Solveny

Polished 10.1 and 10.2 — 32m28s — 2021/07/20

Polished 10.3, then moved it to 10.6, and moved 10.6 to 10.3 — 6m19s — 2021/07/20

Polished 10.1, 10.2, and 10.3. I need to move Scurra and the crows — 41m11s — 2021/07/21

Polished 10.4 and 10.5 — 34m49s — 2021/07/21

Deleted 10.3. Moved up 10.4, 10.5, and 10.6 — 2m34s 2021/07/22

Moved 11.1 to 10.3. Moved back 10.4, 10.5, and 106 — 22m.59s —2021/07/24

There is a reason they are called the Broken Legions of Tronde and Rigel and never the Broken Legions of Rigel and Tronde. Both were generals in the Old Tallian armies, but one very much followed the other as they rushed across the Tallian plain with their enemies nipping at their heels. Tronde is named first as he led the fabled exodus with his diplomats and a few stout warriors to fight the rare enemy that stood against their escape; while Rigel and a majority of their forces defended their van from the Waoernok hordes and the mercenary armies that pursued. Tronde needed few men as he found little resistance going forward. Indeed, he was often embraced by the scattered towns and villages of the western plain, while Rigel fought a delaying action against their numerous tormentors and needed every body he could get.

Both generals were masterful fighters, though they had opposite styles and strengths. Tronde was a charismatic leader, forward and frank, a diplomat and negotiator; while Rigel was a keen strategist, a hard-scrabble tactician, with few words to spare. Seeing the men they’d eventually become, it might be hard to imagine the two came up under similar circumstance. Indeed, they met at an early age, and were fast friends for decades, despite—or perhaps because of—their contrasting personalities. Still, both were highly decorated and accomplished leaders, even before the Great Betrayal, even before they turned against their duplicitous superiors and rescued a great many of their countrymen from impending doom.

Tronde’s work at the head of the exodus was mostly logistical, as more and more survivors were incorporated into their long train. At the far end of the exodus, Rigel was tested in a very different way. He was always under pressure, and constantly fighting to keep the Waoernok at bay, with trappers, sneaks, and assassins galore. Rigel lost a great number of men, but constantly bled his Waoernok pursuers and consistently slowed their crawling advance. From the day Tronde and Rigel abandoned the ancient city of Jamijarie, they’re slow march across the Tallian plains took 525 days until the blended forces of Tronde and Rigel beat back the last of their enemies at the Pass of Stoens, upon the ridges of Mount Victorie, at the edge of the Bunderhilt Mountains.

After the exodus of the Broken Legions, Tronde settled in the valley of the Heartflow, and continued to train as a warrior and diplomat; while Rigel went north and west and settled half a day’s journey from the village of Melmorahn. Unlike Tronde, Rigel was determined to live a quiet life. He hung up his sword in favor of a shovel. Despite their divergent courses and what one might expect of their continued experiences, Tronde’s later years were fairly easy, as an age of peace and prosperity settled over the mountains. Yet, in the wilder north lands, Rigel was involved in number of violent confrontations. Although Rigel was forced to defend himself on several occasions, his sword never left its place above the door. It was always enough for the man to have a rake, a shovel, or nothing but his hands to fend off his enemies. Indeed, when it came to the difficulties of farming at the very edge of the wilds, Rigel always claimed it was the squirrels that gave him the most trouble.

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

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

Crea lived on the roof of the finest building in all of Solveny. At six stories, it topped even the Keep of the Silver Service. She had hutches for her birds and planter boxes for her herbs. There was a small hut where she slept, and also a shed for tools and seed. The hut was large enough for her bed, and a dresser, and there was also a looking glass, so she knew when she had too much dirt on her face.

Crea had access to a kitchen and bath on the ground floor, and was free to come and go as she pleased. The rent was a tenth of everything she brought in on the birds and herbs. She paid two bits for the second month. By the end of her first year her rent was a diem. Now, three years later, her last rent was four and a half diems, and she was proud to pay so much. Tucked in a discrete corner of her hut, she had a sock full of coin as she saved for a cottage of her own.

In her spare time, Crea knitted blankets for the market, studied history among the clerics, and batted her eyes at a local cobbler's son. It took a good month to get the boy's attention, but now that she had it, he smiled whenever he saw her and waved as she passed. Sooner or later he'd muster the courage to approach—and then she'd have the cobbler's son too.

Before gods and monsters such bliss does not last. The screaming started at the north edge of town. Seconds later, there was fright and panic from the east. Soon, yelling and shouting came from a dozen different directions. Most of the commotion was far away, so Crea could not see what occurred, as she abandoned her tending and stared out over the city. The ring of metal on metal carried above the streets as she fought back a swell of panic. She thought to set messages to her pigeons. She gathered her pen and paper—though she didn't know what to write.

Dolimerea, an older tenant from one of the floors below, appeared on the roof and hugged Crea as the sounds of conflict continued. "What are we to make of it?" she asked her young friend.

Crea shook her head and stared out over the city. The reasons for violence often escaped her—though she had several brothers that taught her a bit of how to defend herself. Unsure, the younger lady held the elder as they listened to the ebb and flow of the tumult in the streets.

Soon, there was a crowd on the roof, and Crea felt safe. Other occupants, servants, and caretakers of the fine building looked out over the city with a variety of weapons: swords, knives, meat mallets, fire pokers, rolling pins—anything handy and hard. Women clutched at each other as the men frowned, solemn and serious. They called down to passers-by and asked after the screaming.

"It is chaos!" the men on the street called back. "Foreigners have stormed the courthouse and barricaded themselves!"

"They've taken the north gate, and sacked the armory near Folcant!" another revealed.

Many of Crea’s neighbors went downstairs, some to help—others to pack. Crea thought it a good idea to pack her own bag. Like many of the others, she simply waited and worried. She thought of her family and their farm, two days walk to the south. Two days of hard marching was a commitment she was not willing to make.

The commotion in the streets rose and fell as hard news continued to pour past. "A posse forms to liberate the north gate!" A strong man called. Half a dozen men went with him.

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

“They set fires in every direction!” A growing crowd called out. “Help us battle the flames!”

More and more of the building’s inhabitants ran to assist. Crea thought to go with them—but she still hadn't written any messages. She took up her pen and scrawled a half dozen notes. Solveny is attacked! is all she wrote, since she knew no more. She attached notes to go to an abbot in the next valley, to a minor official she knew among the Court of the High Plains, to several other bird lovers in nearby towns and villages, and of course the lady that taught her to raise and train pigeons in the first place—even though she was at the edge of town and must already know of what happened.

"Look to the Silver Keep," Dolimerea said to Crea as she released the last of her birds. "They have locked the gates and keep the door,” she sneered. “Those fish will guard their precious post and nothing else!"

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

Dolimerea snorted. “The silver fish care nothing about others. They only swim for the currency.”

Crea stared out over the city and suffered a sinking feeling. Things were not going well and she was suddenly convinced it could only get worse. She took a step toward her hut. She meant to gather her bag and be off, while she still might escape.

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

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

"Don't be so cynical!" Dolimerea pleaded and wrapped the younger lady in a desperate hug. “Let us stay here and be quiet, that the angels might protect us!” she continued. “We will hide and our enemies will be blinded by their own smoke!”

For a moment the roar of violence was a mere din in the distance, sporadic and far away. Crea let the old lady hug her as the city seemed to calm. For a time, she focused on her friend’s warmth and nothing more.

Then Crea opened her eyes. She gasped and cried out as she noticed a wall of dust billowing toward the city from out of the north—from the direction of the Trohl city of Rynth Falls. She knew immediately that the dust was caused by a number of riders—a very large number!

Crea wasn't the only one to notice the fast approaching cavalry. Screams, shouts, and curses seemed to catch in the air all at once. The racket raised to a fevered pitch as the locals realized they must regain their defenses or find themselves quickly overrun. Fighting intensified as the locals threw themselves at the north and west gates in a last ditch effort to reclaim them. Dolimerea clasped at Crea, though the younger woman now felt as if she were being smothered.

"It is closing!" Dolimerea pointed at the north gate. Indeed, the gate dropped several feet—only to stop and hang partially open. Individual riders were now visible on the distant road. The rider's seemed within spitting distance of the gate when suddenly it dropped and locked them out!

Relieved, Crea turned to the west gate to see if it still hung open. The fighting was intense. Local militia pressed the invaders into the guardhouse and did everything they could to clear them out. Figures dropped to the dirt, writhing and squirming, only to hold still in the end. The townspeople were inside the gatehouse. Crea couldn't breathe. The gate dropped as riders appeared on the other side of the arch—but it was too late. Half open, the invaders poured into the city proper. They secured the gate, then rushed up the streets, cutting down everyone in their way.

In short time, Trohls arrived at the base of the building. They kicked in the door, grabbed one of the doorman, and threw him into the street. The other guards poured out of the building to protect their brother—but the six men were heavily out numbered, and quickly surrounded. One of the guards yelled as he fought. "You fools! They come for us all!" He called back at the building, before the invaders struck him down. Crea did not pity him. She surmised that most the brave men of the city were already dead. She felt a pang of guilt as she had not helped—but what could she hope to do? She was no fighter!

"Don't leave me!" Dolimerea shrieked as she tried to catch hold of Crea.

"Come with me!" Crea shouted back. She grabbed her bag then rushed past the older woman with an outstretched arm. But Dolimerea did not follow. She chased Crea for several steps, but did not go down the stairs. Instead, the older lady fell to her knees and wailed as she knelt among the unbothered boxes of herbs.

Crea took the stairs two at a time as she cursed herself for a fool. She hoped it was not to late to save her own skin. On the second floor, she came around a blind corner and caught the sight of two feathers. Caught by the curious spectacle, she turned to see that they sprouted from a helmet—as a rough hand caught the side of her head and smashed her into a wall. Though she tried to raise a defense, she was too slow. A sudden sharp pain ripped through her head—and then there was nothing—as she blacked out.

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

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’d 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.

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. She did not try bite him, nor did she use her song. He smiled. “I have met wyrms, and I have met skin-walkers, but I believe that you are the first that was both.” 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.”

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, that 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 away.

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

Pangs of sensation ebbed and flowed from Crea’s core and pushed through the dull ache in her head. There was a burning that hovered on a knife's edge between extreme pleasure and excruciating pain as she opened her eyes. A mad hope filled her heart, that a certain cobbler's son was doing his best to make a mother of her—as happened often enough in her fantasies—but the man that crushed into her was a blood soaked foreigner with an ugly webbed scar on his face and murder in his soul. She could not pull her eyes from his helmet, which he still wore, decorated with two extravagant feathers from a bird Crea could only imagine. The feathers were tan, with red and green highlights. They waved back and forth in a mock salute as the mad foreigner drove himself into her again and again.

Crea screamed and tried to push the man off—but he was well muscled and more than a match for the petite woman. In a flash, he grabbed her neck and squeezed. She choked against his rough hands as he ignored her striking fists. He snapped at her—curt violent words that matched the crushing force of his fingers. Though Crea couldn't understand his language, she got the message all the same; struggle and he might just kill her. Still, she persisted.

Her mind unraveled and edged toward unconsciousness. She could fight no more. Her hands dropped away and for a split second, she drifted away, returning to the dark. His hands relaxed, and Crea coughed and choked. As she gasped for air, he held her down and squeezed her tits far harder than they deserved.

Aware that she could do nothing about the assault, Crea tried to turn her mind to anything else. She wondered where this brute got such beautiful feathers. She wondered what sort of creature had such brilliant plumage, and was simultaneously quite happy that she should never see it, since it was quite likely a man like this got the feathers by violence.

Crea wondered if it was better to fight and die, or go limp and live to see another day. Tears burned her eyes. She closed them so she did not have to see her attacker's manic pleasure. Although she knew better, she imagined it was indeed the cobbler's son—he didn’t mean to hurt her—as an endless flow of tears streamed from her eyes.

The assault seemed to go on for an eternity before it finally ended—though it only lasted a few minutes. Slowly, Crea returned to herself as shame took the place of pain. Her attacker pulled away and she grabbed at the covers of the strange bed. She cowered as far from the man as she could.

With a huff, the scarred attacker dressed in his Trohl rags. He turned the garments this way and that, as if he did not know them, and Crea wondered if he was a Trohl at all. Indeed, he did not look the part.

Finally dressed, the foreigner proceeded to ransack the room. Crea didn't dare move as the man glared and threatened whenever she did. Instead, she stared at the brilliant feathers that stuck out of his helmet, and hated him all the more for having such a fine prize.

Whenever the foreigner looked at her, Crea looked out the window. She had no idea who's apartment she was in, only that it was still in her building, perhaps half way up. She looked down, where the door guards lay in pools of their own blood. Among them was the corpse of Dolimerea. Crea wondered if she was thrown from the roof or if she jumped. For herself, she wondered if death would be easier. She fought against more tears as she asked herself why this was happening? But the answer was not forthcoming. Instead, she was forced to watch her beloved town slowly burn as her own bruised and battered body ached.

The foreigner turned over tables and rifled through drawers as he jammed the occasional bit or trinket into his pocket. Crea thought she'd only have to wait until he left, then she might pick up the pieces of her life as best she could.

Outside the window, a company of invaders decided it was time to stop yelling at the Keep of the Silver Service and employ the battering ram they made from the trunk of a nearby tree. Crea watched the escalating drama unfold, and hoped every last one of the invaders would die by the potent swords of the silver fish. She knew there were forty, maybe fifty men in the keep, but she also knew some of them were as green as dandelions, and a few were as old as time. Besides, there were easily a couple hundred invaders all about the keep, waiting for the doors to come down.

Before the drama outside could unfold any further, another man burst into the apartment. This man wore a Saot uniform with decorations in black and red. There was a kite insignia, a mark that Crea knew. He was from Gaurring. He stopped into the room and stared at the web-scarred foreigner. For a second, she thought the two men must fight. She thought she was saved as the two men turned on each other. Her spirits soared as she hoped the Gaur officer would run him through.

But the Gaur officer did not attack, he only asked a question. He did not speak Saot, and Crea knew it wasn’t one of the Trohl dialects either. She realized although this new man wore a different uniform, they were in league together. She wondered what an officer of the Kingdom might be doing among these foreign invaders. She considered this fact as the Gaur's eyes settled on her. The foreigner with the brilliant feathers gave a nod toward the bed and grinned a wicked grin as the Gaur officer approached with hungry eyes.

A devious smile split the Gaur’s lips and a shiver ran up Crea’s spine. The foreigner left with a smirk as the Saot approached the bed and began to undress. Crea pointed out the window and hoped she might distract the man with the commotion below.

"Don't mind that mess," he began in perfect Saot. "You and I 're gonna play a different game," he leered as he undid his belt.

Crea knew what was coming. She knew the moment he came in the room—though she tried to convince herself it wasn't so. He meant to take her however he must. A rage enveloped her, though she hid it deep, and kept a calm demeanor. He was a good deal larger, and she was already sore and worn from the rough treatment of the foreigner. She could not hope to take him in an honest contest. Instead, Crea hanged her head and begged him to be kind. "If you are gentle, I promise not to fight you," she said as she bit her lip. "There’s no need for violence."

“Well then,” the Saot grinned. "Pull up your dress," he ordered as he set his weapons aside and stepped out of his pants. With bloody hands all over the blankets, he crawled across the bed. He licked his teeth and leered at the battered young woman as she held the edge of her dress in one hand. She pulled it up over her ankles, knees, and thighs. She offered her free hand for him to take with his own.

"Can't lie," he said as he crawled over her. "You're the prettiest thing I've seen all week."

He put his hand in hers and pressed his tongue to her lips. Crea allowed the kiss as she focused on his hand. She caught hold of his fingers, then twisted her grip so she held nothing but his pinkie. With sudden force, she bent it back and snapped it in several places, as she crushed it with all her might.

"YEEAARGGHH!" He screamed as he felt the delicate bones of his finger snap, snap, snap. Rage filled his eyes, and he pulled back to hit her.

But Crea was already moving. With her other hand balled in a fist, she slammed it into the man's chin, as her father once taught her. The attacker's jaw popped and the man went limp. He rolled off the bed with a blank expression on his face and crumbled to the floor in an awkward heap.

Crea didn’t waste a second. She grabbed her shoes, her bag, and the Saot officer's sword as she ran from the room. She bolted down the stairs as quickly and as quietly as she could.

By the time she reached the front door, the commotion outside the Silver Keep had developed into a full blown ruckus, as a tight knot of men from the Silver Service fought in their own courtyard against an increasing crush of invaders. No one watched her building as Crea ran and ducked into a thick hedge between the tower and keep. She dived among the brush and glanced back as the branches settled over her. She could hear the Saot swear and cuss as he came to the front door of her building. He cradled his pinkie and massaged his jaw as he looked about for any sign of her, a rage in his eyes.

Crea lay among the soft dead fall below a thicket of lilac, chokecherry, and juniper. She held still as she stared at her second attacker through the branches. Finally, the Gaur settled on the wrong direction and stepped to the far end of the building.

As Crea huddled in the bushes, something touched her leg. She nearly jumped out of her skin as she kicked and turned to this new threat. She tried to get the fancy falchion from its scabbard—but stopped when she realized it was two of her own countrymen that crept among the bushes. One was older than her own father. The other was about the age of her youngest brother. Both wore armor, large packs, weapons, and the simple insignia of the King's post.

Silver fish.

The older man wore a look of grim determination as the younger was obviously frightened. The elder held a finger to his lips, a plea to Crea to keep her quiet. She wondered how they escaped the keep though she quickly realized it didn't matter. They were out, and so was she.

As the remainder of the silver fish were slaughtered in their own keep, Crea and the two men slipped into the park beyond. Slowly, deftly, the old silver fish led Crea and his squire through the burning town. Near the city wall, they came to a small hut. The old man had a key for it—though the lock was smashed.

Crea saw nothing inside and was confused that they bothered to go into the hut at all. The small hut was completely rousted, table and chairs turned over; smashed dishes and crumpled linens. The old man closed the door then collapsed to the floor and began examining it in earnest. For a second, Crea worried about the man, and thought maybe he’d lost his wits.

With a sigh, the old man pulled up a board, then with a great effort he pulled up an entire section of the floor—a trapdoor!—to reveal a massive hole with a ladder that led into the dark earth.

Crea followed the squire inside. The older man set the trapdoor back in place. The tunnel ran south under the wall. It ran straight without deviation or branch and seemed to go on forever. As they continued to walk into the dark, Crea began to think they'd never come up out of the dirt. A part of her wasn’t bothered by the prospect.

Finally, a ladder appeared. They came out of the tunnel in a fallow field with trees all around, at least a mile from the wall. It was secluded and far from any house or barn. The old man closed the trap and immediately began on his way. The squire followed without hesitation. Despite a deep fatigue and a need for rest, Crea continued after the two men.

For several hours they marched south with barely a dozen words between them. Crea was sore and incredibly tired as she pressed forward—but she was also determined to get as far from Solveny as she could. Though she cried, she offered no complaint. She felt the old man set a brutal pace even though it was barely above a crawl. The squire was equally tired, but also refused to give up. Crea caught the sight of tears in his eyes and was comforted by the fact that her pain and torment was shared.

Their stumbling escape continued apace. Deep into the night, and several miles from town, they finally stopped. The old man led them to a cache set up by the Silver Service for just such emergencies. The three set about making a camouflaged camp by the red light of Oblarra, and ate a hasty meal of cold rations.

As Crea lay in her ad hoc bed, she cried once more. Her hopes and ambitions were all in Solveny, burned up by filthy invaders, along with her dignity. Though she could not speak the words out loud, she begged death to take her. Utterly exhausted, and finally out of tears, Crea fell into a deep, dreamless sleep that seemed to last forever.

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

"What happened to your hand?" Gliedian asked Banifourd as he approached down the ruined street.

Banifourd frowned, as he had no interest in telling the Baradha that some local tart had mangled it. He also did not want to talk about the fact that he’d lost Creigal’s sword—and so he simply muttered insults under his breath as he rubbed the pain out of his jaw.

"Some flowers have thorns," the scar-faced copal, Petaerus pronounced.

Banifourd glared at the man.

"Next time, see that you are more careful," Gliedian chided.

"Next time?!" Banifourd's eyes went wide. "Holy Ooroiyuo! Do you plan to massacre your way across the entire Noethrin Plain?!"

Gliedian smirked as if that was exactly his plan.

The overhanded ways of the Ministrians confused the Saot. They seemed messy and blatant—yet he could not deny that they were somehow taking over the known world. How could they be so reckless and effective at the same time? he wondered. "Is this because of the loss of Ebertin?" Banifourd asked, thinking perhaps the High Commander was simply acting out.

Gliedian frowned. “I would not let some minor setback cloud my judgement,” he began. “And what makes you think Ebertin is lost?”

“Minor?!” Banifourd questioned.

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

“I haven’t forgotten—but you pretend you expected to lose the judge.”

“I pretend nothing,” Gliedian replied. “Setbacks are rarely forseen, and when they occur, I merely adapt. Now prepare to march. We take the bulk of Trohls south to Gaurring, and we burn our path there.”

“Why should Trohls attack my homeland?” Banifourd began. “Do you think my cousins will simply allow an invading army into Gaurring?”

Gliedian stared at the man and wondered if he was daft as well as incompetent. “Aerindoun needs men if he hopes to take the duchy from his father, and men are what I have in excess,” he informed. “We shall slip across the border into the welcoming arms of your master—but only after we have burned away a number of the Dunkel’s enemies, and made a relative mess of the Noeth,” he admitted.

Banifourd shrugged. “Solveny may belong in the past, but there is still the Count of the High Plains,” he noted. “Even if the Dunkels simply stand by, we will not proceed uncontested.”

“That is why they call it war,” Gliedian stared, as he wondered if all of Aerindoun’s men were so useless—but then he remembered the part this officer was to play. Aerindoun would not have agreed to spend Banifourd in such a cheap way if he was good for much else. What did the emissary say? Beware of what he told man, as he expected Banifourd would talk. Still, Gliedian had to the Gaur officer something, and he needed to believe it. Besides, there were other ways to keep him quiet. The High Commander smirked. “This is how war works. One must thrust, parry, feign... We will play cat and mouse with the High Plains army, all while the Dunkels kvetch and act the part of the offended party.”

“If you are wrong about the Dunkels and they are not with us, we will never make the southern border,” Banifourd forecast.

“I’m not wrong,” Gliedian snapped and glared.

Banifourd knew he could not win the argument. What would happen would happen. He decided to change the subject instead. “I was told my men would meet me here. Where are they?” he asked, as his pinkie throbbed and irritated him so.

“You’re men?” Gliedian replied.

Banifourd stood arms akimbo, and hoped the High Commander did notice the lack of his master’s sword. “I go nowhere until you tell me where I’ll find Garfindel.”

Gliedian stiffened. He was unaccustomed to being addressed so brusquely. He took a deep breath, smoothed his shirt, and tried to relax as he remembered the other Saot—the useful one. "Ah, yes, Garf,” the High Commander forced a smile. “I've sent him ahead of us—to sow the seeds of discord. After all, your duke’s loyal men need distracting if we are to slip across the border unnoticed.”

"And what of Bence?" Banifourd asked.

“I left him at Camp Calderhal. He was all too happy to stay a bit and consort with the priesthood—and since we didn’t want him in court when we confronted your duke,” Gliedian shrugged. “He was supposed to meet us in Rynth Falls,” the high commander faked a frown. “Since that did not happen, I think we must consider the worst—that he was murdered by bugbear."

Banifourd huffed, but decided it was best not to push any further. He might not like having either of his men around to watch his back, but what could he do about it? “I don’t like being lied to...” he began weakly; as if lies were not common trade these days.

"I do beg your pardon," Gliedian gave an exaggerated bow. "He is doing a most difficult task for the Empress, and your future duke as well. I have promised him a heavy bounty if he can pull it off. I do apologize for commandeering his services, but I assure you, he was quite agreed."

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

“And I suppose I owe you a premium for the use of your good man?” Gliedian nodded and dug in his pocket. He pulled out a gold sol, and held the heavy coin out to Banifourd. “How is this? Is it enough to be without him for a few weeks for such a fine trinket?”

Banifourd stared at the large gold coin—and also the man that offered it. He had an inkling that he was damned if he took the coin and damned if he didn't. With a frown, he took the sol. “Sooner or later you shall find some things can’t be bought,“ he said to the Ministrian.

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

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

"I like pretty things,” Petaerus sneered, “And I take 'em when I see 'em.”

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

“Do not denigrate dogs,” Gliedian began as he waved Petaerus out of the way. “They are worthy and loyal beasts.”

“Loyal,” Banifourd snorted as he walked the other way. “Everyone knows that Ministrians are loyal to coin alone.”

Gliedian turned to Petaerus as they watched the Saot officer leave. He leaned close to his copal. “When you do what you do,” he began in a low tone, “I’ll take back that coin.”

“It’ll be my pleasure.” Petaerus nodded and smiled at the command.

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

The ghost of Brankellus found itself on the edge of a plateau. The road curved down a steep embankment and switched back several times before it arrived on the valley floor and the Plain of the Noeth. In the valley below, he could see the large town of Solveny as fires smoldered in several quarters. Flame curled skyward and he thought he could hear the occasional scream drift on the wind as he stepped down the weary road.

The sky lightened to a dark blue then drifted into a deep red as the sun peaked over the horizon once more. The flames dimmed and gave over their horrific brilliance to the billows of pungent smoke that rose laboriously into the sky. With a sigh, Brankellus stepped down the road, quite sure that Petaerus was somewhere in this newly ruined town.

Numbed to the villainy of the Ministrians, Brankellus barely flinched as he stepped around the lifeless bodies of the city's former denizens. He passed a woman as she cried over the remains of a man and a child, only to see a third body lying to side—the woman's own. Brankellus stared at the woman with wide eyes as she turned and locked eyes with him. The wife wiped her face as she stood, and spoke. Brankellus shook his head. He did not understand her Saot tongue. With a shrug, the dead man hanged his head in respect and stepped away from the corpses.

There were many more ghosts among the dead of Solveny. There was a hefty man that stood in the door of a church. Brankellus caught the barest glimpse of gore beyond the ghost and quickly turned away from the sight. There were several children of various ages, wide-eyed, with hands clasped, as they ran to Brankellus, the wife, and the large cleric that followed. There was an old woman—so old that Brankellus wondered if she could walk before she died. As a ghost, she certainly struggled with the task—though she managed to keep up pretty easy with the shuffling pace of the others. She shook and huffed with each impossible step as she continued after Brankellus and the growing number of dead that followed him. Why they followed, he did not know.

Under the noonday sun, a long column of Ministrians prepared to return to Rynth Falls. They loaded wagons with their spoils and corralled livestock and slaves. Petaerus was not among them.

The sun crested and began to fall. Brankellus continued through the town, led by his infallible sense. He stepped from Solveny and noticed that many of the outlying farms also smoldered. He walked on, south and east, across the Noethrin Plain, only interested in his quarry. Several miles outside of Solveny, he looked back and noted that a good dozen of other dead now followed.