at the gifted young man before her—but Homoth deflected and dodged her aggressiveness. He backpedaled and danced away from her as they circled and circled. As they danced, an audience gathered. “What do you think?” Creigal asked his captain as they watched Scurra slash and assault Homoth.

“She has skill—but he shrugs her off with almost no concern,” Carringten noted. “See how he baits her? He is very talented. I should like to see him up against one of his own caliber.”

“And what of the other men?” Creigal replied.

“It is early to say as much, but I think any of them might fit among your irregulars,” Carringten noted.

“High praise,” the duke noted. “Including the woman?”

“Especially the woman,” Carringten nodded. “What she lacks in talent she has in heart—and she is attractive to boot. Yeah. Men would swarm after her, to protect her, to impress her, just to be near her. Many en would bleed and die for the approval of such a woman.”

Creigal agreed as he watched Scurra and the men slash and dance.

Despite Scurra’s aggressiveness, Homoth took the first point, and also the second. Scurra won the third with a solid blow to Homoth’s right thigh—though Carringten felt like he gave her the opening. “We may leave early yet!” Homoth chortled as he favored his right leg. “You only need two more,” he beamed at his nemesis.

Scurra didn’t wait for him to set. Instead, she rushed him immediately. Homoth defended himself well—but Scurra eventually overcame him—mostly because he refused to attack. She meant to hit him square once more, but the agile older brother was barely glanced. “That counts!” Scurra pointed as Homoth circled away from her.

Homoth nodded. “Two to two,” he agreed. “Next point decides the day,” he said as he set.

Scurra charged once more. She threw herself into the effort and nearly scored the final point several times, as Homoth defended and backpedaled. “Fight back, you lout!” Scurra screamed. Her attacks took on a reckless edge. She didn’t have to worry about a counter, since Homoth wasn’t retaliating. “FIGHT BACK!” she screamed again.

Homoth wasn’t phased. He blocked, dodged, and parried every stroke—then, as Scurra opened up too much—he gently poked her in the chest with the tip of his tourney stick. “Ahahaha!” he laughed as he danced away with his arms held high.

Scurra glared after the man as he hooted and hollered, then she threw down her tourney sticks and stomped away in a huff.

“Hey, don’t go!” Homoth called after her. “Don’t you want to fight among the others for the glory of second?!” he taunted.

Scurra turned and made a lewd gesture.

Homoth turned to the others and chuckled. Duboha beat Saleos, and Homoth beat Duboha. Then, because the others had not yet lost to Homoth, they challenged him one after another. Saleos lost first. “Too fast today,” he said, as he limped out of the circle with a sore hip. Komotz and Homoth fought for quite a while, going back and forth, seemingly even matched.

“Notice how they step,” Carringten pointed.

Creigal shrugged and shook his head. “I can tell they are good, but their style is quite foreign.”

“They take liberties,” Carringten noted. “See there. Watch their steps.”

“If you say so,” Creigal frowned. “Do they prolong things unnecessarily?”

Carringten shook his head. “I don’t think so. Neither seems to notice where the other is opening up.”

The contest continued. Creigal seemed bored and stared off after the others, though Carringten was rapt. The fighting continued as Homoth and Komotz started assaulting each other verbally. The others joined in with their own sharp tongues. After a long and drawn out exchange, Homoth finally won.

Komotz left the circle in disgust. Aim stepped forward. The final confrontation began, and almost went as predicted—except an unexpected thing happened. Aim beat Homoth three to two.

Aim was the last opponent Homoth had to face. But since the giant won, he now had to face anyone that he hadn’t beat; and since he’d lost in the first round to Duboha, he now had to beat all the others. One by one, they lined up to challenge the large man, so they might claim glory for themselves.

“And if Aim is beat, will the others line up to fight the new champion?” Creigal asked a fuming Scurra as she returned to glower at the men.

“Of course,” Scurra answered. “It is not just a test of strength and skill, but also stamina.”

The fighting continued. Aim beat Andrus, though Andrus managed a good strike. Next, Aim defeated Komotz, though the younger brother led two to one. Duboha got another go, since he’d won his first contest against the giant—but he lost the second. Thankfully, Aim defeated Saleos, and since there was no one else to challenge, Aim declared himself victor; then lightheartedly mocked the defeated as they congratulated him.

“We shall do this again,” Saleos said. “In the morning.”

Scurra groaned to hear it, though the others paid her no mind.

Aim shook his head. “I am jealous that you shall soon play touches among the Jindleyak. I should like to play one militia against another.”

“You don’t have to stay,” Saleos began.

“I am committed,” Aim smiled. “I shall miss you all,” he said as he hugged his cousins goodbye.

The Jindleyaks bought several horses from the Pan Iskaer. The Pan Iskaer threw in some tents and other essentials they had in surplus. Saleos bought a wagon. Elpis was laid in the back of the wagon with the ashes of Traust and Apulton—a thing he did not like. As Aim placed him in the wagon, Elpis complained bitterly. "I am not dead yet!" He scolded his young cousin—despite his numerous bandages, pale countenance, and weird eye beaming at unconventional angles.

"Hush, you," Aim chastised the injured man. "They are not such bad company," he frowned as he patted Apulton’s urn.

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

Elpis snorted and spit to hear this. He felt better than he had in days—though he could barely sit up for more than a few minutes. The back of the wagon was spacious, and his cousins bought him a copious amount of padding—yet Elpis used what little energy he had to complain. The others were happy to have him show such vigor and continued to tease him good-naturedly.

Midday, they were finally all gathered and ready. Duboha, Aim, and the Pan Iskaer, waved them on as Saleos drove the wagon, with Krumpus, Wenifas, Evereste, and of course Elpis as passengers. The others all rode their own horses, except for Claiten. He rode with Meu for a time, then rode with Baet when Meu was too interested in making eyes with the duke, and while his mother took a nap. Baet let Claiten hold the reins, and taught him how to handle the horse in general. He also showed the boy several magic tricks he’d picked up in various corners, among other sneaks and rogues. In return, Claiten showed the Saot guard a few of his own tricks he’d picked up among the urchins of his race.

On and on they marched, until the sun was about to set; then paid a rancher for a camp sight where they might be near a stream. They made camp as the sun dipped below the mountains and kept guard in threes as the dark of night spread over them.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

(While the men train, Wenifas and Krumpus discuss magic)

"Then you can speak to my brother of magic – and I am sure he will be happy to have someone that wants to learn it," Scurra stated.

"Why wouldn't everyone want to learn it?" Wenifas asked.

"People like the idea of magic because they think it is easy. Most people rapidly lose interest when they realize it is like every other craft and art: it takes lots of work and dedication," Scurra shrugged. "But you should learn what he can teach you. My brother is very gifted."

The only people she knew among her own that claimed to have magic were the church fathers and mothers, those like Fedring, that claimed their powers were granted from the gods. Despite their insistence that they only used magic for good, Wenifas knew them to be swindlers and liars. To her, it seemed the church fathers and mothers used magic to coalesce their own power and dominate their congregations. What if the shaman meant to do the same?

But Krumpus was not like Fedring. He'd done nothing untoward, and had risked his very life to defy Kezodel. If anyone could teach her a magic worth knowing, she believed it was this man. What might he teach? Without something substantial, she felt she could not go on. She traveled further and further from everyone and everything she knew. She needed new anchors, lest she be set adrift on a foreign sea, unable to navigate, with no harbor for the storms. She leaned close to the shaman, and hoping to rekindling their conversation, whispered to him. "How are your hands?"

Krumpus smiled and nodded as he stretched his digits for the priestess. He stared into her eyes, and she knew how he felt, that he had not felt so good since before Fedring cursed him and twisted his fingers and hands against themselves. Indeed, he felt nearly whole again and ready to take on the troubles of the world once more.

Wenifas smiled. "I have been thinking about what you said. I am curious to hear what you think you know of me that I do not."

Krumpus gave a nod. He pulled the lump of charcoal from his pocket and began to write once more. Have you discovered anything of late?

"Many things," Wenifas frowned and whispered that Saleos might not overhear. "I have discovered that I am complicit in the careful destruction of my own people. I have discovered that I am unable to deal with the world outside my known station with any real alacrity. I have lost my son and nearly forgot my daughter. It is a miracle we are alive. But without these others, I find myself unfit to continue."

Krumpus gave a nod. He should have expected such a dire evaluation. Still, he smiled at the priestess and wrote. Man is not a solitary creature, but one that needs a pack. We all depend on others. He paused before he wrote more. Despite your misfortunes, what have you lost?

Wenifas wore a tragic smile. "Most of it was not worth keeping, and the rest of it has come back to me," she looked to Claiten. "In the end, I've only lost a lover." Despite the cheap words, tears began to form in her eyes as she remembered Derris. With a huff, Wenifas turned from the man and cursed. He only had to ask questions and she immediately began to fall apart!

Noting her sadness, Krumpus changed the subject. There are three kinds of magic: white, black, and the colors in between.

"And what is the difference between the three of them?" Wenifas asked as she wiped away her tears.

Black is the all devouring fear of the dark. Black magic taking what you want however you can get it. Black magic is selfish, cruel, and short-sighted.

White is is the ever-living sacrifice of love and loss, never to hold, and always to want. White is the saintly abstinence of a perfect life, always giving, always taking the long view.

“And that is why I’m to strive to be a white magician,” Wenifas said.

The shaman shook his head. Our path is not so easy as all that, he told her with his eyes. Our path is to walk the middle ground, taking at times, and giving at times. We are asked to take the long view, even though some days we won’t be able to see our own hands in front of us. Our magic is multicolored, many faceted; balanced between the extremes of the blinding, burning light of god, and the cold, damp, dark of the devil’s own abyss. We do not walk the earth with our eyes turned to the sun. No. We dance in the soft sands of a fallen world. We wrap the pour miserly creatures of the earth with our loving attention, and bless the sacrifice of their young, for the care of our own. In such a way, we sanctify this petty and cruel world, and transform into a haven.

Wenifas gaped, and for a long second was unable to speak to such an impassioned speech. “Sounds impossible,” she finally noted, and hanged her head in shame for all her doubts.

Krumpus smiled and lifted her chin with his hand. It is not impossible. Indeed, it is quite simple—but it is not easy. He shook his head.

“And how do I find such a path, this straight and narrow that balances the left and right?” Wenifas asked.

It is the inner knowing that you must find, Krumpus told her. God speaks to you and through you, and must recognize the voice, and know when you must answer to it. The devil speaks through you too.

“Yes, and I must not succumb to its trickery and temptation,” she concluded.

But the shaman shook his head and frowned. No, he told her. The devil must also be honored, and drawn from his abyss. If you would remain strong, if your children will grow, they must eat and honor their flesh. The devil will have his due and shall be married to the angel within, that you know when to give with the right and take with the left.

One does not simple exhale in order to breathe, he continued. It is the rhythmic balance, the drawing and expelling of air that keeps us alive and vital. Honor the impulse and appetites of your flesh—but do so in a high-minded manner, with love in your heart, and a mind sharp enough to understand the most intricate spells, to know the difference between a curse and a blessing. Then, having married the sun and moon within you, you are perfect, or nearly enough so, and your immortality will be obvious to you.

“We are immortal?” Wenifas asked.

Krumpus shrugged and nodded. That is god’s blessing upon us, and also the devil’s curse; or even the wicked are immortal—only theirs is an eternal torment.

“Huh…” Wenifas puffed, then wondered at the strange and paradoxical words of the shaman. She meant to mull it over, and felt she’d be thinking on it for quite some time.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Meriona had a low opinion of the four throat-cutters sent with her. They smelled of the streets, drank continuously, and had little interest in anything except the money they’d make by killing the duke. Where, and if they had hair, it was deviled into knots. On top of it all, they tended to leer at her when they thought she would not notice, and couldn’t manage a civil word when they spoke to her. Their faces were grim and troubling. For a while, Meriona told them to smile and nod at those that passed by; but then she saw the awkward and resentful way in which they did this—and also saw their troubled teeth. So she commanded them to go back to ignoring the others along the road.

Night came and they camped a mile or so back from their quarry. Once the horses were tethered and their blankets laid out, an argument began.

“Light a fire!” Meriona demanded. “If you do not, I will!”

Toddles contradicted her yet again, “We cannot, or they’ll know we’re out here.”

The senior Jay stared at the man, flabbergasted. “It’s open country!” she scolded. “You can see a dozen other fires burning all about us! One more fire among these others cannot matter!”

“And what if someone shall come to join us?” Toddles asked. “It is not expedient.”

“We shall not let it burn for long,” Meriona noted. “It is a dinner fire; not a beacon! We are simply eating and being comfortable. This is what we shall tell anyone that confronts us—and as the night deepens, we will put it out and meld with the darkness,” she told them.

Toddles shook his head. “We will not do it. It is too dangerous.”

“Do you think the duke does not already suspect trouble?” Meriona stared among the men. “It is quite likely they have already noted our camp, and if that is so, won’t he find it more suspicious if we do not light a fire?” She glared among the men. “Do you think this duke doesn’t know his enemies?! Do you think he hasn’t guessed that some trouble might yet follow him?!” She shook her head, then began to gather rocks in a circle. “We light a fire, and we enjoy it! Then, in the night, you can do what you mean to do, which is…” she left it hanging so the men might answer for themselves.

“We scout them,” Toddles finally answered. “And if we find an opening,” he began—then dragged a finger across his throat.

The other throat-cutters all grinned, chuckled, and nodded in anticipation.

Oblarra rose high and lit the night with an angry red hue. No clouds obscured the sky. Toddles and throat-cutter#2 crept up on the duke’s camp. On separate occasions, two of the guards stared out into the dark, having heard something, or simply suspecting—so although the throat-cutters crept close, they dared not enter the camp. Instead, they conferred in hushed whispers as they lay among the tall grasses.

“The duke’s old,” Toddles pointed at the second guard. “Think that might be him?”

Throat-cutter#2 snorted. “You think some hoity-toity is gonna take guard duty?! Some uppity-up, out in the dark, instead of asleep in his tent?!” he shook his head.

Toddles frowned. He thought if he snuck another twenty feet or so, he might throw a knife. But if it wasn’t the duke, he’d alert the company to the presence of assassins, and make their job that much harder. Instead, as sunlight began to creep over the wide valley, the throat-cutters returned to their own camp, exhausted, and none the wiser.

Only it wasn’t just Meriona and their fellow throat-cutters that waited for them.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.7 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

The sun rose. Creigal spent the night once again caught in thoughts of his daughter. Up early and ready to be on his quest, the duke was agitated and in a short mood when he saw that the Jindleyaks meant to practice again before they took to the road. He turned to his captain. “How many hours before we can leave?” he complained.

“It’ll go faster if someone simply won out,” Carringten noted.

“You saw them yesterday,” Creigal replied. “They are all quite close in skill. If Homoth is the best—he is not the best by much.”

“I am not talking about them,” Carringten clarified.

Creigal realized his captain must have itched something fierce as he watched them practice the day before. “Well, then,” Creigal began with a grin. “I command you to win out.”

“I shall do my best,” Carringten said as he began to stretch.

Scurra also complained as her cousins began to train—only this time the militiamen simply ignored her. She tried to recruit her brother into complaining, but Krumpus was happy to have a few more hours to sleep.

Carringten approached and offered to join as Scurra’s laments fell on deaf ears. Scurra turned to the dark man and scowled. Carringten also ignored her as he talked with Saleos.

Of the Jindleyak, Saleos and Andrus were agreeable. Homoth and Komotz were not. “If he longs to practice,” Homoth began. “Have him practice among his own. Do they not have no honor to win?”

“I’ll train with my friends,” Carringten said. “Then, the winner among us will face the winner among you.”

Homoth sized up the dark man, then turned to the others. He looked over Baet, Toar, the duke; and felt he could beat all four of them at once. “Yeah, fine,” Homoth agreed with a snort. “Then I shall have whatever honor you possess too.”

Initially, Baet wanted nothing to do with the contest—but Creigal gave him a look saying he would join or else. Baet turned to Toar, knowing it would undoubtedly come down to him and Carringten anyway. At least this way he could continue the young guard’s training.

Creigal lost to his captain in about half the time it took Baet to beat Toar, as the musketeer went slow, and gave Toar time to practice. He gave his friend pointers as they proceeded; then, because he’d been so slow about defeating Toar, Baet fought Carringten while the Oak and Beast all gathered around. Baet raised his guard against his captain. He meant to fight well, though he did not doubt the outcome. He tried—but the match was embarrassing. Carringten beat him quick and efficiently, as the captain wanted to get on with it. The brothers Homoth and Komotz chortled over Baet’s quick defeat, while the other Jindleyak chuckled.

“What’d they say?” Baet asked Toar as he glared at the young Jindleyaks.

Toar shook his head. “Don’t let them bother you.”

Baet’s expression grew darker. “What’d they say?!” he repeated, his blood running a touch hot.

“They said you should train with the boy and his serpent knife,” Toar shrugged.

Baet stepped up to the Jindleyaks as he glared, “I’ll put a lune against each of you; he beats you, and he beats you quick.” Baet said as he pointed back at Carringten.

Toar reluctantly interpreted as Baet and the brothers stared at each other. Chagrined, Homoth, Komotz, and Andrus took him up on the bet.

“How does a bit of silver salvage my pride, win or lose?” Saleos noted, as he turned away from the drama.

Carringten gave Baet a dead-eyed stare. “Thanks for making this easy,” he said with a frown.

Homoth proved to be the best among the Jindleyak. Carringten faced him first. Still wanting to move things along, Carringten took the first opening and poked the Jindleyak in the chest with the tip of his tourney stick.

Aggravated, Homoth charged the dark man and tried to put the Borz on the defensive—but Carringten had time to study the talented Jindleyak. He ‘d also often exceeded the best teachers that Creigal could find. Carringten caught the onslaught, defending and deflecting Homoth’s hasty attacks. He deftly parried a strike, and caught the Trohl overextending. Carringten stuck the older brother in the chest once more, and danced away unscathed.

Furious, Homoth smashed at Carringten—so the dark man stripped a tourney stick from his hands before poking him in the chest for a third time.

Defeated, and rather quickly. Homoth stared at the Borz.

“I’ll take that lune,” Baet said to the older brother.

Komotz faced the dark man next, and tried to slow things down—but Carringten was still in a hurry. The dark man saluted the younger Jindleyak each time, then pressed the attack, and quickly overwhelmed his opponent.

Andrus was next and fared about as well as the brothers. Saleos was a wily vet, and had time to observe Carringten’s attacks—but his experience only dragged things out a bit. Carringten eventually worked his way through the older man’s defenses and beat him three strikes to none.

After his defeat, Saleos shook Carringten’s hand and stared at him in a whole new light—as did everyone else unfamiliar with the Borz. Creigal knowingly grinned as he patted his adopted son on the shoulder and gave a nod of approval, then continued on toward his horse.

“You are a master, and I would beg a lesson,” Saleos bowed to the dark man. “I may be old, but I am not to old to learn.”

Carringten put his hand on the old Jindleyak’s shoulder. “For now, I should like to be on the road—but I think we shall have time for a lesson once we make camp,” he smiled.

“Tonight,” Saleos agreed.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.8 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

About midday, Elpis called to Saleos, “Slow ‘er down, old man! We got a tail!”

Saleos looked over his shoulder. More than a dozen horses followed, including Aim and Duboha. “What are they doing?” He asked. “Does Duboha have his arm in a sling?”

“Our boys return with a handful of Pan iskaer,” Elpis noted. “And what looks like a half dozen prisoners.”

Indeed, the Pan Iskaer surrounded a number of others—three men and a woman with their hands tied. A fifth body was slumped over a saddle and draining blood.

“What happened to him?” Elpis asked as he pointed at the body.

Aim pointed at Duboha, “He took a swing at our cousin while we questioned them, so Squirrel stuck him with his spear.”

“Are you okay?” Elpis asked his dour cousin.

“I’m fine,” Duboha shrugged. “He might of done some real damage if I hadn’t dodged—but the dodge took me off my saddle, and I hit the ground in a bad way.”

“We didn’t mean to kill ‘em,” Aim admitted. “But at least it sucked the fight right out of the rest of ‘em.”

Saleos was about to ask them why they were arrested, but Creigal addressed the woman before he could. “If it isn’t the Jay, Meriona,” the duke smiled. “Sitill under orders from High Commander Gliedian, I presume?”

Meriona shook her head, “I’m just looking for a good view.”

“You brought a bit much muscle for simply taking in the sights,” Creigal replied. “So what do propose we do with them?” He asked Saleos.

“You caught them in our camp?” Saleos asked.

“We spied on them as they spied on you,” Aim answered. “Though they still won’t admit it.”

“We’re only a couple days out. I say we take them to the border for a little Jindleyak justice,” Saleos smiled. “Looks likes your coming to Hearthstone after all?”

Duboha and Aim both shrugged. “Looks like it.”

Now that the Jindleyaks were all back together, and had more than enough men to watch the prisoners, Squirrel and the Pan Iskaer turned and left them once more.