Slow Road East

Polished 11.1, 11.2, 11.3, and 11.4 — 1h09m01s — 2021/01/14

Worked on 11.5. Reworked the story line for brevity and clarity. Still needs a massive amount of work — 1h27m30s — 2021/01/16

Worked on 11.5 some more. We’re about halfway through with the rewrite — 1h35m12s — 2021/01/19

Polished the beginning of 11.5 — 42m40s — 2021/01/21

More polishing of 11.5 — 23m16s — 2021/01/22

Still resolving 11.5… — 40m12s — 2021 /01/24

Finished rewriting 11.5! Now, it just needs more polish — 1h28m50s — 2021/01/25

Polished 11.4 and 11.5 — 1h00m43s — 2021/01/26

Polished 11.5 — 51m20s — 2021/01/28

Polished 11.6 and 11.7 — 55m26s — 2021/01/29

Polished everything but 11.7. I need to figure out what to do with Krumpus and Wenifas — 1h55m27s — 2021/02/07

Worked on the interaction between Krumpus and Wenifas — 59m39s — 2021/02/09

Polished the conversation between Wenifas and Krumpus, also worked on the capture of Meriona and the throat-cutters — 58m08s — 2021/02/11

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?

Before now, 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’d 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 rushing 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 jumped at the guard. “ERRR-AYE-ERRRRRRR!” he crowed.

The boy was a scrappy handful, and brave—but at a massive disadvantage. Baet was strong, a trained fighter, and over twice the child’s size. He knocked the knife aside and grabbed the boy out of midair. He caught hold of the child’s hand and squeezed until Claiten dropped the knife. Then, Baet lifted the child over his head, and 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.

He looked up. 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!” he snapped. “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. The far side of the pool seemed so far away. And what if the guard should follow him into the pool and submerge him? The boy felt it was better to die dry land.

Baet leaned over the boy and poked him the chest once more. “That’s a direct assault,” he said, almost calm. “Now I’ve beat you half a dozen different ways,” he glared. “Are you still interested in fighting me?”

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.

Once more, Claiten nodded.

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

Claiten caressed the twisted handle of the naga blade as he gauged the guard, more than happy to have the weapon back. Twice, he’d tried to settle his mom’s score, and twice he’d failed. 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 it was that the child 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, only to defeat them eventually.

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 the 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, somewhere, still pale and weak. 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, a manly influence that oculd teach him manly things. Curiously, he did not think of the boy’s mother, or how she might consider him to be meddling. He did not think of her at all, which was a bit of a wonder in itself.

Now, to get the boy to trust him… he reached for his towel and picked out the stone that sat between its layers. “You want to see something?” He asked and lifted the glittery rock toward the child. “You remember the courtroom?” he continued. “The meteor? Wanna see it?”

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. He stared at the stone, dazzled by a thousand colors that caught in the small divots.

“I wish Toar had some of your fire,” Baet told the child. “He hasn’t wanted to train since we left the dueling forts,” he snorted, leaned back, and closed his eyes. “I’d wonder where he got off to—if I didn’t think that blonde pixie was lurking somewhere nearby. She’s a piece of work,” he snorted. “I wonder if she’ll try to stab me next.” He said this last part in Soat, so as not to encourage the boy, but the child was still enraptured by the stone.

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

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, for he knew he couldn’t get a decent sword for twice that amount.

“I didn’t 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 now,” he answered. “Why bother with a musket anyway?” he added with a wave. “A bow and arrow is just as deadly, and much quicker to reload."

“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. He waved it about as Toar took a cautious step back. “Weapons are weapons,” the smith began. “It’s the wielder that’s intimidating,” he snorted as he jammed the knife back into its scabbard. “That rock thrower—” he pointed at the muset. “That’s for rabbits, squirrels, and snakes,” he shrugged. “You still want it? It is a good price…”

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

The smith searched the crowded bench. "I got what the Saot had—good Gaurrish powder—or so he claimed," 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 as he wrapped his cloak about the new weapon. She leaned in close as they stepped from the shop. “You got a musket?!” she beamed. “How’s it work?!"

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

“I’m old enough to know a weapon when I see it,” the young lady reprimanded. “Come on,” she pouted. “Show me.”

With a sight, Toar pulled the weapon from his cloak and gave her a cursory explanation of how it worked. "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, so it all don’t fall out. 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. Then—if your aim is true—the ball smashes through your enemy and lets out all the blood."

Celesi gaped at the foreign device. "Savage.”

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. “He had two at the time.”

"Well, there are no bugbear or Ministrians about us now. Perhaps we shall have an opportunity soon," 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 mulled over 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 Toar was perfectly right. "I'd like a better way to protect myself is all,” she feigned.

“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 huffed, turned, and began down the street. Celesi ran after him. “Wait, wait,” she said as she stopped in front of him, pulled up her skirt, and undid the throwing knives from her thigh. “It’s a deal," she continued and offered up the blades.

Toar stared at the pistol musket and the sheath of 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 care for them at all?”

Toar studied the girl.

”Please!” Celesi begged.

Toar rolled his eyes—yet he’d come by the weapon easy, and so he figured he could find another one in the next village. "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.”

“He’s not such a bad person,” Toar defended his friend.

Celesi stared back, uninterested in answering.

“Fine,” Toar replied with a huff. He poured a bit of powder down the barrel. He stared at Celesi for a long moment, then added just a touch more. He 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 and jammed it in the holster. She wrapped her shawl over it, so the others wouldn’t see what she had. For a second, she imagined the tea-drinker pressing himself on her—then she would pull the weapon, press it into his chest, and back him off. Oh, how that might shock him! She thought, as she grinned, satisfied.

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

The shades were drawn in the simple room of the small cabin. There was a table, two chairs, a couple beds—one of them occupied.

Carringten was fast asleep in the bed closer to the door, despite the fact that the sun approached its zenith. The door opened and gave an awful creak. The dark man’s eyes bolted open. He reached for his sword, turned, and caught sight of Creigal as the duke entered. He relaxed—sort of. "It is impossible to guard you if I know not where you go," he noted.

Creigal gave an absent wave as he moved past his captain. "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 prefer to do my work."

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.

Carringten shook his head. “He is a good man—but he has his own men.”

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

"Perhaps I shall build bridges, or teach among the children,” Carringten replied. “I might farm, or I might simply travel for a time,” he shrugged. “I’d like to see what lies beyond the jungles of Borzia. I‘d like to view the Tallian Sea,” he continued. “Perhaps I will settle. I’ll get a piece of land. After all, there are sheep to husband, and all manner of vegetables that require picking. Despite what the others say, I have not spent all my money on weapons. There are no end of options.”

“Do you care so little for Gaurring?” Creigal asked.

“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 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—but then I saw you walking with the redhead. Since I knew where you were, and since I figure she can’t be that dangerous; well, that’s when I decided to get some sleep,” he explained. “Have you spoken to Duboha?"

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

Carringten gave a nod. "Duboha, Aim, and Komotz have asked our pardon. They intend to go back to Ebertin.”

"We’ll have to give them our thanks, and a bit of our coin to prove it," Creigal nodded. “Be generous,” he added, ignoring the fact that all his current coin was borrowed from Traust. He frowned as he remembered the man, and wondered where the debt would go. Not that it mattered. He would pay it to the family, or to the man’s good friends… Most men might think it a mighty sum that he’d borrowed, but against the duke’s vast holdings and interests, the amount was a mere pittance to consider. Yet, nothing watered a fledgling friendship like a little free-flowing coin, and he was certainly good for it.

"Duboha says that once we are away and they’ve had a chance to turn back any pursuit, there is little chance of trouble; so he leaves Saleos in charge of the others,” Carringten shrugged. “I have my reservations, of course.”

"Anything specific?"

Carringten shook his head. “General misgivings. Mine is a suspicious line of work, and I’d prefer to keep as many friendly bodies around you as possible.”

“I too like our new friends,” Creigal gave a nod. “But we shall trust their judgement.”

"We have made a fair bit of noise in this land,” Creigal noted. “Our hosts have admitted that they’ve turned away a number of people. Most ask for the shaman—but a few have asked to see the foreign king.”

“Am I king to them?” Creigal asked. “Yesterday, they were so thick around the pour shaman, I wondered for the man’s safety.”

“I thought they might shake off one of his poor hands. A few of them did not even look at the brittle things before they grabbed ‘em and shook,” Carringten shrugged. “I asked Toar for his assessment. He says he’s never been this far east, so he offers only hearsay. When I paid him, he wondered rather loudly if he’s still of any use to you.”

“Of course he is,” Creigal blinked. “He knows the people and their customs and his loyalty is unquestioned. Besides, his previous function as a mere guide is easily met by Duboha and his numerous local friends,” the duke snorted. “No, tell Toar his use to us is little diminished. Indeed, it is increased, as we now call for him to be our ambassador.” The duke nodded. “King indeed! Yes. Have him present our gifts and payments to the others—that is, assuming he still wishes to continue with us.”

“He says 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. "Yours is indeed a suspicious line of work! We are no longer in the wilds with only our enemies about us, and Toar's attention is not so singular as your own! He has performed admirably since the first day we met, and seems always to be honest. Despite the distraction of the young beauty, 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 little rest, for a bit of holiday?"

"I shall welcome it if our journey should remain as simple and calm 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, so I am sure we shall be greeted by nothing more than sunshine and rainbows,” Carringten replied.

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

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

Scurra was out for a walk to clear her head and get a bit of exercise. She had half a day, since the plan was to take it easy through the afternoon and the evening, to rest up, while their friends continued to gather in number. Then, in the middle of the night, they’d leave under the cover of dark. The local militias would guard their escape while the familiar roads were still empty and it’d be easy to turn back any tails. It was a sound plan and Scurra was happy with it—until she wasn’t.

With plenty of time, Scurra stepped down the trail as it followed the meandering river. She passed several Pan Iskaer and other men from militias she didn’t know. They were all kind, often smiling, while making themselves discrete. She still had the illusion of being alone. She found herself in a clearing as a murder of crows gathered. The rooks jumped and squawked at the sight of her, and a chill caught in her chest as she remembered the birds of her dream. The ruckus grew. The chill grew with it. She couldn’t catch her breath as she remembered the storm, the icy spikes, and the shock of lightning. She shivered as she realized the birds spoke to her once more. “Run!” They cawed. “Run! Death comes for us all!”

In a frenzy, the birds burst from their perches, squawking and cawing, as they scattered throughout the forest. Scurra felt it was an omen. She felt that if they waited to leave, a danger would come over them and it would visit strife and death upon them. She turned and rushed back to the inn. She hurried past the duke and his captain as she made her way into the courtyard, and also the Saot guard as he instructed the small boy in the use of his dagger. She rushed to her Jindleyak cousins. They’d finished practicing their forms, and also some rolling—yet the day was still early and several of the men had too much energy. They had wooden sparring sticks and were beginning a tournament of ‘touches’.

“Gather you stuff,” Scurra interrupted. “We’re leaving.”

The men ignored her. “We attend our plan,” Homoth answered. “For now, we practice.”

“Will the lot of you scrap for a day’s glory while Traust and Apulton long for their eternal rest?!” Scurra chided.

“There’ll be more of us dead if we allow our edge to dull,” Homoth stated—as he took the first point from Andrus. “We are safely away from Ebertin. We have many friends about us, and we will not be staying much longer anyway. The plan is a good plan!”

“Games are 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 home with the honor of yet another victory under my belt,” Homoth noted, as he took a second quick point from Andrus.

“This isn’t about the game,” Duboha noted. “Something else is bothering her.”

“There’s a danger,” Scrrua revealed. “There’s a darkness out there—and I don’t know what it is—but it’s coming for us!”

Carringten’s ears perked as he practiced his forms nearby—but he was the only one that seemed to take her words seriously. He looked to Creigal, and the duke only shrugged while the others booed and told Scurra not to bother them.

“Is this about a dream?” Duboha frowned.

“Sometimes they’re very accurate…” Scurra began to explain.

Duboha cut her off. “Yes, yes. ‘A danger, a darkness’… We’ve all heard of these portents that bother you, dear cousin, but these things rarely resolve in the way you imagine them,” he shooed her away. “Unless you have a legitimate concern…”

“There is a great storm coming for us,” she continued.

This time, Homoth interrupted—as he took a third point from Andrus. “A storm? Like an actual storm?!” He shook his head. “Would you have us outrun the weather?!”

Scurra shook her head. “I know not what form the danger shall take! All I know is that if we leave now, we may avoid it!”

“May?!” Homoth snorted, then leaned in close to the smaller woman. “Who says we aren’t looking for a little danger anyway? Do you not see us training to meet such things?” Arms akimbo, he measured his cousin. “Tell you what: play me at touches, and if you should beat me, we’ll call it a day and march immediately,” he told her.

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

“I do indeed!” Homoth admitted. “But I am the last champion, so I can leverage the rules.” He turned to the others. “Is that not the way of it? So long as I do not give myself unfair advantage?”

The others agreed.

“What say you all?” He continued. “Do any of you consider this unfair? Do any object to calling it a day and marching on—despite a much better plan—if Scurra can land three strikes against the reigning champion?!”

None of the others believed she could beat him, so none bothered to object—though Carringten wondered. He’d been watching and he could see holes in the young man’s methods.

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

Scurra huffed. The others encouraged her and egged her on—and so she decided she liked the idea of teaching these whelps a thing or two. She took the tourney sticks from Andrus. “I’ve won a day or two of touches myself,” she glared as she squared off against the older brother. “Ha!” she yelled, and 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 as he hooted and hollered. The others cheered and whistled at the antics.

“What do you think?” Creigal asked, as Carringten and Baet gathered around. “Can she beat him?”

Baet shook his head. “She has skill—but he has a natural talent. Did you see the way he beat Andrus?”

Caringten agreed. “He shrugs her off with almost no concern. He baits her. Unless she is holding back—and it does not appear to be so—he’ll win whenever he feels like it,” he concluded. He shifted his feet. “And yet, she is not bad. I see her giving many able men a hard time... but the older brother seems to be the most talented among them,” he turned to Creigal. “What do you think? Would they make your troop?”

Creigal nodded. “I think they would all be good regulars. Some might make irregulars if they should like.”

“Even the woman?” Carringten asked.

“Especially the woman,” Creigal confirmed. “She has skill, heart, and it doesn’t hurt that she’s attractive.” He grinned at his guards. “Think of the recruiting you could do with someone like her to give the speeches.”

“More grist for the mill,” Baet shook his head. The duke frowned at his comment, and so he added an apology. “War is a dirty enterprise.”

Despite Scurra’s aggressiveness, Homoth took the second point—then Scurra won the third with a glancing blow to Homoth’s right thigh. The others all chortled to see it—though Carringten felt like Homoth gave her the opening.

The two fighters set again. Scurra rushed in. Homoth defended himself well. He consistently pushed her away whenever she managed to close the gap—or whenever it seemed like she might overwhelm him—but he also refused to counter as he danced and hooted and hollered about in circles. Using only defense, Homoth could not possibly win. Eventually Scurra caught him just a bit too open—and she gave his left ribs a solid crack—no real damage; possibly a bruiser, certainly a stinger… Homoth sucked air and favored his side. “We may leave early yet!” He chortled as he set himself for the final point.

Scurra charged again. She threw herself into the effort and nearly scored several times—since Homoth still refused to attack. She screamed at him. “Fight back, you lout!”

Her attacks took on a reckless edge. If Homoth wouldn’t counter, there was no reason to hold back—a fact that only added to Scurra’s aggravation.

“FIGHT BACK!” she screamed again.

Homoth wasn’t phased as he blocked, dodged, and parried every stroke. He was focused and fought clean—while all of the sneakiness had drained out of Scurra. Now, she simply hacked at her cousin as she tried to overcome him—but he was simply too big and too talented. Finally, Homoth grew bored. Scurra opened up a bit too much, and he retaliated—though he was ever so gentle. He poked her in the stomach with the tip of his tourney stick—and proved that he had indeed been goofing on her all along. “Ahahaha!” he laughed as he danced away with his arms raised high. “Ahhahahahaa!”

The others cheered and jeered the antics. Scurra glared at her gathered cousins. There was no way they’d listen to her now. Humiliated, she threw down her tourney sticks and stomped away in a huff; thinking there was nothing else she could do.

“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. “Eat a sack!” she yelled as she continued away.

Homoth turned to the duke and his two guards. His eyes settled on Baet and he glared again. “What of you? Do you have the fig it takes to claim a day’s glory?”

Baet shook his head—but Carringten nodded, stepped forward, and picked up the sticks abandoned by Scurra. He swung the sticks to test their weight.

The duke turned to Baet and gave a bit of a nod. “Let’s go,” he said. “Win honor on the way up, or make friends on the way down. Either way, this is good for us.”

Baet snorted, but thought, “what the hell. Might as well show the kid I know a bit of what I’m talking about…” and also stepped forward as he smiled at Claiten.

Carringten stepped up to Homoth.

“No,” Homoth said, and brushed him aside. “I face that one,” he pointed to Baet.

Carringten shrugged and went pointing about the others, looking for someone to trade blows. Duboha agreed. Creigal faced Andrus, as Homoth stared down at Baet. “What do you say, Saot? Shall we put a lune on it?” he grinned.

Saleos interpreted.

“I thought you were mad at me for gambling,” Baet stated, as he squared up against the older brother.

“Gambling, no,” Homoth began. “Cheating…” he let the word hang.

“I don’t cheat,” Baet replied. “I don’t need to cheat,” he finished—which Homoth interpreted to mean that Baet wasn’t above such tactics.

Homoth rushed forward, struck fast, and drove the Saot back. Baet defended well and tried to turn the older brother—but the Jindleyak was uncommonly strong, and one of the quicker men the Saot had faced in a long time. He was Carringten fast. He was Garfindel fast. Homoth caught Baet open and gave him a bruiser across the left thigh.

Baet hobbled and sucked air. Blood boiling, he squared against the brother. Again, Homoth charged—but this time, Baet turned his advance and stuck him in the chest with a quick parry. He grinned at his crestfallen opponent. “Seems I might know a trick or two after all...”

Homoth replied, and though it sounded insulting, Baet couldn’t be sure, since he didn’t know the Jindleyak’s language.

Once more, the two set, then went back and forth—before the older brother took a swing at Baet’s melon. The shot might of knocked the Saot clean off his feet—except Baet dove for the dirt. He lifted his shoulder so that the blow clipped his arm, then glanced off his brain box, before he hit the ground.

With a line of blood slipping down his forehead, Baet jumped up with sticks in hand. “What the blazing balls are you trying to prove?!” he snarled as he touched a delicate finger to his head.

Homoth got in Baet’s face and stared him down. He uttered the equivalent of “do something” to the Saot.

Realizing that real trouble brewed, several of the Jindleyak rushed forward and pushed Homoth back. Carringten stepped in front of an appreciative Baet. Although the man-at-arms thought to give the boy a lumping, he was sure the political ramifications would be disastrous, personally and possibly for the duke too…

Separated, Homoth declared himself the winner, and Baet let it go. He snorted, and meant to leave; to go back to the relaxing baths—but Komotz blocked the way and wore the same stupid, smug, self-assured grin as Homoth.

“He wants to take silver from you too,” Andrus noted. “He wants to put a lune on it.”

Baet glared at the younger brother as he dug in his pocket. “No head shots—either head. You take a head shot, you forfeit! Agreed?” He said, before he flicked the coin at Andrus.

Komotz agreed as if there was no controversy—as if he wondered why Baet felt he had to clarify such things at all—which only annoyed Baet all the more. Glaring, he gave the ready signal and the young Jindleyak charged.

Komotz wasn’t as strong as Homoth, but he was equally quick—or quicker. Still, he was young and less experienced. Baet was able to keep him more off balance—and so they banged away at each other, offering little, and taking all they could get. The fighting was brutal, fast, and quite even. They traded stinging points as their anger boiled and festered.

Tied at two, Baet and Komotz set for one last point. Back and forth the two struggled. Huffing and puffing, they circled and clashed—until Baet’s foot caught, and he stumbled into the dirt. Komotz was on him immediately and took the opportunity to score the final touch. Thankfully, the opening was slight, and the blow was glancing.

Komotz stood over the fallen Saot. He offered a hand and helped Baet stand. For a second, they stared at each other, and Baet wondered if he’d won a bit of the younger man’s respect. Then Komotz gave Baet a dismissive look and muttered as he walked away. “Go practice with the child,” he said in broken Ministrian.

With a frown, Baet wondered how long the young Jindleyak must have practiced the insult. “It talks in full sentences,” he snipped, then threw down the tourney sticks in a huff.

He found himself staring at Carringten.

“They practice in the the past anyway,” Baet shook his head.“ None of these men could hope to match me with a musket,” he snorted.

“Do you have a musket?” Carringten asked.

Baet frowned.

“There are muskets to be had,” Carringten noted. “What of coin? Do you have a little more of that?”

Baet nodded.

“Maybe they’ll wager,” Carringten shrugged. “If you think I can beat them, maybe you’ll be able to buy your musket…”

“If I think you could beat them?!” Baet muttered and shook his head. “What are the chances I can find a musket that works in these parts anyway?!” He replied, then pulled several silver rounds from his pocket.

Komotz faced the dark man first. Baet hooted and laughed. “He’s going to take you apart! I got a lune that guarantees it!”

Andrus conveyed the message. Komotz bristled. He dug in his pockets and put a lune in his cousin’s hand.

Weary that things might get a bit heated, Creigal frowned at his captain. Carringten winked, then turned to the younger brother and set himself to fight.

Komotz moved forward slow and tested the older man. Carringten held his ground, barely moving, only blocking. Three times Komotz advanced, found no entrance, and retreated. The third time, Carringten followed, took a swipe that was easily blocked—but opened the younger brother up—and tapped him on the shoulder before dancing away cleanly.

Baet laughed. “You don’t even know who your messing with!” he chortled, while Carringten set himself for the next point and gave a neat bow.

Spitting and cussing, Komotz reset. Carringten gave the ready sign and the young Jindleyak rushed in—only to be rebuffed and brushed aside by the excellent weapons master. The younger brother could not even get the dark man to budge. Carringten took the point at his leisure. The third point was settled in a similar fashion. Komotz returned to his cousins, to be reassured by Aim and Duboha who had suffered similar humiliating defeats. Having seen only the end of the fight, Homoth stared at Carringten. He approached—more reserved—though still confident. He smirked. “Looks as if its down to you and me…” he began.

Baet interrupted. “Put your money where your mouth is!” he snarled. “I got a silver on each point! He beats you three to nil!”

Homoth snorted. Although he felt like he shouldn’t sully the contest with a side bet, he agreed to the wager.

“You so dumb,” Baet mocked. “You don’t even know!” he laughed.

Again, Carringten allowed his opponent to make the first move. Homoth proved to be as fast and strong as he looked—but Carringten had the opportunity to watch the younger man fight. He was well aware of the older brother’s skill—and shortcomings. After a long assault, the dark man took the point.

The two reset. Homoth was even more cautious—so Carringten did something he hadn’t done yet. He attacked. Homoth blocked several blows—though he quickly struggled. Carringten was strong, quick, and relentless as he pushed the younger man back; then took the point—and danced away almost before Homoth registered the touch. The older brother openly gaped as the dark captain spun away.

Carringten reset. Dumbfounded, Homoth set again—but now Carringten was in his head. The final point was quick and ruthless, almost more so because it was so light and controlled. Homoth couldn’t believe he’d been so easily defeated. It’d been months—maybe a year since he was so roundly dominated.

A hush fell over the others as they stared at the dark captain. Although they’d seen him fight when they ran from the House of Leaves, they didn’t have the chance to witness his subtle mastery. For a long moment, they didn’t know what to make of it.

Carringten turned to the gaping audience of Jindleyaks. “We leave immediately,” he said, which certainly brought a few questions to Creigal’s mind—since the duke quite liked the plan.

The Jindleyaks stared at the dark man, then Saleos glanced at Creigal. Creigal shrugged, so Saleos laughed. This broke the captain’s spell. The others chuckled and clapped the Carringten on the back to congratulate him on his inspiring victory—and promptly ignored his proclamation. They gathered their stuff and proceeded in all different directions, intent on spending the rest of the afternoon relaxing.

Creigal laughed and approached his captain. “Not used to having your orders ignored, are ya?” he said, and wrapped an arm around his adopted son. “Well, at least we know your the most deadly one among them,” he grinned. “As if I had any doubt…”

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

Darkness crept across the land. The hour came to leave. Elpis was laid in the back of the wagon with the ashes of Traust and Apulton—a thing he did not like. “I am not dead yet!” he complained. Still, he wore numerous bandages, had a pale countenance, and had developed a strange stare as one eye beaming at an uncomfortable angle. He certainly couldn’t ride.

"Hush, you," Aim chastised the injured man as he arranged him in the wagon. "Are your old friends such bad company?” he asked as he patted the urns that held the ashes of Apulton and Traust.

"Let them motivate you," Homoth interjected. "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 he 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.

All gathered and ready, Duboha, Aim, and the Pan Iskaer waved them on as Saleos drove the wagon. Krumpus also sat on the wide wagon bench with Wenifas and Evereste. The others all rode their own horses—except for Claiten. He rode with Meu for a time, then rode with Baet when Meu became too interested in making eyes at the duke, and while the boy’s 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 learned among the urchins of his own race.

Wenifas woke to see her boy with the guard. She frowned and decided not to make a big deal of it. Instead, she turned the other way and found herself staring at the shaman, as he sat next to her.

Krumpus turned and smiled at the priestess.

Wenifas smiled back. She tried not to stare at the bald half of his head or the burn scar that ran down his face and neck, only to disappear under his shirt. Instead, she took his withered hand and gently massaged it. “How are they today?”

Krumpus sighed, smiled, and nodded as he stretched his wrinkled fingers. Although his digits were not as strong as they once were, he’d regained full mobility. With his gaze, he claimed to be nearly whole once more—but the fact that he could now speak with just a glance confirmed to the priestess that he was as strange and powerful as ever. If this was a reduced state for the man, she wondered if there was anything he could not face.

After a few minutes of massage, Krumpus took the priestess by her hand and checked the recovering burn. “It’s feeling much better,” she nodded—and indeed it was. The burn barely stung at all anymore. The far edge of her palm and her pinkie were no longer blistered or scarred, but merely a tender rose color. They only bothered her when she did something extraneous. Even then the sting only lasted a minute or two. She figured a couple more days and she would have nothing but a withered scar to remind her of Beletrain. “I never did thank you,” she smiled. “I should like to learn how you healed it—but I imagine such magics are beyond someone as simple as me,” she blushed.

Krumpus frowned and shook his head. He stared into her eyes and told her magic is only magic when one doesn’t know how it works, after that, it is called all manner of things.

The priestess considered this, “I’ve always been told I can’t understand magic.”

And who would tell you such lies? the shaman asked.

Wenifas frowned. “Mostly the church fathers.”

I would call them liars, Krumpus said.

“So would I,” she shrugged.

The magic of the worlds are unending, the shaman smiled. Admittedly, they are not always explainable. They tend to twist and bend in mysterious ways.

“Then how am I to learn it?” Wenifas asked.

What does one do with magic? Krumpus smiled. One practices magic. You will practice—as the dark man practices with his sword. He pointed. How often have you seen him swinging at shadows? Is he not magic with his weapons?

“I should think that is quite a pedestrian definition,” Wenifas frowned.

Can you do it? the shaman pointed and shook his head. Magic is only magic to those observing. To those practicing it is always called something else.

“Is this how you know herbs?” Wenifas asked. “Is it through pracitce?”

Somewhat, the shaman shrugged. I do not wave them about quite as much, he joked. But I study them. I’ve sat in fields of flowers for days on end so they might tell me their secrets.

“And they have?” she wondered at such a statement.

Some… Many… Krumpus smiled. They’ll tell you a lot—but they tend to keep a secret or two. They’ve certainly told me enough to help me do my work.

“What is your work?”

To heal, the shaman stared. To bring peace and heal the world.

The priestess thought that was a bit of a tall order. “I should just like to be happy,” she shrugged.

Krumpus laughed silently. Me too, he assured her. Shall I tell you more about magic? He asked. Would you like to know how I predicted the meteor?

“Yes please.”

I observe, he told her. You see, the more you know of the magic turnings of the world, the more that is revealed to you. Hold still long enough, and the world will show you, ‘this is what I am’.

“That is magic,” Wenifas agreed. “That is the magic I speak of.”

It is the magic most people speak of—but then, they assume they know nothing of it since it seems so common, so mundane; once they understand it, he smiled. There are three kinds of magic, he began. Have you heard of black and white magic?

“I should think all have heard of black and white magic,” Wenifas replied.

Indeed, the shaman nodded. Still he explained it. Black is the all devouring fear of the dark. Black magic is taking what you want, however you can get it. Black magic is selfish, cruel, and short-sighted. White magic 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, only ever taking the long view.

“Then I should strive to be a white magician,” Wenifas said.

The shaman shook his head. We are not to deny our shadow. Is it not always right there? Especially when the sun is strongest? No. Our path is not so easy that we should simply take one side all the time. Our path is to walk the middle ground, taking and giving as the situation requires. Sometimes we are asked to take the long view—even though we may not be able to see our own hands in front of us. Other times we will see the future stretching out for days, months, and years—and our nature will require us to drive the knife, to cut the cord, to break and mangle, he explained. Our magic is multicolored, many faceted; balanced between the extremes of the blinding, burning light of god’s eternal throne—and the cold, damp, dark of the devil’s own abyss. We do not walk the earth with our eyes turned forever to the sun. No. Instead, we dance in the soft sands of a fallen world with one foot in the water. We wrap the pour miserly beasts of the earth with our loving attention—and slit the throats of their succulent offspring for the feeding of our own young. It is with this loving attention, honoring both the need and sacrifice of all that is around us, that we sanctify this petty, cruel world and transform into haven.

Wenifas gaped. For a long second, she was unable to speak to such an impassioned speech. “Sounds confusing,” she said—then quickly amended it with what she truly thought. “Sounds impossible.” Embarrassed by her doubts, she hanged her head.

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. Simple is rarely easy.

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

You must go inward, Krumpus told her. It is the inner knowing that you must find. God speaks to you—through you. You must recognize the voice, and know when you must answer to it. For the devil also speaks through you.

“And I must not succumb to its trickery and temptation,” she interjected.

No, the shaman shook his head. 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, he told her. The devil will have his due, and he shall be married to the angel within, that you know when to give with the right and when to take with the left.

“Is the devil not the enemy?” Wenifas asked.

The devil is necessary, Krumpus told her. Without the devil’s chaos, the world would stagnate. It would become the choking order of the old guard in which nothing new could grow. Instead, we must aspire to our highest good, while still honoring the dark material that we inhabit.

Still, the priestess was confused.

Consider your breathing, Krumpus began. In order to breathe one does not simply exhale. 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—for it is not what is done, but the manner in which it is done. Then, having married the sun and the moon within you, you are perfect—or nearly enough—so that your immortality is obvious.

Shocked by the claim, Wenifas stared at the shaman. “We are immortal?”

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

“Huh…” For a time, Wenifas sat quietly and considered the strange and paradoxical words of the shaman. After that, he did not talk of such weighty or poignant things, and the priestess did not bother him to go on. Instead, he told her of the various plants and flowers they passed along their way.

The continuous twists, turns, and straightaways of the road came and went as the horses kicked up dust. The sun crept toward its zenith, then slowly dropped to the horizon. Evening came and the party stopped. They paid a local farmer a few silver so they might set a camp in one of his fields; then partook of a quick dinner and bedded down for the night. A few took their turn at the watch, quite sure that no one followed.

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

“Bunch of blasted idiots, marching on the road for all the world to see,” Toddles complained. “No wonder they were spotted out and sent packing.” He spoke of the Ministrian and Degorouth men that watched and waited for the duke to leave his protected inn, some three hundred strong—but not nearly enough—considering the crowd of local militia, perhaps a thousand strong, that caught and turned them back as they made after the duke in the middle of the night. “Serves them right for being so oblivious,” he continued to mutter.

Although they managed to sneak away after the others were caught and sent back to Ebertin, Meriona still had a low opinion of the four throat-cutters sent with her. Their faces were grim and troubling. They could barely manage a civil word when they spoke. They smelled of the streets, drank continuously, and had little interest in anything—except the money they’d make by killing the duke. In the scant places where 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. She could not wait for this mission to be over, simply so she could be rid of their foul company.

For a while, as they trailed the duke’s party down the road, Meriona told the throat-cutters 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 rescinded her command and told 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. “I am cold, and I will have a warm supper!” she scolded. “If you will not do it, don’t think that I won’t!”

“There will be no fire,” Toddles contradicted. “If we should light a fire, 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.

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

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

“Do you truly think the duke believes himslef safe? That there can be no further trouble?” Meriona stared among the men. “Such men do not trust their own homes—much less the wilds of a foreign country! Indeed, it is quite likely they have already noted our camp; and if that is so, won’t they find it more suspicious if we do not light a fire?” She glared among the men, then shook her head, and 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. Indeed, she had no idea what they were planning.

“We scout them,” Toddles finally answered. “And if we find an opening,” he stared at Meriona for several long seconds before he dragged a finger across his throat. The other throat-cutters grinned, chuckled, and nodded in anticipation.

All four of the throat-cutters sneak toward the duke’s camp.

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 is 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 comfortable tent?!” he shook his head. “He has men to watch! He will not be out in the dark.”

Toddles frowned. He thought if he snuck another twenty feet or so, he might throw a knife and stick the man easy…

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 that waited for them.

The next day, as the sun climbed high in the sky, Elpis called to Saleos, “Slow ‘er down, old man! We got a tail!”

Saleos looked over his shoulder to see more than a dozen horses were gaining on them, armed men, including Aim and Duboha. “What are they doing?” He asked as they got closer. “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 prisoner was slumped over a saddle, blood draining down the side of his horse.

Elpis pointed at the body, though he looked in two separate directions, “What happened to him?”

“While we questioned the lot, he took a swing at Duboha,” Aim explained. “Squirrel stuck him with his spear and let out too much of his blood.”

Squirrel shrugged. “I just meant to suck the fight out of ‘im,” he noted. “Didn’t mean to kill ‘im.”

Saleos waved his arms. “Wait, wait, wait. Start at the beginning. What happened after we left?”

“Pretty much what we expected,” Aim shrugged. “We blocked maybe three or four hundred of ‘em on the edge of town, and gathered about a dozen more that tried to sneak past. Then we got word of this suspicious lot that had somehow slipped our net. We followed them all yesterday. Then, last night, we caught them taking a peek at your camp, and arguing about whether or not Creigal is the type to take watch…” Aim snorted. “At sunrise, we confronted them in their camp. Then the leaker got frisky, pulled a blade, and took a swipe. Duboha dodged by throwing himself off his own horse, though he took some damage in the fall,” the giant finished with a snicker.

“He cut my shirt,” Duboha complained as he glared at the giant. “Would’a cut me if I didn’t dive.”

“Meriona,” the duke smiled and gave the lady a bow. “You’re keeping colorful company these days. Still under orders from High Commander Gliedian?”

Meriona stiffened up. “I’m just looking for a good view,” she suggested.

Duboha snorted. “They took a peek at your camp last night.”

“We spied on them as they spied on you—though they still won’t admit it,” Aim explained. “We were standing right behind them—and they still won’t admit it.”

Meriona scoffed. “A beast like you, sneaking about in the dark?!”

“I’m sneakier than I look,” Aim grinned.

Saleos snorted. “Well, we’re only a couple days from the border. I say we take them to Excergie for a little Jindleyak justice.“

“Does this mean you’re coming to Hearthstone after all?” Homoth clapped Aim on the back.

“We’re halfway there,” Aim shrugged. “Might as well go home and kiss my mother.”

“What of you, Squirrel?” Homoth asked the Pan Iskaer. “You coming with us?”

“Not me,” Squirrel said as he waved the other Pan Iskaer away. “Our mothers are in the other direction,” he smiled. “Good luck to you.”