Official Acts

Polished 18.1 — 45m47s — 2021/09/03

Polished 18.1 and 18.4 — 2h14m33s — 2021/09/09

Polished 18.1 and began to write 18.2 — 50m40s — 2021/09/10

Finished 18.2 and began to write 18.3 — 41m27s — 2021/09/11

Polished 18.2 and 18.3 — 1h05m44s — 2021/09/13

Polished 17.5 and wrote the new 18.3 — 1h30m18s — 2021/09/21

Polished 18.3, 18.5, and 18.6 — 1h50m44s — 2021/09/24

Polished 18.7, 18.8, and 18.9 — 1h45m59s — 2021/09/27

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

A day later, The entourage arrived at the estate of Azra Trandhill. They turned off the main road and made for the entrance of a small valley. They passed under a large iron gate—though there was no fence to either side.

Field hands paused in their duties to stare at the new arrivals. At first, the children were timid, and the dogs stayed with them—until Paye showed herself. They shouted her name and rushed forward to say hello, then escorted the company up the drive, while their parents stayed in the fields. After a half a mile or so, the company came to a collection of buildings, including the main house, which was built of stone and sported a spire that was five stories high. There were a collection of buildings, practically making it a small village.

The steward stepped from the massive house. He bowed to the strangers, hugged his cousins, and kissed Paye’s hand. “Your father will be delighted you have arrived,” he said to the lady, then turned to Creigal and his men. “Hello, my lord. Azra is most anxious to meet you. Please join us for refreshments on the back patio.”

The Jindleyaks were seeing to Komotz, Maligno, and the horses.

Baet dismounted, handed his reigns to a boy with the first straggles of facial hair on his chin, and smiled as he stared up at the house. He followed the others and wondered at the chance of a hot bath before bed, which he felt was pretty dang good.

In the backyard, there was food and drink aplenty. The company was introduced to Azra Trandhill, a massive old man as thick as a tree. “Is this your father?” Baet asked Paye, as she stood next to the man.

She shook her head. “This is my grandfather,” she smiled. “I don’t know where my father is,” she turned to Azra.

“Hearthstone,” the patron said he as stared at the guard. His gaze was piercing and made Baet uneasy—but then he felt sad when the old bear of a man grimaced and hobbled, as he approached his granddaughter, so he might wrap her in a hug.

Children circulated among the adults with pointed questions and observations on their lips, which Baet initially found pointed. These interrogations were slowed by an assortment of cookies, cakes, fruits, punches, and such. There were dozens of children that laughed, poked each other, and played to the far reaches of the lawn—only to return and ask another superficial question. Several were said to be the shaman’s own children—but they wouldn’t hold still long enough for Baet to get a good look at them.

And the food was fantastic!

Two hours later, Baet laid in a copper tub, full as can be. He let the warm water soak away his worries, which were few indeed. The duke was as safe as he’d ever been, probably safer; he’d made peace with the priestess and had Cloud Breaker back. Best of all, the lady Paye kept making eyes at him. The Saot guard leaned back, smiled, and closed his eyes; surprised that life should be so easy after months of hardship.

A hard knock on the door broke the peace. “Baetolamew?” his captain asked.

“Yes, sir,” he answered. “What is it?”

“Your presence is required,” Carringten ordered.

Baet frowned as he stood in the tub. “Do you need me immediately, or would you prefer me to get dressed?” he asked as he reached for his towel.

“Clothing please.”

Dressed, the junior guard followed Carringten to the barn, where there were dozen of men, including an angry duke. “Is it the naga?” Baet asked, thinking there could be no other trouble.

Carringten didn’t have to answer. The issue was apparent as soon as Baet stepped further into the barn. With a deep frown on his face, Azra held the ornament Paye had pried off the wall, the giant crest in the form of an Oak and Beast, with Baet’s own pack at his feet leaking its contents.

All eyes turned to the Saot guard. “Now wait a minute,” Baet began—then proceeded to protest his innocence—but there were witnesses galore to say that the ornament was found in his pack. Dumbstruck at the voracity of the charges, the guard noted Homoth and his satisfied smirk. “This was your doing!” he raged, and took a step toward the youth.

Carringten grabbed Baet and held him back.

“So this is how you repay us?!” Homoth jumped from his seat and took several steps forward. “We brought you out of Ebertin, to the safety of our own homes; and despite our kindness, you seek to rob us!” he huffed.

“I would never…” Baet began. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the look of a disappointed duke. “This is not my doing!” he finished.

Homoth stepped forward. “If you will not admit to the crime, then I shall prove it, with the folly of your death!”

“Did you just challenge me?!” Baet couldn’t believe this was really happening, that the Jindleyak had set him up, over cards and a handful of silver. Did he really expect a duel? He turned to the other faces in the room. He spotted Paye and locked eyes with the woman. She’d taken the ornament from above the mantle. He’d seen her do it, even steadied her, so she didn’t fall! She knew the truth! “She took it down! I saw her do it!”

Paye stared back at the man, shock and fear on her face. With wide eyes, and her hand over her mouth, she shook her head, turned, and rushed from the scene.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Baet was stripped of his weapons, taken into the house, and dragged through a twist of halls, stairs, and tunnels. Eventually, he and his escort arrived at a large room with a series of cells, one of which held the naga, Maligno. Thoroughly turned around and despondent, Baet was placed in his own cell. Without any fuss, he sat on the cot and ignored the chuckles of Maligno. An hour passed, then another. A small plate of plain food was brought by some unknown cousin.

Baet complained. “I get a sorry lump of bread and some broth, yet you bring the naga a plate of fried fish?!”

The jailer frowned, turned, and walked out without a word.

Of late, Baet was well fed, so he ignored the crusty lump and tepid broth. Time continued. Baet paced the small cell. He did some exercises and wondered how long he’d be in this pickle before the duke might clear his name—if the duke decided to clear his name. He paused as that thought sunk in. No. He’d have to believe that Creigal would help him out. In Wibbeley, he saved the man’s life.

The minutes crawled by slowly adding to the hours. The door to the jail creaked open. Another plate appeared around the corner and Baet wondered why they were bringing them another meal so soon—then he noticed the smell: roasted beef and vegetables, fresh fruit and delicate cakes—and that wasn’t even the best part. It was carried by Paye. Despite a strong front, Baet noticed her puffy, red eyes. She’d been crying.

“Thank you! Thank you so much!” Baet purred as he accepted the beautiful plate, piled high. “Wow, this is wonderful!”

Paye smiled at the man, a tormented smile indeed.

Baet didn’t want to ask, as he assumed he wouldn’t like the answer, but he felt he had to. “Did you talk? Did you tell them it was you that took the precious curiousity?”

Paye shook her head, “My grandfather is quite convinced of your villainy.”

“But you were there!”

“I tried to tell him,” Paye protested. “He wouldn’t listen! I told him the whole story, and he might have believed me, except I did not have the letter to prove it!”

“Go get it,” Baet said.

“It is too late! Homoth was present, and despite my protestations—even my violence—he rode for Excergie,” Paye explained. “He is sure to get the letter and destroy it.”

“What is this letter anyway?” Baet began. Paye put her hands to her eyes and shook her head. He realized she would not answer that line of question—and he knew where it led anyway—so he turned his attention back to his plate. Homoth had done a right good job of boning the old guard. “Well, with any luck Creigal will talk some sense into the the ol’ man,” Baet stated.

“It doesn’t matter,” Paye complained. “My brother still means to duel you.”

A strip of meat dangled before Baet’s mouth. He set it back on his plate as he stared at the pretty Trohl. “Homoth is your brother?!” He asked, shocked by the revelation.

“He is,” Paye nodded. “And I fear he will kill you. He is quite the fighter.”

“Oh I know,” Baet nodded. “But I choose the weapon, and I choose the musket,” he shook his head. “He cannot beat me with a pistol,” he winked.

Paye stared at the man, fascination and terror etched around her worried eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

“And why wouldn’t I?” Baet replied. “He demands a duel, so I will kill him! After all, that is justice! You and I both know he has framed me for a thing I have not done!”

Paye stood. “But he is my brother!” she snapped.

Baet stared back at her. “Well, tell him to drop the charge! I don’t want to kill him—but that’s a fair deal better than dying!”

Paye glared at the man. She shook the bars of the cell door. “Don’t you dare kill him!” she raged. “Don’t you dare!”

“And what would you have me do?!” Baet retorted. He set his plate aside, stood and stepped to the door of his cage. “Would you have me die?!”

Paye stared at the man, her face twisted and pained. A tear ran from her eye. As heated as he was, and staring at such a beautiful passionate woman, Baet couldn’t help himself. He stepped forward. wrapped his hands around her head, and planted his lips against hers before she could deny him. Engrossed with the silky fineness of her lips, Baet pulled away slowly. With a dreamy fog filling his head, he stared longingly into her eyes. Shocked, Paye stared back at the man. Her eyes narrowed. Her hand flew up and slapped the man—then she grabbed him, pulled him against the bars, and kissed him back.

Baet could taste the salt from her tears. He longed to kiss her until she was happy—but Paye knew her pain was too deep for such a superficial cure. She turned and ran from the room as Baet stared after her.

“Wait!” he called, but she did not return. With a heavy sigh, Baet stared about the cell, then sloughed down to the floor. “Balls.”

A couple cell’s over, the naga tsked.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

The next morning Scurra, Meu, and Wenifas go to see the shaman’s widow—only to find Krumpus being attacked by Sephonie. In the end, Wenifas and Krumpus are left alone so the shaman might have a word with the priestess.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

(Word of Humbert reaches Creigal)

save for 18

That evening, word of Humbert arrives.

Carringten produced a portrait of Humbert that was fair to his likeness along with a description of the man. Roustich rode into Hearthstone proper that he might ask after the thief. He returned an hour after dark.
Duboha ushered his cousin and two strangers into the room where Creigal waited. "You’ve seen our thief?" the duke asked.

The two men nodded. “We spoke to the man,” the first confirmed. He turned to his companion. "What would you say? A month ago? Maybe two?”

“Maybe two,” his friend shrugged. “His clothes were worn. He must have been on the road for weeks. He seemed a bit free with his coin.”

“And what convinces you it was this same man?” Creigal continued.

“One does not forget a man looking for the Dreadlord Lasitus,” the first said with wild eyes.

Creigal leaned back.

“This is a superstition that many people have,” Roustich explained. “They believe this Lasitus has ruled the wastes near Melmorahn for several hundred years.”

“But you do not believe it?”

Roustich shook his head. “The man came north over two hundred years ago.”

“Yes, well, he was a hundred and seventy-three when he stole the King’s Nnak Stone,” Creigal began.

Duboha frowned, “that is not possible.”

“It is possible, if one is well-versed in the dark arts,” Creigal explained. “To think that Lasitus might still be alive, out in wilds, you say? He did not settle in one of your cities or towns?”

“He took a bit wilderness for his own,” Roustich said. “Nobody goes there. Whether or not the Dreadlord lives, it is deadth to enter his realm.”

“Death you say?” Creigal stared at the man. “Then I expect we will find the corpse of Humbert waiting for us at the border.”

“Do you think this Lasitus might still be alive?” Roustich asked.

Creigal shrugged. “Who am I to say? I have heard of those that live so long—though they are in little condition to do much of anything without their entourage of sycophants.”

“He is alive!” the first stranger stared at the duke.

Duboha snorted.

The man turned to Duboha. “If it is not him, what haunts the blight?!”

Duboha shrugged. “There is so much evil in the world. Who is to say?”

“Perhaps it is Lasitus, perhaps it is not,” Creigal began. “The only thing that matters is that Humbert believes that he lives, and if Humbert goes to find Lasitus, then I go to find Lasitus.” The duke locked his eyes on the two strangers. “Will you guide us?”

The two strangers turned white as sheets. They stared at each other and began shaking their heads.

“Leave these two be,” Roustich said. “There are plenty of men that can point us toward the tomb of this Lasitus.”

“Then you believe he is dead?” Creigal asked the militiaman.

“Four hundred years? Seems nigh impossible to me,” Roustich shrugged. “Still, these men are not wrong to fear the blight.”

“What do you know of it?” Creigal asked the Jindleyaks.

The four glanced about each other, none having anything to say. “Nothing but rumor,” Roustich said.

“Well, we are not without teeth,” Creigal noted. “Still, we shall take precautions.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Meu Begs Creigal to Go South with Her

save for 18

Forget this mad hunt, Meu whispered in the duke’s head. Come south with me.

Creigal frowned. He had no interest in returning home, not at this time. "If I cannot remember my daughter, at least I would forget my sons for a while more,” he replied.

I fear for you, Meu stared at the man. I’ve talked to the locals. They’ve told me wild tales of this blighted north.

“I suspect some exaggeration in their tales,” Creigal surmised. “Still, we mean to be cautious.”

Will you never go home? Meu asked.

"After I find Humbert,” the duke said. “I don’t know how long it will take. A few months at the least.”

And what if you should lose him again? Will you chase himforever?! Meu pressed a finger into Creigal’s chest. I fear you trade your duchy for a phantom.

“It was always going to outlive me,” Creigal shrugged.

Should you want me to outlive you too? Meu asked.

For a time, Creigal imagined going south. He imagined going home and holding councils of war with various captains and counsel—only to sneak off, so he he might be alone with Meu. He imagined finding her in his garden, of long conversations about his various flowers. “I must say, you are complicating things.”

We are not so old, Meu noted. Take me south, and I will be your mistress. My daughter is not far from Gaurring Heart, and since I fly, the distance is negligible. I will happily split time between the two of you.

“I know the distance,” Creigal assured her. "And when you grow bored of me, will you fly north and finally return home? Will you leave me to my torments once more?"

Only if you command it, Meu answered. No. I will stay with you as long as you allow. I'll have you and my daughter nearby, and that will be enough. I will forget the Spires of Gendilou.

Creigal shook his head. “Either way, I will be without my daughter, and I will have forsaken her memory on top of it,” he frowned. “I cannot. Not yet. I know where Humbert goes. I must stay the course and confront the thief. Then, when I am done, I will come for you. ”

What of your dreams of dying?

“Another boogie man,” Creigal sighed. “If I die, then I most sincerely apologize. Death is not my wish, but it must find me eventually, and not just in dreams,” he shrugged. “I have lived a full life. My blood carries on in the form of my feckless children. Yet, they shall have children of their own, and who is to say what they will be? Undoubtedly, some of them will become fine, outstanding people of note, reversing the path of their fathers, just as my sons turned away me."

You take such a dour view, Meu noted. What if it should be one of the grandchildren you already have? What if you should return home to find them expelled from their own father’s house? You might do them no end of good, if they should ever meet you.

“Indeed, my boys already have children of their own, nearly a dozen, last I knew,” Creigal admitted. “But I can do them no good while their fathers are alive. They’ll have nothing to do with me and are kept from Gaur in general. Several are in Kelm, some are among the Dans. I went to visit one that lives in Ewile, but I was stonewalled and could not even get a glimpse of him,” he noted. Creigal kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry that it distresses you, and I wish I could alleviate your fear, but I must go north.

Well, I am with you for a little while longer, Meu replied. So kiss me again, and promise to come for me when your mad hunt is done.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.7 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Having arrived at the shaman’s farm, Creigal wrote several letters. The first he wrote to Land’s End, saying his people played no part in the sacking of Solveny or the on-going troubles in the Noeth. Any Gaur men among these bandits were acting against the Duke and considered to be traitors, to be captured and punished accordingly. He also stated that Gaurring would broke no interference in her own internal affairs, and that any act against the Duchy would be seen as an act of war.

Creigal sent the second letter to Varius and his councilmen, to let them know of his whereabouts, and also his intentions. The final letter was addressed to the Gaurring public, and was to be read and disseminated throughout the duchy with all possible haste. It was a letter of Jubilee, a celebration he hoped would arrive before the war broke out in full force, so the people might know the best of times just as their King decided to squeeze them. He almost felt bad for the manipulation—and yet he knew it was for the best—or so he hoped.

The duke needed a courier. For a time, Creigal thought to send Baet, and once the act was done, the guard would be released. He meant to pay him a handsome sum for the many times he served with honor. He meant to pardon the man-at-arms for the troubles he caused during his moments of weakness. Yet, true to fashion, Baet managed to embroil himself in some drama among the natives. At least he had the good grace to leave the duke out of it. No, Baet would not be the man. Creigal would have to look to the natives for a courier.

"I'll go," Andrus insisted. "The weather turns to fall. Winter isn't far behind and I've never had any special love for snow.”

“There will be snow,” Creigal noted. “We’re not that far south.”

“Not as much,” Andrus noted. “Besides, who doesn't long to see the ocean?"

"This isn't a vacation," the duke said. "If the wrong people catch you carrying my letters, it’ll be your death."

“Nothing is without risk,” Andrus shrugged. “And when taking such a risk it is best to focus on the aspects that bring joy to the adventure.”

Creigal shook his head. "Your Saot is not the strongest."

"It's better than Aim’s, and Homoth does not know it at all," Andrus pointed. "Besides, I shall have ample time to study, once I reach the noeth, and I have little to say until I reach Gaurring Heart anyway.”

Creigal smiled. He liked Andrus, and although he was young and a bit impetuous, he knew his options were limited. Still, the duke felt the young jindleyak would be fine as long as he kept his head. “We shall have you stay clear of the capital. It is crawling with spies. Instead, you will go to Bastion's Crossing. But it is not the duchy that worries me. I'm more concerned with Land's End and delivery of the letter to the Dunkels. It must be done with care.”

“Once I am in town, shall I hire a post runner to see it delivered to court?” Andrus asked.

Creigal smiled, happy to hear such quick thinking from the man, then shook his head. “No. I’d prefer the letter appear as quite a mystery to the Dunkels, all at once, and within their personal quarters. I’d like them to think I am closer than they might find comfortable—and I cannot ask you to do this. You will deliver it to a spy of mine, a careful and cunning man, that’s been in their city for the last couple years. He shall see that the letter is delivered,” Creigal instructed. “How soon can you leave?”

“There are a few things I must square away,” Andrus shrugged. “How is the day after tomorrow?”

Creigal nodded. “ I have no money of my own, but I shall give you a letter for the price of your employ. I shall also have you bring back coin for the money I borrowed from Traust. You will return it to his widow.”

Andrus nodded. “All of this will take me months. I cannot do it for less than three sovereign.”

“I shall pay you three for the trip down, and I shall pay you three for the trip back,” Creigal insisted. “Go. Look after your affairs.”

More than happy with the pay, Andrus gave a crisp bow, and strode from the room.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.8 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Carringten led Baet to the barn. There were Jindleyak all about it—possibly to make sure the Saots didn’t try anything funny?— Baet wondered. There were none inside. There was only Creigal, sitting in a chair, in the middle of a wide open area. Once inside, Carringten waited at the door while Baet approached then sat with the duke. “You must know I was framed,” Baet claimed.

“Were you now?” Creigal replied. “And what did you do that angered the native so much that he would frame you?”

Baet bowed his head and Creigal knew he was not completely innocent. Still, the guard argued, “Ask Paye, the sister! She will tell you the truth of it!” he said as he glanced about the barn.

"I will ride north in full view of our new friends, and you will remain to face your fate," the duke answered.

"Then how shall I honor my oath?" Baet replied.

Creigal locked eyes with his nervous guard, and nodded. “Honor your oath," he mused. He stood and began to pace around Baet. He looked the guard up and down as he spoke. "Honor is a thing I take seriously,” he began. “I have not forgotten your valiant protection of my person,” he noted, and gave a momentary smile. It was quickly replaced with a frown. "I have also not forgotten your association with Humbert."

Baet's heart dropped into his stomach. His eyes went wide and he stared up to the rafters of the barn. "I..." He began, in hopes of defending himself; but thoughts of Haddelton, thoughts of Vearing, thoughts of other friends in the guard convinced him it was best to come clean and let the chips fall where they may. “I failed,” he ended lamely, then refused to look at his lordship, and stared at his boots instead.

For several beats, Creigal let Baet soak in his admission. He simply stared at the guard until Baet raised his eyes and looked at the duke once more. Still the duke said nothing, and so Baet decided to give a full confession.

"I failed you," Baet repeated. "I spoke of matters to the clerk. I answered his questions about the habits of the watch quite candidly—though I knew the information was not to be shared. I allowed him onto the grounds. He claimed he only wanted a bit of seed from your garden, though I know this is not a defense. I thought he only wanted to be in your garden, to have a it of a lark. I did not think he would sneak into the house. I did not think he was so bold. I did not think he would steal any of your personal affects," Baet held out the palms of his hands.

Creigal nodded, his demeanor calm, yet disappointed. He waited to see if the confession would go any further, and when it didn’t, he replied. "I meant to wait to confront you,” he began. “I meant to capture Humbert, so I might accuse you in his presence, so I might ascertain the degree of your guilt. But you have complicated things, first outside of Wibbeley with your heroic effort, and then by what stupidity among our newfound friends?”

Baet began to protest, but Creigal held up a hand.

“I do believe you when you say you’ve been set up—but I also believe that Homoth would not sabotage you if he had no reason—so I find myself wondering,” the duke continued. “Why does he hate you, Baetolamew? What have you done that he’d risk his own good reputation to tarnish yours? I’ll say you’ve served me quite well since Wibbeley—but I cannot say there’s been a single-minded determination about it,” he shook his head. "Do you not see the difficulties you cause with these natives? What if the family should hold me responsible for the actions of my guard? Do you see how they might accuse me too? We are in a foreign land and we are fortunate to have these friends—yet, you provoke them. You have allowed your own interests to interfere with our mission. You have become too independent. You pretend to serve me while serving yourself first and foremost.”

Baet shook his head. “I am framed.”

“And why are you framed?” Creigal repeated.

“The brother hates me,” he evaded.

“What reasons have you given him to hate you?” Creigal glared at his guard. “You are careless. You have complicated our endeavors unnecessarily. Have you not noticed his rising anger? Did it seriously come upon you so unexpected? Are you not a talented and decorated spy? Have you lost your sense of nuance and subtlety?”

Baet shook his head. “You are right. I have lost my edge. I am dulled and serve without passion. What am I to do, my lord?" he asked in a flat voice.

“First, you must stop addressing me with such terms,” Creigal noted. “I am no longer your master. We are all but settled, and after this evening, I will have nothing more to do with you," he admonished. “As for what I would do if I were in your shoes? It is apparent to me that you want. What it is that you want for, I do not know. If I were you, I’d get right with the Gods and pray for deliverance.”

Hearing of wants, Baet thought of Paye. He wanted to accuse her of ugliness, of a vile and nasty nature, for the unfair treatment he received from her family—but he also thought to confess of his longing for her, and that she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

Yet, as he admonished himself, he wondered if it was true. Did he really think she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever met, or did he simply feel this way because she was the most recent woman to tug at his heartstrings? And how was it possible that he should think of her in such divergent ways?! With a noncommittal shrug, both neutral and weak, he stared at the floor.

“Well, that is a wise and calculating response,” Creigal nodded as he studied the guard. "There is hope for you yet, if you can navigate yourself out of this quandary.” He shook his head. “If you can see yourself through this, there is a chance of a rich rewarding life for you yet. But you must embrace it. If you run, then you must consider the father and brothers—and you must consider them alone—for I will not protect you," he continued. "Whatever it is that you choose to do, you and I are finished. There is nothing left between us but payment for your services." Creigal reached in his pocket, pulled out a handful of gold and silver coins, and showed it to the guard. "You have spoiled an assassination, and for that I owe you," he jangled the coins in his hand.

Baet longed to possess such music. He could not believe the duke was offering his so much, and yet he was right. By luck and skill, and at far too high a price, Baet did spoil the assassination.

Creigal’s look changed, and now he stared at the guard, suspicious and aggrieved. “Yet, it was your betrayal that allowed my enemies to move against me and kill several of my loyal guards, some of my favorite men among them,” Creigal closed fist, full of glittering metal. He opened it again. “If I should give you all this coin, I am justified. And if I should drag you outside and hang you by your neck until you were dead, I am also justified." He stared at his guard.

Baet hanged his head. "I will take what I deserve," he answered with a miserable and tortured look on his face.

"And what do you deserve?” Creigal frowned. “Your heart is a mystery to me.” Baet simply stared back at his lord. The duke set the coins on the table, counted out two and a half dozen diems, and pushed them across the table. Creigal stood, then stepped past the guard. “Good luck to you,” he said without looking back. I suspect I shall you see you tomorrow as I leave—and then I doubt I shall ever see you again.” With that, Creigal left the barn.

Baet watched as he left and expected Carringten to go with him, but the captain did not follow his master. Instead, he approached the admonished guard.

Carringten stared at the younger man as he sat across frim him. He held out his hand. “Surrender any device of the Duke. If you should ever return to Gaurring Heart, do not attempt to collect anything from the barracks that does not belong to you, understood?”

“Then I am allowed to return home?” Baet stated.

Carringten shrugged. “You are not eligible to serve among the duke’s ranks, but you are not banished,” he noted.

“There are a few items I’d like to recover,” Baet said, then hanged his head. “Perhaps not enough to bother.”

Carringten stared at the junior guard. “When did you lose heart?” He finally asked.

Baet shook his head and wondered if he should answer, then a spark caught in his belly, and he thought, why not? “Took years,” he began. “The worst was the daughter of that viceroy, the child, the one I begged not to kill.”

“Ahh,” Carringten sighed as he nodded. “I can see why.”

“She was seven,” Baet snipped as he stared daggers at his captain.

Carringten stared back. “That man killed dozens of ours—and not just men. He removed a number of our allies and learned far too many of our secrets.”

“And after I killed her, three more of your men were murdered the next week. Almost four!” Baet pressed a finger into his own chest. “And I can only guess at how they found me out!”

“In war, the fighting goes both ways,” Carringten nodded. “We sent a message and they sent a clear message back.”

“I have no problem with war,” Baet shook his head. “But I didn’t sign up to murder children.”

“It is more complicated than that,” Carringten began.

“More complicated then killing children?!” Baet glared. “I had the viceroy! If I could get the child, I could certainly get the viceroy—and I asked you to switch targets—non—I begged to switch targets!” he began to cry. “But I was ordered to go forward,” Baet nodded, his face grim, and his voice barely above a whisper. “I did it and I was damned quiet. I killed her guards and her nursemaid with no sound at all. Then, I strangled a child with my own hands,” he anguished. “She struggled, and I only tightened my grip,” he confessed. “Her tears soaked my hands, and I only tightened my grip!” he expounded. “She went limp, and I only tightened my grip—until I felt the delicate bones of her spine crack,” he shook his head and stared at his captain with wet eyes, their faces only inches apart. “Why did you make me do it?!” he asked. “Why did I have to be as bad as our enemies?!”

“It is more complicated,” Carringten repeated. “That child had weird abilities. How do you think her father was able to ferret out so many of our spies?”

Baet shook his head. He’d heard nothing of such possibilities.

Carringten shook his head. “We do not know, she did it” he began. “We were never sure—but we knew it was her.”

“And you couldn’t even tell me THAT?!” Baet stormed. “I’ve been under your command for nearly twenty years, and I never flinched from any order, not until then,” he shook his head. “We have so many secrets,” he said. “We don’t even talk to each other. Layers and layers of secrets, until I’m not even sure we’re the good guys. How can I be sure, when we are as low as our enemies?”

“It is war,” Carringten shrugged. “We fight in secret, and men die daily. Men, women, children… do you think women and children are immune to the effects of war? We fight in secret so we don’t have open war, so the dying is by the dozens, and not by the hundreds or the thousands. You used to know this,” he admonished, then pulled a small purse from his pocket. He held it out to Baet.

Baet stared at the man, then lifted his hand to receive the unexpected coin.

“The duke is thankful for years of loyal service. He is thankful you saved his life. He may have been hard on you for your faults, but he has faults of his own, and recognizes that no man is perfect,” Carringten said.

“Why didn’t he say so?” Baet asked.

“All I know is he left it for me to say,” the dark captain noted. “I hear you’ve chosen the musket for your duel with Homoth.”

“I have,” Baet said.

“Tis his folly,” Carringten stated. “I shall have a word with him, though I do not know if it will do any good.” He stood, stepped around the table, and put a hnad on Baet’s shoulder. “Faith, fidelity, courage,” he said.

“Faith, fidelity, courage,” Baet quoted.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.9 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

After confronting Baet, Carringten stepped from the barn and joined Creigal. "It is done," Carringten said as they walked to the main house. "I am the last of your guard." He said as the Jindleyak went in and placed Baet under arrest once more. Carringten held out his hand.

Curious to know what his captain held, Creigal extended his hand and took what was offered—a pin of a kite with a laurel about it’s head, with six arrows in one claw and a cluster of seven grapes in the other: Carringten’s badge of office.

“Why would you give me this?” Creigal shook his head. “I’ve not released or demoted you, nor would I.”

Carringten shook his head. “I’ve sworn to office, and yet I have failed. I am asked to command your guard, but there are none to command. There is only me. All the others are gone," he replied with a frown.

“And so you resign?!” Creigal was shocked.

"I have failed you," Carringten continued. "I allowed myself to be blinded by Baet's treachery, and it almost got you killed. Indeed, we lost a number of good men, and when it was just Baet and I to protect you, I could not keep one man out of trouble.”

“But I have survived, and you too!” Creigal replied. “I am still your duke, and I have many guards at home that need a capable commander.”

Carringten disagreed. “They are home and cannot guard you. I am the last, and though I will continue to serve as your guard, I will not pretend there is anyone left for me to command.”

"But what of these others? What of Toar and those among the natives that we have hired to see us north?”

Carringten shook his head. "They are not Gaur. They do not look to me. They know you. They look to you. A duke is not such an unapproachable man to them. Yes, I may be the closest, but I am only another guard. I will not pretend I command anything more than my own body."

"And what of our return home?” Cregal asked. “What shall you do when we are among our own once more?"

“Do you think the other men will respect a captain that cannot bring home any of the other men he commanded? Is this a man you would want to follow?” Carringten shook his head.