Excergie

Polished the chapter. Changed 15.4 and I am plan to move it. Creigal will not be around for the trial. Gonna move it to 16 once I know where — 1h05m01s — 2022/07/22

Malcolm realized Crea was going south with or without him, so he grabbed his heavy bag, and ran after her. He still planned to carry his post to Land’s End and heaped his hope upon the flimsy promise that he’d find others that’d go to with him. For now, he’d take a detour and pray to Abr that it was the right decision.

Malcolm and Crea stuck to the game trails that ran through the forest. She felt they were less likely to be discovered among the thick of the trees, and she seemed to know the area well enough. She sure didn’t say much. Her silence didn’t bother Malcolm at all. He preferred not to speak, knowing there were enemies about.

As they walked, they passed a number of farmsteads. It was worrisome each time they came across a burned out house—though just as many seemed to be whole and occupied. They always passed at a distance, whether the farm was burnt out or not. A few times they were spotted. Farmhands watched them; pitchforks, axes, shovels held aloft—but these people weren’t interested in chasing skulkers through the forest. Crea and Malcolm continued on, unmolested.

They walked most the day and took few breaks. Eventually, the shade of the trees made in nearly impossible to see where they were going. Malcolm begged Crea to stop. She finally thought better of it, and the two set out their blankets for the night.

Malcolm tried to lay next to Crea, saying his blanket was thin and that they should share their heat, but Crea wasn’t having it. She pushed him away and complained that she was not a pillow. She cursed at the boy, which he felt was unnecessary. Sulking in the dark, Malcolm hoped to dream of a more accommodating lady as he shivered in the dark.

The next day, Crea woke early and continued her march almost before Malcolm was ready. He scrambled to get his things ready before she disappeared from view.

Crea marched on and on. Malcolm was quite astounded by her stamina, considering the heavy bruises that showed at the edges of her dress. Still, he liked her determination and found himself staring at her shapely goodness as he followed her through the woods. He thought she was quite a lady. She was only a few years older. Perhaps she’d grow to like him as much as he was beginning to like her…

On the second day, Malcolm knew they were getting close, because Crea was increasingly nervous. The full heat of the day passed, and the sun was halfway to the horizon when she stopped at the crest of a hill. With a gasp, she dropped to her knees, and began to cry. “No… no… no!”

“What is it?” he asked as he rushed to catch up. He crested the hill and stared at yet another farm—there was a house, a barn, and a number of out buildings—all burned out. He realized this must be her family’s home. He felt his heart sink. “I’m so sorry,” he said, and moved to wrap her in a comforting hug.

“Don’t!” Crea snapped as she pushed him away, yet her fingers gripped his shirt. She held him at arms length. With tears streaming form her eyes, she said, “You must go look. I can’t…” she hanged her head and tried to stifle her tears.

Excited to be her hero, yet well aware of the danger, Malcolm turned to the charred remains of the house. There was no smoke. Likely, the raiders had left some time before. “I’ll call if there’s anything you can do,” he whispered as he took off his pack. He pulled his sword, and with a gulp, marched to the burned out buildings. He hoped for survivors, but feared an ambush. He thought he should tell Crea that if he should die, she should take the post to Land’s End—but then he thought that she’d consider him dumb, since the dead are not bound to earthly oaths. How could she know that the Silver Service was the closest thing he had to a family? As much as he was afraid, he still meant to go to Land’s End.

“Hello?!” Malcolm called into the house as he crept at the edges of the ruin, sword held high. “I am a friend,” he whispered, then thought that was dumb since he had his sword up, and knew not who he might find, or what their allegiances might be.

There was plenty of light in the ruined building, thanks to copious holes in the roof. Everything was thrown about, burned, and buried in ash. It was a small house with only a few rooms. His foot caught in the hall, though it was a minor snag. He jumped and pressed himself against the charred remains of a wall when he realized that he’d tripped over a corpse. Heart thumping, he expected something terrible to come out of the ruins and spell his doom.

But there was no one.

Eventually, Malcolm moved again. He found a second corpse in a back room, and was relieved to note that it didn’t bother him nearly so much as the first.

Malcolm continued his search among the other buildings. He found two more dead in the barn, hanged and then burned; and one that was stabbed and bled out between the buildings. The last he found gutted and trampled in the field as he returned to Crea. He shook his head, as he stared at her red, wet eyes. “We should go,” he said.

“How many?” she asked.

“Altogether? Six.”

“Six? you swear?!”

“I’m a man of the post,” Malcolm complained. “I know how to count.”

A glimmer of hope caught in the Crea’s eyes. She gathered the hem of her dress, and ran toward the house.

“Wait!” Malcolm called and ran after her. “You can’t unsee this!”

Crea came across the body of her younger brother in the field. She broke down and sobbed uncontrollably over the splayed body, blood and horror all about. She turned and ran back to Malcolm. She grabbed his hand. “One of them is missing!” she told him. “Tell me of the others you saw!”

A thrill rushed through him just at the touch of her. “What would you know?” he asked.

“Were they men, women, children?” She stared.

Malcolm shook his head. “Some are too badly burned,” he said barely above a whisper.

“But only six…” Crea noted and put her hand to her chest. “I think maybe my sister is missing.”

“This one in the field is the smallest I saw,” Malcolm noted. “Is she young? Is she younger?”

“Yes! Not even thirteen!” Crea told him.

With a nod, Malcolm stepped toward the house and examined the corpses again. They all seemed too large to be thirteen. He checked the bodies in and outside the barn, then began to search the other buildings more thoroughly.

As he did this, Crea went into the field and, to Malcolm’s horror, began yelling for her sister. “Serra!” she called. “Serrabela!”

Malcolm didn’t like the yelling. He thought it might attract the marauders—but only the crows answered Crea’s call. For a time Malcolm hoped beyond hope that a younger and more appreciative version of Crea might creep from some hidey-hole and throw herself around him in thanks for the rescue. Instead, he glanced in the privy as he prepared to relieve himself and was horrified to see Serrabela floating face down among the waste, her dress covered in bloody splotches.

Bothered and pale, Malcolm stepped through the field and laid a hand on Crea’s shoulder. She jumped away from him and grabbed at the pommel of her falchion. Malcolm shied away as he shook his head.

“Where?!” Crea asked.

Malcolm shuddered and stepped past her.

Crea shrieked her sister’s name, then collapsed to her knees, and bawled. Malcolm winced at her scream. He continued back to the hill where they’d first spied the house, where they’d left the bulk of their gear.

Malcolm leaned against his supplies as he watched out over the field. After a time, he closed his eyes and even dozed for a while.

Soon enough, Crea kicked his boot. Malcolm leaned forward, then stood. “You okay?” he asked.

Red faced, Crea shook her head, then wrapped her arms around his neck and cried into his shoulder. Her touch was a salve to his worried soul. Malcolm wrapped his arms around her and stroked her back and hair. “I could bury them,” he said as she finally began to calm. “I will put them in the earth for you.”

Crea lifted herself off of him, turned to the farm, then slowly shook her head. “No,” she said. “They’re spirits are gone. Let the bodies feed the birds,” she said, then turned, picked up her bag, and walked away.

“Where are you going?” Malcolm asked.

Crea shrugged. “I have no home,” she answered. “Come, let us honor your oath and go to Land’s End.”

Malcolm felt his spirit soar as he grabbed his pack and followed after her.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 15.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Banifourd glanced about the small gathering of cottages and barns as they burned. Native men, women, and children laid in the dirt, dead or dying. This was the ninth village they'd sacked since Solveny, and in half as many days. He thought once they were on the plains, they might proceed rather quickly to Gaur lands—but they'd already circled back twice on their quest to kill and destroy with abandon.

Banifourd offered no complaint. He knew better. Instead, he dunked a rag in a barrel of rainwater and wiped away the filth and blood of yet another sacking, as he held a bottle of Noethrin Sour in his off hand.

Petaerus approached. “Are you already drinking?” he asked. “The killing is not yet done.”

Leave it to the Ministrians to ruin a good drink, Banifourd thought. He lifted the bottle. “Try some. You might like it,” he offered, though he knew the man would refuse. Ministrians rarely drank or smoked—or did much of anything fun—without a priestess around to administer. Petaerus answered true to fashion. “We drink with our ladies, not while we fight!”

Banifourd shrugged. “There’s no one else to fight here—unless you would have me fight more women and children—and then I feel I might as well be drunk. Besides, I am ordered to leave some alive, to tell of the Gaur officer that rides among these Trohl berserkers,” he waved his hand at what were mostly Ministrians in shoddy costuming. “I do my part. I'm sure that I'm seen and that my mischief is genuine.”

It seemed as if the Copal would reply, but he was interrupted by an outrider. The scout approached, his face pale, as he stopped to grovel before Petaerus. "Copal! A column of men comes from the north baring the arms of High Plains!”

“How many?” Petaerus asked.

“Hundreds! Certainly too many for us! If we hope to fight, we must find the others!”

“So the Count of the High Plains has finally found us,” Petaerus smiled. “Gather the others! We ride out with all possible haste!” He smiled as he noted the look of astonishment on Banifourd's face. “What is it, sir? You look as if you've seen a ghost?”

“No more dillydallying?!” Banifourd asked. “No more slaughter among the peasants? We finally make for Gaur?!"

“Yes—though I fear it will still be some time before you see your home,” Petaerus sneered.

This sounded very much like a threat! With a curse, Banifourd dropped the rag and grabbed the hilt of his sword. He pulled the weapon, meaning to kill the man—or at least make him explain himself—but someone struck him from behind. His world went dark as he dropped his weapon and slumped to the ground.

“Holy Ooroiyuo!” Petaerus roared at Dolif. “If I wanted him dead, I would have hit him myself!” the copal hopped off his horse and approached the prone Gaur.

“He ain't dead,” Dolif hoped. “See? He breathes.”

Petaerus pulled a messenger bag off his horse and wrapped it under Banifourd’s arm, then dug about his pockets until he found the man's purse. He pulled Gliedian's gold sol from it, then snagged several coins, half of which he gave to his friend.

“Take it all,” Dolif suggested.

Petaerus shook his head. “A man with no purse is suspicious indeed.” He turned to the unconscious form of Banifourd. “I shall not say it was a pleasure to know you. Despite your high opinion of yourself, I find you inept and slow to learn. I only hope you can manage one last part we have designed for you. It should be easy enough, as you only need to play at being witless,” he smiled, then opened a small container and smudged a finger of some lotion around Banifourd's lips. He rimmed the man's nose with the cream, then wiped his hand in the dirt to remove any excess.

“What is that?” Dolif asked as he leaned forward.

Petaerus pushed him back. “It’s a mix of fetterstalk and bruise weed, you dolt. Stay back unless you want a long nap and a week of confusion.”

“Oil of Stupid,” Dolif smirked. “Where’d you get that?”

“Gliedian gave it to me,” Petaerus shrugged. “Likely they will think he was hit too hard and his brains are rattled. Then they must trust his documents.”

“If that is the case, it is not possible that I hit him too hard!” Dolif stated.

Petaerus shook his head. “I was told very specifically not to kill him.”

“I don’t see why,” Dolif scratched his head. “If he were dead, there could be no hope of betrayal.”

“We play a long game,” Petaerus explained. “There is no reason to kill a useful pawn, especially since there are those in High Plains waiting for his arrival. After all, a play requires puppets,” he stood and spit on Banifourd. “Come now,” he said to Dolif. “We must make haste, yeah?"

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 15.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

It'd been nearly a month since Paye had any visitors at the house in Excergie—since her cousin, Scurra, stopped through on her way out west, on a mission to find her brother… and how long before that since she last had company?

After nearly a year of being mostly alone, Paye was beginning to miss people. She'd made a few introductions in town, but never had anyone over, as she preferred her own company. After all, she needed to be alone, time for quiet contemplations.

Yet, after such a long time alone, Paye hungered for interaction and thought if she did not have social engagement soon, she might forget how to talk to people altogether. For several days, she considered what she might do as she stuck to her solitary routine. She wondered if she should throw a party, or simply go to dinner at one of the beautiful inns about town. Should she seek out a society of painters, thinkers, or knitters? Maybe she'd have a few friendly faces over for a bit of tea one of these bright afternoons—or perhaps a few neighbors for a cozy dinner and gossip? Buried under so many grand options, Paye managed to implement none of them—and then her cousin returned from her excursion in Bouge lands with some dozen others in tow. She saw them well before they reached the house, as they clattered up the drive.

Paye rushed outside and gathered a weary and subdued Scurra in her arms. She looked among her cousin’s company, and recognized several of the men, including the dour face of her brother. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

Scurra shook her head. “We have injured among us. My brother stopped at an apothecary in town. Will you fetch him, and make sure that he brings the peacekeepers?” she asked as she wiped her eyes.

Paye glanced among the others. There were foreigners among her cousins, Saots by their dress, though one of them was dark as night. She wondered if they were the reason for peacekeepers, which seemed unlikely, since they were all armed and smiled politely. She waved to the few she knew, Elpis, Aim, Duboha, as she ran into town.

In short order, Paye returned to the house with the missing brother, several other physicians, a couple midwives, and half a dozen armed men from local militias. The peacekeepers went with Duboha and the Saots to hear charges against Meriona, Naiphan, and Bruck; then took them to the local jail, while Paye went inside so she might check on the injured.

There was little more to be done for Toar. The shrapnel from the Pemberton GremSorter was all removed from his face by Baet's deft hand. His bandages were changed and he was given a draught to help his blood and allow him a restful sleep. After that, he was left to heal.

Andrus was in high spirits as a cute midwife gave him a pipe of conicle to ease his pain. His chest was deeply bruised, which made smoking an uneasy task, but it was his broken shoulder that truly bothered him. He too was given a draught and left to heal.

Komotz, the worst of them, needed a good deal of work and another heavy dose of numb root, while Krumpus and the midwives ascertained the great extent of his injuries. The ladies all marveled that he was somehow still alive, as they checked the shaman’s triage. Several bones were jostled by the hard road and needed to be reset. The healers concocted a curative potion for the man to drink twice a day. Then, as they administered it, the numb root caused Komotz to purge, which was incredibly painful for the man. A few hours later, he purged yet again and the midwives insisted they change him to a different medicine, oblivia; a drug that would end the nausea, and also put the man out completely. Of course, there were other issues with oblivia. It was delicate to administer, and also caused issues with some of the stronger herbs used in the militiaman’s curative, so his potion had to be reformulated. In the mean time, Komotz soiled another set of bedding and bandages as the numb root slowly worked its way out of his system.

Paye carried stained sheets through the hall. She stopped as she passed the room that housed the young Bouge with powder burns over half his face. One of the Saots sat on the edge of his bed and talked to the injured youth. “That'll be the way of it,” he said as Toar slept. “It'll be a fine day at the ocean, if your game to come…” Sensing that they were no longer alone, the guard stopped in mid sentence. He turned and stared at Paye.

His gaze was direct and unwavering, which unsettled the Jindelyak lady. She clutched the soiled sheets all the more tightly as she stepped into the room. “To see the ocean would be a fine day indeed,” she smiled.

“How ‘bout that?” The Saot smiled back. “You speak the fickle tongue of the kingdom.”

Paye shrugged. “The family does a fair bit of trade in Land's End. It helps to know what the locals are saying.”

“I should imagine so,” the Saot replied. “I wish I knew a word of your language.”

“Why didn’t you go hunting with the others?” Paye asked the stranger. “There are plenty of us here to watch the injured.”

“I’ve done enough hunting in my day.”

“Most men hunt for life,” Paye noted. “If they did not, how would we eat?”

The Saot shrugged. “Perhaps if I hunted game…” he muttered. She waved to the few she knew as she ran into town.

“What do you hunt?” Paye asked.

“Men, mostly. From time to time it’s women. Once it was a child,” the Saot confessed with a cold stare.

Paye took a cautious step back.

Baet smiled a conciliatory smile. “That’s all in the past, I think. My hunting days are all but done,” he said as he turned away.

“Now you are nursemaid?” Paye teased, though she considered him to be dangerous. She’d never known a man brag about killing women and children.

“Maybe it’s time I started putting people together instead of taking them apart,” the stranger suggested. “But no. Now I guard.”

“And what is it that you guard?” Paye asked.

The Saot shrugged. “Mostly the duke—but today I have another charge. Would you like to see?”

Paye flinched. There was a troublesome glint in the man’s eye, and she’d be daft not to recognize the danger. Still, she was intrigued. “Okay,” she agreed and wondered if this was against her better judgement.

He smiled as he stood. “I don't think we've been properly introduced,” he said and stretched out a hand. “I'm Baetolamew. But please, call me Baet.”

“Paye. Paye Trandhill,” she smiled as she pushed the sheets into his outstretched hand. “Bring these down to the wash, and then you can show me what it is that you guard.”

Baet followed the woman out back and dropped the sheets in a tub of soapy water.

“So,” Paye stared at the man, arms akimbo. “What is it that you guard?”

Baet gave a nod, and with a mischievous smile, waved her to the barn. “It’s this way.”

Paye frowned as the man led her through the barn. He lifted a secret hatch that revealed steep stairs that he should not know about. She paused as she already knew what was at the bottom: a cell for one’s enemies. She shook her head. “How do you know of this place?” she asked.

“Your cousins knew of it. They showed me when we put the prisoner down here,” Baet explained.

Paye shook her head. “The prisoners all went with the peacekeepers.”

“Not this one. Come on,” Baet nodded. “I’ll lead.” And with that, he began down the stairs.

Reluctantly, Paye followed.

“It’s okay,” Baet assured her. “I was told that you can be trusted. Indeed, Aim noted that he trusts you a fair deal more than he trusts me.”

Paye peeked around the corner, her eyes still adjusting to the dark. For a long second she saw nothing, then she noted movement as the prisoner shifted his weight. She gasped as a large beast glared at her through the bars. “Is that…?!” she began.

“A naga,” Baet nodded. “The others thought we shouldn’t bother you with him, but I feel it is best you know,” the guard admitted. “I’m a bit over secrets,” he claimed.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 15.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

When the peacekeepers came to collect the Ministrian prisoners, Creigal, Carringten, and Baet stayed well out of view.

Initially Duboha was quite skeptical when Creigal asked to go hunting with him. He wondered if there wasn’t more important matters for the duke to attend—what with the injured and the prisoners—but the duke said there was nothing for him to do. Meriona and the Jaded Blades were kept by the locals, and the suit against them could be managed by Scurra, Elpis, and the others; while Maligno was locked tight under the barn. As for the injured, they would get better under the watchful eye of the shaman and his midwives, or they would not get better at all. Besides, Creigal argued it would be best if he was absent. Why not help Aim and Duboha procure fresh meat for their meals?

They were no more than a mile or two along the trail before Creigal noted a variety of game. He thought to ask why they did not take a deer, but didn’t want to spoil the quiet. That is, until he heard the singing—but then he had a new mystery to solve.

“Who are these voices?” Creigal asked.

Duboha leaned in close. “These are the Sisters of the Glade,” he answered. “We will go among them quietly, and as you pass, we will leave them with some bit of coin for their troubles.”

“What it is they do that they should be compensated?”

Duboha smiled. “You will see.”

The four men; Creigal, Duboha, Carringten, and Aim, came to a small clearing where a couple dozen women and children rooted about the glade. They were heavily decorated with leaves, feathers, and fur. Their faces were painted so they might blend in with the brush, and despite the fact that they were all young or women, they armed with knives and bows aplenty.

“Are they tending these wild plants?” Creigal asked.

“Indeed they are,” Duboha confrimed. “They see to the lilies, currents, and other shrubs that the game animals eat. They care for the food of our food, so our game is abundant. But since they are here, the bigger animals will not be. We will go to the river and check among the blue and blackberries.”

Take longer to get them into the wilds. Stone cairns where the stones are often painted with bugs, flowers, animals, clouds, and such.

Indeed, among the blue and blackberries, they found a bear and shot it full of arrows. The bear fell. Duboha and Aim thanked the beast for its life, then the four each took a paw and they carried the beast among them until they reached home.

On the way back, Creigal saw several elk, a number of turkeys, and more rabbits than he thought was possible. There were several wild pigs. There were large goats and bedraggled sheep—not to mention all sorts of fruits and vegetables for them to feed. “This forest is rich,” he noted.

Duboha nodded. “It is no accident. We take great care to cultivate the forest, to make it a welcoming place for all manner of beasts. It makes our hunting easy,” he smiled. The whole excursion took under three hours, and saw them walk little more than half a dozen miles.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 15.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Scurra, Wenifas, and Celesi returned to the cottage, their arms full of food and needed supplies from the local market. Elpis approached from the house. “How did it go?” he asked in Ministrian, since it was the only language they all spoke.

“We talked to the peacekeepers first,” Scurra nodded. “The trial is set for the day after tomorrow. They’ve already got a few minor cases to hear and want to clear the docket.”

“We’re going to take some time,” Elpis said.

“The peacekeepers want it said and done,” Scurra replied. “The locals are peppering them with questions.”

“Must not be much drama of late,” Elpis noted. “Well, they’ll get all the sordid details day after tomorrow.”

“Not all the sorted details—” Scurra began.

“The day after tomorrow?” Wenifas cut in. “Will we be ready by then?” she asked, curious about the Jindleyak legal process. Ministrian concerns could run on for months.

“How long does it take to prepare the truth?” Elpis shrugged.

“Not all the truth,” Scurra replied, then stared at Wenifas and Celesi. “The duke asks that we leave him out of our commentary. I too think it is best if we draw more no attention to the man.”

“Is he really so important?” the priestess asked.

Scurra and Elpis both turned to the MInistrian, smirked, and gave her a serious nod.

Wenifas blinked. Celesi gave her an unknowing shrug.

Elpis turned to his cuosin. “Did you post the letters I gave you?”

“I found several Toilers heading for Ebertin,” she said. “They took the duty for a pittance.”

“The Toilers are a good bunch,” Elpis smiled. “Thank you.”

“What’s back in Ebertin?” Celesi asked, not thinking about it.

Wenifas sucked her teeth and shouldered the young lady. Despite the insensitivity, Elpis answered her anyway. “There is much to be done for the relatives of Lady Yandira.” Not wanting to say anything more about that, he turned back to Scurra. “Homoth took a spare horse and rode for Hearthstone with all possible haste.”

Scurra nodded. “I think it’s best if the rest of us continue on after the trial as quick as possible. Nothing against him personally, but trouble seems to follow this duke. I’d prefer to have him in Hearthstone as soon as possible.”

“Maybe three days?” Elpis shook his head. “Do you think Komotz will be ready to travel?”

Scurra shrugged. How was she to know?

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