Slow Road East

Polished 11.1, 11.2, and 11.3. Moved 10.6 to 11.4. Need to combine 11.5 and 11.7 into the same scene — 52m38s — 2021/01/01

Polished 11.3 — 1h08m28s — 2021/01/03

Worked on resolving 11.5 and 11.7 — 19m24s — 2021/01/05

Continued working on 11.5 — 56m50s — 2021/01/05

Moved 11.3 to 11.2. Polished 11.1 and 11.2 — 30m20s — 2021/01/08

Polished 11.2, 11.3, and 11.4. Chopped the end of 11.4 and added it to 11.5… avoiding 11.5, since it’s become a cluster-fuck—but once it’s done, this chapter should be pretty smooth… planning to cut 11.6 altogether, and also move to 11.8 to chapter 12, so this one ends with Meriona and her throat-cutters threatening the company… — 48m48s — 2021/01/10

Worked on 11.6 — 23m10s — 2021/01/10

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 took 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. Of course she remembered his speech and how it worked the others into a frenzy, especially the priestess. But Meu was not so easily manipulated. She was as old as he, or older, and wise to the ways of the powerful.

Not that her suspicions mattered. What mattered is that he caught her as she shifted shape, and although she had little reason to fear such a revelation, she preferred to keep her secrets; and so she blushed as she asked him what he saw.

Creigal marveled to see that Meu could speak with nothing but her eyes. He showed his hands and hoped to alleviate any fear. “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 I believe that you are the first that was both,” he smiled.

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 some more?” he asked and offered the slight lady his elbow.

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

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

Baet spent the late morning in the pools and tried to forget the embarrassments of the previous night; that both a woman and a child had tried to kill him, all because he was in his feels. As he soaked and relaxed, he heard the patter of small feet. He looked up, alarmed to see Claiten rush at him with dagger drawn and tip forward. “What the devil…?” he began as adrenaline shocked him into readiness.

With anger on his face, the boy crowed and jumped at the guard. “ERRR-AYE-ERRRRRRR!”

Before the child could do any real damage, Baet knocked the knife aside and grabbed the boy out of midair. He squeezed the boy’s hand until he dropped the knife, then launched him over the walkway; into a larger, deeper, and colder pool.

Claiten hit the water, submerged, and panicked as he remembered nearly drowning in the aqueducts of old Beletrain. He kicked and paddled furiously for the surface, breached, and gasped. He was not a good swimmer, and so he struggled in the water—though he eventually caught the edge and climbed out, huffing and puffing.

Baet was out of his pool and advancing on the boy. Claiten turned this way and that as he looked for an exit, but he was cornered against the edge of the water and unable to evade his enemy.

“You want to fight?” Baet glared at the child as he held the naga blade in his hand. “I’ll teach you to fight!” He sunk down on his haunches as he approached, then roared and lunged at the child. “Hah!” he screamed.

Claiten teetered at the edge of the pool, ready to jump in—but Baet dodged back. The Saot relaxed as he stared at the child.

“That’s a feign, child. I do that to check your reflexes,” the old guard grinned. “You may have that youthful spark, but I got years of experience. Now this…” Baet waved the blade up high as he advanced on Claiten once more. “…is a distraction,” he said and poked the boy’s belly with the finger of his empty hand.

Claiten stared at the guard, 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. “Now I’ve beat you half a dozen different ways. Are you still interested in fighting me?” he glared.

Claiten shook his head.

“Good,” Baet smiled as he stared at the boy. “It’s a nice knife,” he noted. “You want it back?”

Reluctantly, Claiten nodded.

“If I give it to you, you have to quit trying to stab me with it—you’ll have to save that for your true enemies,” Baet stated. “If I take it from you again, I’m keeping it,” he warned.

Claiten nodded.

With a huff, the guard handed the naga dagger to Claiten; then turned and stepped into the warm pool, his lazy eye still on the child.

Claiten gauged the guard as he caressed the twisting handle of the naga blade. Twice, he’d tried to settle his mom’s score, and twice he’d failed. Considering that he was so young and his enemy was much bigger, he felt this was an honorable number. The man may live—but he was large and strong—and both attempts had abruptly ended against the child. Indeed, Claiten counted himself lucky to be alive—though his anger still burned just under the surface. Often enough, his mother had told him to check his anger, and made several of her dancing partners extol the virtue of patience; so he consoled himself and set vengeance aside—for now. Besides, there were many songs of Ooroiyuo where the ancient god learned to fight from his enemies. And maybe, just maybe Baet was a yellow-stripe after all. Besides, if the guard proved to be a spearhead—well—there was time for that. There was always time.

Baet cocked his head as he watched the child. He felt sorry for the kid. The women coddled him, while the men mostly ignored him. The others were nice—of course—but they were busy and didn’t have much time for a child. They left him out of most everything. Not that he blamed them. The running and fighting as they fled the burning house… Baet couldn’t forget it quick enough… Things got so heated that he’d stabbed a man as they fled. His one comfort was that he didn’t think it was a killing blow—though he bet the man was still in a bed.

But things were quiet now—except that a child had tried to stab him two days in a row. There was a worry… And what better way to watch the child then to help him channel his fury? Besides, he had an inkling of what the Ministrians taught their children—especially children of the boy’s low class. The thought of growing up under the tutelage of the Ministrian Imperiat made Baet shudder. He decided it might be good for the child to have a better influence in his life. “You want to see something?” He asked and held up a glittery rock that rested on his towel. “You remember the courtroom? The meteor?”

The boy’s eyes went wide. He stepped into the pool and took the offered rock. It was black and smooth with small pits all over it. As he stared at the stone, he was dazzled by a thousand colors that caught in the small divots.

“I wish Toar had some of your fire,” Baet leaned back and closed his eyes. “He hasn’t wanted to train with me since the dueling forts,” he snorted. “I’d wonder where he got off to—but I know that blonde pixie’s at hand.” He snorted. “She’s a piece of work. You think she’ll try to stab me next?” He said this last part in Soat—so as not to encourage the boy.

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

After breakfast, Toar went into the village and moseyed about. In the window of a smithy, he noticed a pistol musket and stopped to stare.

Only yesterday the duke had made good on the money owed to the Trohl. He was feeling flush and generous, 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—for he knew he couldn’t get a decent sword for less than twice that.

“I did not want it in the first place,” The smith shrugged. "“I bought it from a Soat that was hard up for coin, and it’s cluttered my window for nearly a year,” he answered. “Why bother with a musket anyway?” he added with a wave. “A bow and arrow is just as deadly, and far quicker to load."

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

The blacksmith smirked. “Says who?” He leaned over the counter and glared at the smaller man.

Toar shrugged, “It’s what I heard.”

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; for killing rabbits, squirrels, and snakes.”

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

The smith put his knife away and searched the crowded bench. "I got what the Saot had—good Gaurrish powder—or so he said," he lifted a slight pouch and passed it to Toar.

“I’ll take it,” Toar smiled as he gave the smith two lunes. He tucked the weapon away and turned to see Celesi step through

door.

The young lady stared at Toar. She leaned in close as they stepped from the shop. “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 little rod. Next, you pull back the hammer, and aim it at the thing you want to kill. Finally, you pull this lever, which brings the hammer down. 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 of 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 even Ministrians. He says they’re incredibly loud."

“What does he know?” Celesi frowned.

“I should think he knows about muskets,” Toar noted. “He had two at the time.”

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

"I’m giving it to Baet,” Toar shrugged. “Though he is likely to let me fire it. You can join us."

Celesi frowned. For several seconds she stared at the weapon and she considered her dislike of the tea-drinker. "Such an easy thing to use,” she mused. “And dangerous, you say?”

“Very.”

“Then you must let me have it,” she concluded.

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

"What if we should run into more trouble?” 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 and musket. "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 them at all?”

Toar studied the girl.

”Please!” Celesi begged.

"Fine," he acquiesced and held out the musket. "But give me the blades first."

Celesi handed over the knives.

Despite his reservations, Toar traded 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 and stepped down the street.

Celesi grabbed his arm. "If I wanted his help, I'd ask him," she frowned. “But I won’t. Instead, I’ve 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 wad. 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. 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.”

Celesi glared. "I know when a thing is serious. Do I look like I trifle?" She snagged the musket. “We shall fire it later, when we have the time,” she smiled as she jammed it in the holster, then wrapped her shawl over it, so the others might not see what she had—especially the tea-drinker. For a second, she imagined the tea-drinker pressing himself upon her, and then she would use the weapon against him. Oh, how that might shock him; to have someone shoot back! She grinned.

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

The door to the cabin cracked open. The dark form of Carringten blinked awake as he sat up. He put a hand on his short sword, then relaxed as he realized it was just the duke. He laid back in bed and closed his eyes once more with a huff. "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 poked about his 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?" the duke asked.

“He is admirable,” Carringten shook his head. “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 say, I haven’t spent all my money on weapons," Carringten answered. "As for a profession, perhaps I shall build bridges, or teach among the children. I might farm, or I might simply travel for a time…” he shrugged. “Perhaps I’d like to see what lies beyond the jungles of Borzia. I‘d like to view the Tallian Sea. Or maybe I’d go among some other nations and just see how different people live. ”

“Do you care so little for Gaurring?”

“I was never so loyal to the duchy. There is only the man that rescued me when I was too young to defend myself,” Carringten concluded. “Now, if Daphne had 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. “Were you not going into town with the others?”

"I was—until you didn’t return,” Carringten noted.

Creigal smirked. “So you used my absence to catch up on some sleep?”

“Not in the least,” Carringten frowned. “At sunrise, I went searching for you. After an hour or so, I came back to get Baet, and maybe some of the others to help me search, but then I saw you walking with the redhead. That’s when I decided to get some sleep. I’ve been in here less than an hour,” he shrugged. “Have you spoken to Duboha?"

"I have not," Creigal admitted. "I spent a wondrous night under the trees, and was much too 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 anyway. 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?"

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

"Indeed."

"I asked Toar for his assessment. He says he’s never been this far east, so he offers only speculation," Carringten continued.

“He still knows the people and their customs, and his loyalty is unquestioned,” Creigal replied. “His use to us is little diminished, so long as he wishes to continue.”

“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 about us, and 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. “I am sure we shall be greeted by nothing more than sunshine and rainbows."

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

Carringten grinned. “I may be suspicious,” he began. "But you are flat out superstitious."

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

The departure from the Copper Kettle and Rooms, was slow and drawn out. The militiamen decided to practice, since Aim and Duboha meant to return to Ebertin. It would be the last time the rest of the Oak and Beast would see them for quite a time. Scurra was fine to watch them go through the forms, to grapple and roll a bit—but when they decided to hold a impromptu tourney with sparring sticks, she complained long and loud. “Will the lot of you scrap for a day’s glory, while Traust and Apulton long for their eternal rest?!” she chided.

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

“And I would like to arrive there with the honor of yet another victory,” Homoth noted, as he took a second quick point from Andrus.

“We’ve all been champion,” Aim interjected. “Even Andrus is champion from time to time.”

“I win more than the rest of you put together,” Homoth noted.

“No, you don’t,” Aim frowned.

“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 myself unfair advantage.” He turned to the others. “What say you? Anyone object to calling it a day if Scurra can land three strikes against the reiging champion?!”

None of the others objected, and a few quit their matches in order to watch.

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

“I’ve won touches a number of times,” Scurra warned as she 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 Homoth—but the gifted young man deflected and dodged. He countered, backpedaled, then danced away from her.

“What do you think?” Creigal asked his captain as they watched Scurra slash and assault Homoth.

“She has skill—but he he has a natural talent and the vigor of the first bloom of youth,” Carringten noted. “See how he shrugs her off with almost no concern. See how he baits her?” he nodded. “I should like to see him up against one of his own caliber.”

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

“I should think any of them would fit among your regulars,” Carringten noted. “Perhaps a few among your irregulars. And what do you think?” He turned to the duke. “Would you accept the woman into your troop?”

“Especially the woman,” Creigal confirmed. “She has skill, heart, and it certainly doesn’t hurt that she is attractive. Think of the recruiting you could do with someone like that giving the speeches.”

Despite Scurra’s aggressiveness, Homoth took the first point—and also the second. Scurra won the third with a glancing blow to Homoth’s right thigh—but Creigal and Carringten both felt like he gave her the opening.

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.

“We may leave early yet!” Homoth chortled as he favored his right leg. “You only need one more,” he beamed.

Scurra charged again. She threw herself into the effort and nearly scored the final point several times. “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—a fact that only aggravated her all the more. “FIGHT BACK!” she screamed again.

Homoth wasn’t phased. He blocked, dodged, and parried every stroke—then, as Scurra opened up a bit too much—he poked her in the chest with the tip of his tourney stick.

“Ahahaha!” he laughed as he danced away with his arms held high. The others hooted and hollered to see it.

Scurra glared after the men as the racket continued. 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. He noted Creigal and Carringten watching. “What of you two? Would you like a chance to win a day’s glory?”

The duke turned to his captain. “You interested in a little exercise?”

Carringten shrugged and grinned. “Shall I make friends, or shall win honor?” he asked.

“I’ll start with the loud mouth and make friends on my way down,” Creigal began. “I think I can get them to go light on an old man. You do the honor.”

Carringten gave a nod.

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.

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.

Scurra approached on horseback. “Come now, the others are anxious to be on their way,” she said.

“What of the contest?” Toar asked. “Is there not a tourney for Aim and Duboha?”

“Your dark friend ended that rather quickly,” she said with an appreciative smirk.

Toar and Celesi wondered what that meant as they turned toward the inn. Scurra followed close behind, then began to drag as she 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! They seemed to say. Run! Death comes for us all!

Scurra shuddered. Despite the birds, the day was warm and bright. There would be no storm today—or at least not now. She stepped quick after Toar and Celesi, and did her best to forget the darkness of her dream.

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 an uncomfortable angle.

"Hush, you," Aim chastised the injured man. "They are not such bad company," he frowned as he patted the urns holding the remains of Apulton and Traust.

"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 at 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 own 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.

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

"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."

Wenifas sat in the wagon between Saleos and Krumpus. Out of the corner of her eye, she stared at the shaman.

Initially, she liked him because Meu liked him. He was quiet, which was good, as he seemed to see everything. His eyes could be unnerving—though they had little effect on the judge. He was certainly magic, which intrigued her. More so because 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 by the gods. Such men claimed to use their magic only for good—but Wenifas knew them to be swindlers and liars.

But Krumpus was nothing like Fedring. He was never untoward, and had even risked his very life to defy Kezodel. If anyone could teach her a magic worth knowing, she believed it was him. What might he teach? She wondered. Hoping ot spak a conversation, she leaned close to the shaman, and whispered to him. "How are your hands?"

Krumpus turned from his musings. He smiled, nodded, and stretched his wrinkled digits for the priestess. For a long moment, Wenifas felt stupid knowing the mute would not answer her—then she caught the look in his eye and realized he could communicate with just a glance! He claimed to nearly be whole once more—but she imagined he was as strong as he’d ever been—and only growing stronger! She wondered, was there anything he couldn’t face?

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 to pieces!

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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