Calm Before the Storm

Polished — 34m38s — 2021/10/28

Polished — 31m44s — 2022/01/19

Crea woke, slow, with a deep ache throughout her body. She was tired, dead tired, even as the heat of the day gathered. Fatigue wrapped her muscles and begged her to hold still. It stretched down to her very bones and reminded her of the violent foreigner and the exhausting march she made to escape her burning home. She was so tired she didn’t even want to cry. Instead, she pressed her face into her blankets and prayed for oblivion.

The wind churned and fussed. Leaves rustled as the branches creaked and groaned. In the foreground, she could hear the shamble and huff of the old post runner as he worked about camp, industrious and determined.

Crea lifted herself into a sitting position. The effort was ginger and slow. She caught sight of the rude orange and purple hues about her body; large bruises splotched over her chest and legs. At first she recoiled, then sat and stared, morbidly fascinated by the swirl of soured blood under the skin. After a time, she turned her attention back to the bang and clatter of the old post runner going about his business. “Doidge!” Crea cried. “We hiked so late and I am exhausted! Can’t we rest a bit longer?”

“Do what you like,” the old post runner shrugged, disinterested in the girl.

Curious of his tone, Crea poked her head from under her blankets. The old post runner was fully dressed and his gear just about packed. “You’re making to leave?” she asked with a quizzical frown. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Doidge ignored her questions and quickened his pace. "It's for your own good,” he began. “I have an oath, and I mean to honor it." The post runner buckled his sword in place, put on his helmet; then began to situate the numerous bags about his body. "The boy also has an oath,” he glared at Malcolm. The young page sat in a dejected manner as he shot pleading glances of the young, bruised woman. “He'd be wise to tend my instruction," Doidge finished.

“It’s the same oath,” Crea noted. “You’re both sworn to carry the post.”

“Don’t tell me of my office!” Doidge snapped. “I have many oaths, and I know their order!” He pointed at Malcolm. "The boy carries the post and he takes it to Land’s End. I go south, to report to my betters, to tell them of the war in this county! I go for Danya,” the old post runner explained.

"And what if I would go to Danya?” Crea asked. “Or maybe just south to Gaetilly?"

"Don't be daft!” Doidge stared at the girl. “You’re talking more than a week’s walk to get to Gaetilly—and you won’t get a horse before that! Go to Land’s End—five, six days tops—and stay among your people!”

"I am subject only to myself," Crea asserted. “I shall go where I want.”

Doidge snorted. “Spoken like a true Solv. With such empty loyalties, no wonder the city was torched.”

Shocked by his callousness, Crea’s mouth dropped open. She stared at the old post runner as a fire caught in her belly.

Doidge returned to his task. “I have duties, and I doubt the Holy Schrivnah would ask me to forsake them so I could serve as an escort to some willful brat.”

"Brat?!” Crea fumed, unwilling to take any more of the old man’s guff. “Now listen here! There’s no need for insults—” she began and she stood to her full height, with the dirt of yesterday still upon her.

Doidge interrupted with a haggard finger in her face, though he stood several inches shorter. "No you listen!" he snapped. "I am a man of the post and I mean to honor my office: nothing less and nothing more! I am not your guard, and I have no interest in your life; so if you wish to give me commands, you better be reeeaalll good with that fancy pig-sticker,” he hissed.

Crea eyed the gemmed falchion she’d taken from the Guar officer as it lay next to her blankets. As much as she wished to take it up, she knew it’d do her no good to fight the old man. She could tell the sharp edge of a blade, and wasn’t afraid to murder a chicken—but that was a long way from fighting a man twice her weight, with a heavier weapon, and years of practice. She backed away from Doidge and gave herself some space.

“Of course, you could always pay a man,” Doidge suggested as he advanced another step.

Crea turned to her belongings with a shrug. “I have no coin,” she noted.

He looked her up and down, and despite the bruising, gave her a suggestive glance. “Who said anything of coin?”

With an offended air, Crea backed away. She changed the subject. “You saw the fires last night. At least some of those murderers are out there, among the farmlands, still causing calamity! They will have us if they can get us!”

"And what of it?!" Doidge glared. "We don’t know where they are! They could just as well be to the south! Who is to say I won’t find them in my way!” He snapped. “There is no safe road! Put your mind on that!" he turned and gathered the last of his bags.

Crea knew he was lying. She caught it in his eyes. He thought the southern road was safe—or safer—and he knew he could move faster and with more stealth if he went alone. She wondered how he could be so callous. He’d seemed so affable, as they’d escaped the city—but maybe he thought it was easier to bring her along at that point and have her quiet. Now that they were safe, he probably thought she meant to cling to him like a drowning cat—a thought that only irritated her all the more, in large part because that’s exactly what she wanted to do.

Not that she would give herself away. She would not trade her body. It was cruel enough to have it taken, much less used by this tawdry man.

And why he was being so rude? Tears welled in Crea’s eyes. Her temper got the better of her. "Fine!” She snapped. “Run south, to your precious Holy Schrivnah, you coward!"

Doidge turned and slapped her across the face. “Watch your tongue, or you’ll end up with more of those spots,” he glared. "I saved your life! A little gratitude is on order!" With that, he turned from Crea and began on his way. "If you follow me, I'll kill you myself!" he called over his shoulder.

Crea watched as he walked away. As he neared the limits of shouting distance, she called after him. "Run!" she yelled. "Run with your tail tucked, you cur!" She threw her hands up in a rude gesture as he glanced back.

Malcolm set a placating hand on Crea’s shoulder. “There is no need—” he began.

Crea flinched and brushed the page away. “Don’t touch me!” She roared.

"We must be quiet," Malcom whispered. “They’re out there—somewhere…”

Crea turned from the boy and retreated back into her blankets. Silently, she huffed and sobbed, until she didn’t care about any of it. For a time she relaxed. For a time, she slept.

Under so many blankets, the heat of the day became unbearable. Red-faced and haggard, Crea slithered out from under her covers. The page did nothing while she cried. He did nothing while she slept. He only watched. Still, he was young. What did she expect of him? With a frown, Crea began to roll her blankets. “Gather your stuff,” she told him. “We’re leaving.”

Malcolm turned to his own bed. “You’ll feel better when we get to Land’s End,” he assured her, suddenly chipper as he realized she didn’t mean to abandon him.

“We’re not going to Land’s End,” Crea replied.

“But I must! I carry the post!” Malcolm protested. “Will you not come with me?!”

“I go south,” Crea answered.

Malcolm’s eyes bugged. “He’ll kill you,” he assured her. “He’s as mean as he seems—and he’ll do worse to me since I’d be breaking my oath!”

“I have no oath—and we’re not going after him anyway,” Crea stated. “I go to my father’s farm. If you wish to come, perhaps you can find some real men that will see you to Land’s End,” she said. She was so excited by the prospect of seeing her family that she almost smiled.

“How far is it?” Malcolm asked.

“A day and a half?” Crea shrugged, “Two days at the most.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 12.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Far away, and much later that day, the sun was settling below the west mountains. Having started early that morning, the duke’s company stopped near a large placid lake with several massive peaks visible to the east. Scurra found the setting strangely familiar. She frowned to see it. “I don’t like this,” she said as they spread about to set up camp. “Let's press on.”

“This is a great spot,” Saleos told her. “We can see everything around us and we can fish for dinner. Beyond this, the near shore is swamp for leagues, with biting flies and no approach to the water. We won’t find a better place until the base of the mountains.”

“It is only a few hours to the mountains,” Scurra noted. “We know the area. It will be easy enough to set up camp in the dark.”

The others argued against her, especially when they realized she did not want to stop because of her dream.

“Why stop at all?” she continued to argue. “We are not far from Jindleyak lands. If we press on, we can be in Excergie a little after midnight.”

Saleos shook his head. “Once we hit the mountains its a hard climb to Excergie. Besides, we have prisoners and dead among us. We will be groggy, and more likely to misstep as the night stretches on. There are steep banks. What if the prisoners try to take advantage?”

Scurra shook her head. “I can’t stay here,” she stared across the lake.

Backed by the others, Saleos wouldn’t budge. Only Carringten sided with Scurra. She hoped to get her brother on her side—but the shaman wandered off with the priestess and wasn’t to be found. In the end, it was Creigal that broke the stalemate. “We should be cautious,” he began, and it seemed he would agree with his captain. “That is why we should camp here—so we might move into the mountains during the bright light of day. We know the trek is dangerous—just as we know that dreams are not always as they seem.”

Carringten shook his head. “It is a mistake,” he said.

“Should we be more afraid of the dangers we know and understand, or the amorphous dangers of our dreams?” Creigal asked his adopted son. “Most nighttime terrors turn out to be little more than mist,” he noted.

“What are the value of dreams if we do not heed them?” Carringten asked—a line which stung the duke. Still, the captain would do as he was told. He turned and walked away with a shrug.

Scurra continued to argue until the tents were up and most everyone else was down at the lake, to do a bit of fishing, or simply to escape her pleading. Frustrated and irritated, she stomped about the camp and wondered why she was bothered with such a dream if she could not use it to convince her friends of danger. With an abundance of energy, she climbed high in a tree and took roost where she might look out over the lake.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 12.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Aim, Duboha, and Baet saw to the prisoners. Meriona and her throat-cutters were placed in a tent and given blankets. “Do not come out in the night,” Aim told them. “If you should come out, we will think you are up to no good, and we will kill you.”

“And what if I need to pee?” Meriona asked.

“It is not yet dark, and we are not without a sense of propriety,” Aim noted. “We will let you out one last time to do such business. After that, you will have to hold it—or use a corner of the tent. It is quite a big tent.”

~!@#$%^*()_+ 12.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

As the others saw to the prisoners, set up camp, and fished for their dinner; Krumpus and Wenifas walked along the edge of the lake. Having recovered her son, and living a few days of comparable normalcy did wonders for the priestess. She was in good spirits as she stared at her strange new friend. “How did you know Kezodel would be struck down?” the priestess asked.

The shaman shrugged. I didn’t know it was a meteor, but I knew something was coming—something big, he began. Indeed, it was making my hair stand on end. I’m shocked nobody else could tell.

“And you knew it had to do with the judge?” Wenifas asked.

Krumpus nodded. Doesn’t make much sense, does it?

“It does,” Wenifas smiled. “I was in your head—but I was such a mess of emotions! There was so much occurring. I’m still trying to figure out what parts were me, what parts were you, and what parts were the wyrm,” she said. “But you—you tried to save him,” the priestess shook her head. “Such a corrupt and awful man—and believe me, I know the type—yet you tried to save him?”

Because there was a chance, Krumpus shrugged. Kezodel might mock, but he was well aware there are powers much greater than his own—and to think of such a man saved! He could have been a great prince; a true royal of cunning and power, like the Ewile Queen, Smixsmaxsmia.

“Who?” Wenifas asked.

Another chimera, and a queen of great power, Krumpus told her. She lived far to the south, even further than the duke, and yet rumor of her deeds reached us all the way in the north.

“Another chimera,” Wenifas noted. “Do you think it was accident? That Kezodel was struck?”

Krumpus shook his head. There are no accidents.

“Then it was something more powerful than a chimera,” Wenifas began. “Do you speak of an all-powerful god? Was it Ooroiyuo, or Naharahna?”

Perhaps, Krumpus shrugged.

“But you believe in an all-powerful god,” Wenifas pressed. “What would such a god have from us?”

Our smiles and songs of praise, Krumpus answered. And when the suffering strikes—as it always does—it would have us struggle and survive; that we might sing its praise when the bad times pass.

“If this god is all-powerful, then why must we suffer?”

We suffer so we might grow, Krumpus explained. The game is simple—though it is not easy. Besides, the suffering never lasts.

Wenifas remembered Derris, her sweet innocent lover. Her heart sank. “I don’t think I can believe that,“ she noted.

The world is rough on all of us—even the Kezodels of the world are made to suffer and struggle, Krumpus replied. Beware of clinging too tightly to your suffering. You’ll summon more of it if you aren’t careful.

A shiver ran up the spine of the priestess.

The shaman felt it. Don’t fear, Krumpus told her. The struggle brings blessings. If a thing is lost, and it leaves a hole, something else most come along to fill it.

“The game is simple,” the priestess repeated with a shrug. “And I can certainly agree that it is not easy.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 12.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

On the other side of the camp, Creigal sat on a boulder and dangled a bit of bait into a deep pool that gathered at the base of the stone. As the duke waited for a bite, he felt someone approach. He turned to see Meu slipping through the undergrowth. "Hello," the duke smiled from his perch. "And how are you this fine evening?" he asked in a low voice, astounded to feel his heart all a flutter.

Meu smiled as she climbed the rock and sat next to the duke. She set a gentle hand on his arm and stared into the pool.

"Can you see them?” Creigal whispered. “They’re so close the surface ripples with their passing."

Meu stared into the pool as she wrapped an arm around the duke’s back. Creigal was intent on the stream and did not see her lick venom onto her lips. She leaned into the duke. Creigal turned to her, and though he leaned back and thought to push her away, he allowed the skin-walker to kiss him.

With the touch of her lips against his, the duke felt his passions swell as they had not done in a long, long time. He thought to lean in and kiss her back—but a tug on the line told him a fish had bit. Instead, he turned back to the task at hand. With a whoop, Creigal pulled the fish from the waters as foreign thoughts crept into his consciousness. He held the fish up for Meu's appraisal.

Well done, she said in his mind—a thing that surprised and fascinated the duke. She grinned, and he could feel her amusement.

“How…?” he began.

Her answer was immediate. She told him of the venom.

Creigal realized this is how his father always knew what the wyrm were thinking. They must have kissed him with the venom.

Kissed or bit, Meu noted. It depends on how much we like our target, and how insistent we are that our target suffers its effects.

Distracted by her word, the duke slowly set more bait on the line and dropped it back into the pool. To an unsuspecting observer, it might appear as if the two sat quietly on the rock, hand in hand, as he fished for their dinner—but there was a rush of conversation between them— and they were occasionally interrupted by a trout on the line.

The sun set and the land grew dark. Hand in hand—and with a grip of fish—Creigal and Meu returned to find a warm fire set back a good hundred yards from the edge of the lake, where the others all gathered.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 12.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Only a short distance from the camp the naga, Golifett, scanned the calm night skies and smiled. "Oblarra is exalted, and there is much tension among the stars. Tomorrow there will be such a storm to sweep them under!”

Maligno frowned, “there isn't a cloud in the sky—nor have we seen one all week,” he complained.

Golifett snorted. “You are formidable, dear cousin, but are you so fierce that the weather dare not change without you watching?”

“I merely suggest that some soothsayers and spellweavers tend to overstate their abilities,” Maligno stated.

“I am not a braggard,” Golifett replied. “Besides, you’ve been pushing for the attack ever since they left the inn, and I am saying our opportunity is nearly upon us!”

Maligno’s glanced sideways at Golifett. “I’m thinking this is a ploy,” he began. “What if a storm doesn’t appear? Will you still be so insistent that we attack—or will you simply try to delay us once more?” he wondered aloud. “Not only are they away from the towns and villages, they’ve made the critical mistake of camping next to the water. I say let us forget your charade of a storm. Let us attack in the dark!”

Golifett shook his head. “There shall be a storm like few you have ever seen, a true monster!” He grabbed Maligno’s arm. “And if there is no storm, we will become the storm, and drown the humans in our treacherous waters!”

Maligno huffed. “I am beginning to think I should make your share of our plunder contingent on this weather you so heartily promise—but the fairness in me says we should see how you fight first.”

“I am plenty dangerous. I beat three of them and managed to steal the boy once before,” Golifett bragged.

“You ambushed three,“ Maligno nodded. “Then one crept into your house, rescued the boy—and I can only assume did that to your face?”

Golifett frowned as he resisted the urge to touch the burn scar.

“Why are you so set on stealing children anyway? The meat is good, but is it truly worth the danger?” Maligno asked.

“Staling their children is a sacred duty,” Golifett explained. “One at a time, we steal their future. With each child we take, we break their spirits; and with such straws, we will eventually break our enemies’ backs!"

Maligno snorted. "Since when are children hard to come by? All creatures love to make ‘em.”

"Life is a game of inches,” Golifett countered. “A child here and a child there is a family in twenty years, and a clan in a hundred!”

“So dramatic,” Maligno sighed. “Well then, if we’re done with this little ritual of yours, I shall retire until this storm appears—or the little boy crows once more—whichever comes first. Then we attack!”