The Howling

Polished 18.1 and added the visual of Hearthstone at the end — 44m15s — 2022/07/29

Streamlined 18.2. Move 18.1 to the end of 17. Start with Krumpus returning to Sephonie. Next, have Celesi confronting Toar in the barn. Follow with Komotz at the rock, then finish with Baet being arrested. Move Creigal’s letter to chapter 19 — 48m46s — 2022/07/29

Polished 18.1 again (I reworked it the other day, but I lost it when the computer glitched) — 59m56s — 2022/08/04

Polished 18.2 and began to flesh out Crea’s next scene in 18.6 — 56m31s — 2022/08/04

Deleted the redundant scene with Meu and Creigal talking about his mad hunt. Polished 18.3 and 18.4 — 39m30s — 2022/08/05

Polished 18.1 and 18.2 — 37m21s — 2022/08/08

Polished 18.2 and managed to save it—then polished 18.3 and 18.4 but the damned website crashed and ate my work! Balls! — 1h29m23s — 2022/08/10

Polished 18.3 and 18.4 again — 1h10m23s — 2022/08/12

Polished 18.2 — 39m36s — 2022/08/14

Rewrote 18.5 — 1h04m56s — 2022/08/15

Polished 18.5 and added the beginnings of Celesi’s interactions with Andrus. I’ll have to split this part off. It will be one of the last scenes of the book. The next time we see Celesi and Andrus, they’ll be in Land’s End looking for Tahoran — 30m59s — 2022/08/17

Polished 18.1 — 1h11m11s — 2022/08/18

Polished 18.1 and 18.2, then started writing the scene between Baet and the blacksmith at the start of 18.7… this will need to be moved later — 48m22s — 2022/08/19

Polished 18.3 and 18.4 — 29m33s — 2022/08/19

Polished 18.5 and fleshed out 18.6 — 1h15m35s — 2022/08/24

Polished 18.7 and 18.8. Took out the part with Baet and the blacksmith. The second musket will come from some other cousin that just happens to have a rather nice specimen — 1h05m01s — 2022/08/25

Krumpus asked Meu and Wenifas to go meet Sephonie, who the shaman said lived just over the ridge. He also roped his sister into going, though she seemed reluctant. “I suppose I must,” Scurra acquiesced, then trudged after the others with a sigh.

Wenifas noticed that the shaman also seemed reticent, and so she leaned close to the sister and whispered, “is she really so bad?” Normally, the priestess wasn’t so forward, but Meu had given her a kiss, honeyed with venom, so she had the wyrm’s alacrity to bolster her courage.

Scurra pointed at her brother. “When he’s around she’s not nearly so bad, but when I have to visit without him—” she trailed off with a shrug, not wanting to say bad things about the mother of her nieces.

The path up the ridge was steep enough, and Wenifas found herself panting. They all took turns carrying Evereste, which was nice for the winded priestess. She was born by the sea, but seemed to climb ever higher in this strange world.

Krumpus stopped several times, so he might gather his breath. At first, Wenifas thought he too was getting winded, but after the third of fourth stop, she realized he was stopping on her behalf. She was chagrined by the fact, but also quite happy to have the pauses. Still, the last pause seemed a bit long, and the priestess wondered if perhaps he was not also stalling a bit for his own sake.

At the top of the ridge, Meu and Wenifas caught sight of the city proper—and what a sight it was! The entire mountain was covered with dwellings. There was a massive fort at the very top of the mountain, and large buildings all about the sides of it. How some of them were built was quite beyond the priestess, as they seemed to lean precariously over gulches and drops.

As spectacular as it was, there were still a good dozen miles to the edge of the mountain, and Wenifas was not interested in going that far. “Tell me it’s a bit closer than all that,” she said, suddenly worried that the hike was going to take the rest of the day. Oddly, she didn’t want to be among so many strangers so soon, and even found herself missing the familiar duke and his men. There were also the other Jindleyak she wanted to thank. Was she leaving their company so soon?

“We shall not go that far,” Scurra answered. “Just down there,” she said and pointed toward the wooded base of the ridge.

Going down was much easier, though they still paused several times, mostly to take in the view. Between the trees, a cottage appeared, large and comfortable. Still, as they approached, Wenifas could tell that something was wrong. There was a nervous air about the shaman, and the sister was stiff. This was not a proper homecoming. Even Meu sensed it. The only one oblivious was Evereste, as she frequently demanded to be let down, so she could pick about the pleasant dirt.

Finally they arrived. As Krumpus mounted the covered porch and reached for the door, he gave the others an awkward grin; then, before he could grab the handle, the door popped open, and a rambunctious woman flew from the house with a scream. She collided with the shaman, drove him back into the grass, and slapped at the little man as he rolled into a ball.

Wenifas and Meu moved to intercede, but Scurra lifted a hand and shook her head. “For your own sake, don’t get involved,” she advised.

Meu stared, and replied that she would protect her friend.

“Leave it be,” Scurra continued. “She won’t do any real damage,” she claimed.

How can you be sure? the skin-walker asked.

“She’d be risking the coin he sends monthly, and despite her complaining, she rather likes her fine house,” she said of the cabin.

Wenifas took a second look at the dwelling. The structure was strong and wide, with two stories, and all sorts of intricacies. There was a solid fence about it, all sorts of vegetation, with at least a number of rabbits—as the fighting continued, and the screeching and cursing with it. “What shall we do?” Wenifas asked, as she turned back to her beleaguered friend.

“Let it play out,” Scurra said. “She’s not much of a physical fighter anyway.”

Krumpus squawked and cried as he struggled against Sephonie. Still, he wrestled well, and after a minute of suffering her hollow blows, he had the upper hand—until a child barely old enough to run, flopped through the door of the cabin. With a shriek of her own, she attached herself to the shaman’s leg, and sunk her teeth.

A gurgling scream erupted from the shaman as he turned his attention on the pint-sized attacker.

Another girl burst from the cabin, this one much older and larger than the first. “Pa!” she cried, recognizing her father, then scolded her sister, as she pulled the tyke from his leg. “Don’t attack your father!” the older girl said as Krumpus howled at the savage wound inflected by his youngest.

The little towhead biter turned on her older sister with wide eyes, then stared back at the man fighting her mother. “Pa?” She blinked—then kicked and tried to free herself of her sister. “Pa!” she yelled and grabbed for him.

There was a bright smile on shaman’s face as he stared back at the wild child. He lifted his arms so he might take the tyke from her sister—but given an opening, Sephonie grabbed Krumpus in a headlock and forced him back into the dirt.

Both children now begged her to stop, but the pleas fell on deaf ears as Sephonie continued to assault her husband. Suddenly, she paused in her cursing, and stared at his brittle hands. “What in the sweet name of Jeiju happened to you?!” She stared—then took several more potshots at the man, as she cradled his brittle fingers.

“Sephonie…” Scurra reached for the woman.

“Don't you ‘Sephonie’ me!” she turned and glared at the sister. “He deserves this abuse and you know it!” she screeched. “And you!” the vindictive little woman turned on Meu. “Are you the one he’s cheating with?!” The smaller rounder woman glared daggers at the svelte redhead, as the older woman backed several steps. “You have the smell of sex upon you,” she accused. She turned on Wenifas next and looked like she’d have at her too—but after one aggressive step, she recoiled from the priestess with wide eyes. “You may have the curse upon you,” she began, “but not by my man.”

“The curse?” Wenifas wondered.

Sephonie’s eyes fell on Evereste—and lit up with an innocent pleasure. “Oh, what a precious treasure!” she said, then turned on Krumpus and began swinging at him once again. “Who are these people, and why do you only consort with women?!”

“Sephonie!” Scurra shouted.

“Oh, leave off!” Sephonie said. “You can see he’s not even fighting back! He knows he deserves this!” She drove a nail under his collarbone and slapped his face, though there wasn’t much force behind either assault.

“SEPHONIE!” Scurra stepped in. “Our new friends must think us savages with this wild display! Are you not embarrassed?!” she scolded.

“Well, he should introduce them to someone that wants to met them,” she said as she glared at the strangers once more—though her eyes softened as she smiled at the babe. With a snort, Sephonie reached down, grabbed Krumpus by the shirt, then dragged him back to the cottage. She pulled open the door, and led him inside, as she began to lecture once more.

Shaking his head, Krumpus limped as he allowed her to pull him in. The older child and her little sister followed and let themselves in.

Scurra shook her head. “I feared it might be such a display.”

“Maybe we should go…” Wenifas pointed back up the ridge, toward the manse of Arza Trandhill.

Scurra shook her head. “Though I should have expected as much, I’d hoped she’d restrain herself in front of company.” She rolled her eyes as she pointed to the house with her thumb. “Still, the worst of it should be over. Given a few more minutes, she might be down right civil.”

“Why does he return to such a woman?” Wenifas asked.

“It’s a complicated relationship. I only thank the gods that it isn’t mine,” Scurra sighed. “Besides, this only lasts so long—and likely as not they’ll give me another nephew or niece before my brother wonders off once again with dreams of saving this world,” she rolled her eyes. “Listen,” she smirked.

The three cocked their ears—though there was nothing to hear. Scurra pulled open the door and Wenifas peaked inside. Sure enough, there was Krumpus and Sephonie, snogging, as their two children snickered.

Sephonie caught sight of the priestess, pulled away from Krumpus, and rushed at the door. “Can’t a lady have a little privacy in her own house?!” she snapped. She turned on her children as they beamed at their reconciling parents. “Go see to the comfort of our guests! Show them the berry patches, or the ducks in the pond, or… something,” she carried off as she beamed at Krumpus. “Give us twenty minutes!”

The two girls turned, smiled at their aunt, and rushed out the door—which closed with a bang. “Well then,” Scurra stopped the two girls. “Let us introduce you properly. This is Willow Yockupp,” she said of the older child.

“I’m Aspen!” the little one volunteered, before Scurra could finish her obligation.

“Yes,” Scurra smiled as she ruffled the girl’s hair. “This is Aspen.”

“Pleased to meet you,” the priestess smiled. “I’m Wenifas, this is Meu, and the little one is Evereste.”

Hearing her name, the babe squealed and raised her arms.

“Oh, she’s sweet!” Willow said, then put out her hands. “Can I take her?”

Scurra gave the priestess a nod, then smiled as the older girl cuddled the babe close to her face. “Look at you, you little dumpling!” she beamed, then blew a raspberry on her cheek—which brought ecstatic peels of laughter from the babe.

Wenifas turned to find Aspen staring at her. The tyke leaned into her aunt and whispered something.

“Yes she is,” Scurra said, then gave her butt a soft swat. “Now be a good girl and show us to the strawberries.”

“What did she say?” Wenifas asked as the child laughed and skipped into the garden.

“She says you’re very pretty,” Scurra whispered, so the youngling wouldn’t hear her revealing secrets.

Wenifas blushed as she followed the trundling child, and realized she was quite happy to meet the shaman’s family, as eccentric as they were.

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

Baet anticipated slow days with little responsibility among the Jindleyak. The duke was as safe as he’d been in a number of years, and probably safer; so his junior guard was given a long leash and plenty of time for leisure, which he often spent in the refreshing waters of the local pool.

Indeed, Baet was quite content these days. There was a peace between him and the priestess—he even 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 as he floated in the pool; surprised that life should be so easy after months of hardship. He swam in the cool waters with a warm sun overhead for over an hour. He was preparing to get out when Carringten found him—and interrupted his tranquility. “Baetolamew,” he heard his captain say in a serious voice.

“Yes, sir,” he answered, suspecting a shift in the winds. “What is it?”

“Your presence is required,” Carringten ordered.

Baet frowned as he made for the near bank. Surprises that required one’s own eye were rarely good. The junior guard followed Carringten to the barn, where there were dozen of men, shuffling about, trying not to stare.

Not the duke. He was staring. “Is it the naga?” Baet asked, getting more and more nervous. He wasn’t answered.

The issue was apparent as soon as Baet stepped further into the barn. With a deep frown on his grizzled face, Azra held the ornamental crest that Paye had pried off the wall, trimmed with several pounds of precious metals, and a good deal of pricey jewels—and at his feet was Baet’s open pack.

All eyes were on the Saot guard as he realized what was being insinuated. “Now wait a minute,” Baet began. “Why should I take such a thing?! What would I want with it?!”

“With all this gold and silver?” Azra replied, incredulous.

“Mostly silver,” Baet noted. “But that is quite beside the point!”

“The point is, the crest was found in your bag,” Creigal stared. “And why would it be in your bag?”

Dumbstruck, Baet glanced about the room. He noted Homoth in the corner wearing a satisfied smirk. “This was your doing!” Baet raged, and took a step toward the youth.

Carringten grabbed Baet and held him back.

Homoth jumped from his seat and stood at his full height. “So this is how you repay us?!” he charged. “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 noted Creigal shaking his head. “You must believe, this is not my doing! That rogue frames me!”

Baet spotted Paye next to the open door. He remembered her taking the ornament from above the mantle. He was about to invoke her when he noticed her face was red and streaked with tears. She knew the truth of it. Why didn’t she speak? He locked eyes with the woman.

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.

Baet realized he was on his own. In turn, he locked eyes Creigal, Carringten, Azra, and Homoth; one man after the last, and shook his head. “No,” he said. ‘This is not my doing.”

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

Baet couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Did you just challenge me?!” Suddenly, he knew what had happened. The Jindleyak had set him up—over cards and a handful of silver—and was now expecting a duel?! Baet stared at the man. He’d seen him fight through the streets of Ebertin, when they were cornered with no way out. He’d sparred against the man and knew he was dangerous, especially when his temper was up. But that was different. That was a heated conflict. This was cold and calculated, one to one, with an enemy that had just as much time to prepare. He stared at the large youth as a fire lit in his stomach. He stared and shook his head. “It’s your funeral,” he told the youth.

“Hey now!” Creigal called. Carringten pulled him back as several Jindleyak men pushed Homoth to a far corner.

Azra turned to the Saots with a scowl and a huff. This is not what he wanted. He shook his head.

While the others watched, Carringten stripped Baet of his weapons. “I didn’t do this,” Baet protested, though he didn’t resist.

“I personally do not believe it,” Carringten said in Saot. “But whether or not you are guilty, we have agreed to see you arrested,” his captain told him. “Pray to Abra we get to the bottom of this.”

A half dozen armed Jindleyaks escorted Baet through the house, down several flights of stairs, through numerous twisting halls, and several confining 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 the serpent.

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 weak broth—yet you bring the naga fresh fried fish?!” The jailer frowned, turned, and walked out without a word.

Baet was well fed of late, so he ignored the crusty lump of bread and tepid broth. Instead, he paced the small cell. He exercised about the little room and wondered at his fate. Would the brother really insist on a duel? Why did Paye run? Why didn’t she set the record straight? Would Creigal do anything about this? Surely, he could not believe the charges. Baet wondered how long he might be in this pickle before the duke could clear his name. Would he be able to convince Azra that his impetuous grandson had framed the good guard? He certainly didn’t need the money—anymore. His throat grew tight, and he wondered if maybe the duke thought the charges were real. That’d be a bit of poetic justice!

Baet paused as he realized his fate rested somewhere between the good word of Paye and Creigal’s skill and want for negotiation. Would he get either? He calculated that Creigal was likely to help him out, especially since he saved his life in Wibbeley—and hoped with all his longing heart that Paye would bail him out, with a silver tongue propelled by truth.

Minutes crawled by, slowly adding to the hours. The door to the jail creaked open yet again. A plate appeared around the corner and Baet wondered why they were bringing him 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! The best part was that the plate was carried by the beautiful Paye!

Paye put on a strong front. She smiled despite her puffy red eyes, as she slowly entered with the heaping plate in front of her, as if it were all the apology she might muster. He could tell she was contrite, and realized it must be because she’d said nothing in the barn. At least she was not openly against him, hostile for the sake of her venomous brother!

Or was she? After all, he barely knew her…

“Thank you,” Baet smiled as he accepted the beautiful plate, piled high with delights. His appetite soared as he assumed such a plate meant his stock was on the rise. “Did you tell them?” he began. “Did you admit that it was you that took the precious curiosity?”

“I did,” Paye said, though she shook her head, “Even so, my grandfather is convinced of your villainy.”

“But you were there!” Baet said. “How can he discount you?”

“Homoth is his favorite,” she explained. “And did you know that Komotz swore to your villainy?! He claimed he saw the two of us plotting—though he was always in his bed.”

“Absurd!” Baet huffed.

“I know!” Paye continued. “But my word is little good here. I have had conflict with my brothers before, and several cousins. I thought I might be forgiven after my self-imposed exile—but instead I am framed with you! Indeed, I am doing you no favor by bringing you this plate!”

Baet considered her words and forgot about the food. “Balls,” he cursed as his stomach sank.

“I was duped,” Paye shrugged. “Homoth was very kind to me in Excergie, and the letter he wrote said he wanted the ornament, so he could shine it and show it to our grandfather. I went to get the letter from my room, to prove my case, but it was not there. Homoth must have stolen it, and if he has not destroyed it yet, I’m sure he will soon. He’s not the type to keep incriminating evidence around.”

Baet paused. “Did you say Homoth is your brother?”

“He is,” Paye nodded. “And I fear he will kill you. He is a very good fighter.”

“But I shall choose the weapon, and I shall choose the musket,” Baet pointed. “He cannot beat me with a pistol.”

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

“And why wouldn’t I?!” Baet replied. “He demands a duel—so I will kill him. After all, that is justice. He has framed us, and hubris has led him to commit the ultimate folly. Before the gods, he has threatened to prove a thing that cannot be proved, for I am not guilty, just as you are not guilty! Indeed, he has wronged you too!”

“But he is my brother!” Paye snapped.

“Tell him to drop the charge,” Baet stared at the lady. “I don’t want to kill him—but it sure beats dying!”

Paye glared at the man. She shook the bars of the cell door. “Don’t you dare kill my brother!” 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 bars. “Would you have me die, in his stead?!”

Paye stared at the man, her face twisted and pained. A tear ran from her eye, and she shook her head.

As heated as he was—and staring at such a beautiful and passionate woman—Baet couldn’t help himself. He 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 slowly pulled away.

Did she feel it too? With a dreamy fog filling his head, Baet stared longingly into the lady’s eyes.

Paye stared back at the man, shocked and intrigued. Her eyes narrowed. Her hand flew up and slapped the man—then, before he could get out of her reach—she grabbed him, pulled him against the bars once more, and kissed him back.

Baet could taste the salt from her tears. He longed to kiss her until she was happy—as their hands grabbed at each other and stretched the fabric of their clothes—but after a few minutes of such desperate touching, Paye turned and ran from the room, weeping once more.

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

A couple cells over, the naga chuckled as he gnawed at the bones of his fish.

“Oh shut up!” Baet glared. “I shall get out of here before you!” he claimed.

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

An hour after dark, Roustich returned with two men that claimed to have seen Humbert as he passed through town, one in fine livery, and the other of more simple clothes. Duboha ushered his cousin and two strangers into a sitting room where Creigal repeated the question. “You’ve seen our thief?”

Both men nodded. “We spoke at length, as he we shared a meal of mutton and mead,” the taller and better dressed man confirmed. “He was quite free with his coin.”

“When was this?” Creigal asked.

He turned to the his humbly dressed companion. "What would you say? A month ago? Maybe two?”

“Wouldn’t have been much more than a month,” his friend insisted. “He looked and smelled as if he’d traveled long and hard. His threads were soiled. It was obvious he’d spent several nights on the side of the road. He reeked so much, it might of put me off my mutton, if it hadn’t been free.”

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

The first looked to his companion, and the second shook his head and crossed his arms. Lifting his chin, the first turned back to Creigal and took on an air of defiance. “First, we have a question of our own. What kind of man are you that we should tell you what we know?”

“I’m the kind that is going to pay for your information,” Creigal replied.

The second man shook his head. “Money cannot soothe a sore conscience,” he noted.

“Very well, then,” Creigal locked eyes with the strangers. “The man I seek is a thief. He has stolen from me, and I would have my possessions back.”

“He seemed the troublesome sort,” the first said with a nod. “Indeed, it does not surprise us that one such as yourself comes looking for him. We were happy to see him leave, especially when he told us he was looking for the Dread Lord Lasitus.”

“Lasitus,” Creigal leaned forward. “That is a name I know. What can you tell me of him?”

“He is a superstition,” the dressier of the two companions explained. “Many believe he has ruled the blight for several hundred years, almost since the time of the Broken Legions.”

The second man stared daggers at his companion. “It is not superstition!”

Roustich interrupted the two. “Lasitus came north over two hundred years ago. He cannot still be alive.”

“Lasitus was said to be a hundred and seventy-three when he stole the King’s Nnak Stone and rode north. The stories say that he looked not a day over fifty,” Creigal noted. “It seems my thief seeks the company of another thief.”

Duboha frowned. “That is not possible.”

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

“There was said to be a small village, ringed by high mountains, that he took for his own,” Roustich replied. “Nobody goes there. It is death to enter the blight—even now—whether or not this Dread Lord survives,” he frowned. “Do you really think this Lasitus might still be alive?”

“Who am I to say?” Creigal shrugged. “Still, 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.”

The lackadaisical air of their discussion was terribly distressing to second stranger. Bright red and bothered, he took a step forward and pointed at the duke. “It would serve you well not to piss on the devil!” he snapped. “Lasitus is very much alive and still a danger to anyone that dare approaches the blight!”

In response to his quick step, Carringten took a step of his own; then stared down at the man, though the stranger was taller by half a hand. The stranger pulled up and shrunk away from the dark man.

Creigal replied calmly, “I may despise evil, but I am not dumb enough to be caught mocking it.”

The better dressed of the strangers pulled his friend back a step. “He is simply passionate about his beliefs. We know for a fact that Lasitus created the blight. We simply don’t know if he still resides in it. You see, few go in to the blight because even fewer return—and those that do come back are all too often chased by the worst kinds of abomination.”

“If it is not him, what haunts the blight?!” The second man replied.

“Might it be a lieutenant, some servant that took over when the old man died?” Creigal shrugged. “Perhaps something worse moved in and disposed the old necromancer. Whatever has happened, we will do what we must in order to find Humbert; and if Humbert goes to find Lasitus, then I go to find Lasitus.” The duke leaned forward and locked eyes on the two strangers. “Will you guide us?”

The two strangers turned white as sheets. They stared at each other and shook their heads. “Sir, we know nothing of the blight beside what we have heard: allegations and rumors we’ve been told since we were knee high.”

“Leave these two be,” Roustich said. “There are not wrong to fear the blight. There are others that have been in the blight and learned to tell of it—though I know of none that profess to seeing this Lasitus.”

“Well, we shall take precautions,” Creigal noted.

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

Knowing that he would go north, Creigal sat down and wrote several letters. The first he wrote to Varius and his other councilmen; to let them know of his whereabouts, his intentions, and what he had learned in his journeys. He also charged that his debts to be settled; debts to the families of the men that were lost along the way, and to the Trohl bearing these letters for additional costs incurred in his travels.

The second letter was addressed to the Gaurring public. It was to be read and disseminated throughout the duchy with all possible haste.

The last of the letters would be the first delivered, as it was addressed to the Dunkels of Land’s End. It said that Gaurring played no part in the sacking of Solveny, and that any Gaur among that invading army were acting against the Duke. They were 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. He made a copy of this letter and addressed it to Yurand of High Plains so he might also have the duke’s words.

With his correspondence written, the duke needed a courier. For a time, Creigal hoped to send Baet. He thought he might argue for the guard’s release—perhaps if he guaranteed the guard would never return—but Creigal felt he needed to take a different tact for dealing with his talented, but wayward guard. Instead, he looked to the natives and took the matter to Azra and his friends.

Upon hearing the request, Andrus volunteered. “I’ll go,” he said. “The weather turns, winter isn't far behind, and I've never had much love of the snow.”

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

“Shall there be as much?” Andrus replied. “Besides, who doesn't long to see the ocean?”

The duke frowned. "Your duties would not oblige you to go that far south. And the journey is not without it’s dangers. If the wrong people catch you carrying my letters, it’ll be your death.”

“Then I shall not get caught,” Andrus said. “Nothing in this world is without risk, and when taking risks it is best to focus on the aspects that bring joy to the adventure.”

Unconvinced, Creigal shook his head. “Your Saot is not the strongest.”

“I shall have ample time to study,” Andrus noted. “Besides, I shall have little to say until I reach Gaurring Heart anyway.”

Creigal smiled, as he was beginning to enjoy the young man’s smart replies. He liked Andrus, although he felt the youth was a touch impetuous. He turned to Azra, to see if the patriarch had any objections.

“He is more serious than he lets on,” Azra said with a smile.

“You are trusting him with your own money,” Creigal replied. Still, he felt the young Jindleyak would be fine as long as he kept his head down and his eyes up. “Alright then,” the duke turned to Andrus, that he might give him some instruction. “We shall have you stay clear of the capital. Even at the best of times, it is crawling with spies. Instead, you will go to Bastion's Crossing—but it is not really Gaurring that worries me. There I have people and systems in place. No. I'm more concerned with Land's End and the delivery of the letter to the Dunkels. It must be done with great 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. Still, he shook his head. “No. I’d prefer the letter appear as a mystery to the Dunkels, and within their personal quarters, if it can be managed. I’d like them to think I am closer than they might find comfortable—and I cannot ask you to do that. Such a thing would be suicide for you. Instead, I ask that you deliver it to a spy of mine, a careful and cunning man that’s been in that city for several years. He shall see that the letter is delivered,” Creigal explained. “How soon can you leave?”

“There are a few things I must square away,” Andrus shrugged. “I believe I can have everything squared away by the day after tomorrow.”

Creigal nodded. “I have no money of my own. I shall give you a letter for the price of your employ. You shall also bring back coin to repay the money I borrowed from Traust and also your grandfather.”

“The journey there and back shall take more than a month,” Andrus noted. “I cannot do it for less than three sovereign.”

“If It was only your time—but your very person will be at risk,” Creigal replied. “I shall pay you three for the trip down, and I shall pay you three more for your return. After all, your charge is not finished until you have delivered the coin that my friends require.”

Andrus smiled, gave a nod, and shook the duke’s hand. Six sovereign! What a sum!

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

Toar wanted to be alone.

No.

Toar needed to be alone.

Jindleyak lands were nothing like he’d ever seen before, rich and prosperous. The people were numerous, humble, and so very very rich. Yet, their prosperity highlighted his lack. He wondered how he could possibly live among them, and hoped the duke moved on quickly—so he too might go. This was no place for a miserable, dejected castaway, he thought. He needed to be upon his search once more.

Toar wandered the estate and found a hay shed where several goats and sheep made their beds. Back among the winter’s hay, he found several kittens, smart enough to be timid, but too new to the world to be out and out suspicious. Their mother was not around, and since he moved slow, the kittnes warmed to him and allowed themselves to be scratched.

Despite wanting to be alone, Celesi was behind him. He didn’t know it until he heard her voice catch, right before she exclaimed, “Babies!”

Toar almost turned, that he might scowl—but he knew she would ignore such a sour act. For some reason, she never thought he was scowling at her, that the scowl was somehow for the rest of the world, even though he showed it to her alone.

“Oh, aren’t they precious?!” she beamed as she crawled into the hay, and tempted the kittens with soft hands. “You sweet babies!”

Several of the critters scampered off and hid, though a few figured the new intruder was just as good as the last. “Meowr?” they questioned, as she approached slow.

Celesi glowed as she gathered one in her hands and caressed it behind the ears. The tiny beast grabbed at a finger and gnawed at with its needle sharp teeth, but wholly insufficient jaw.

“You miserable beast!” she laughed as she tickled its belly. “Oh, Toar!” she smiled with excitement and longing in her voice. “Isn’t this place perfect?!”

He shrugged and refused to face her. “A little too perfect,” he grumbled.

Celesi tsked. “Don’t be such a puss,” she reprimanded. “Its unbecoming.”

Feeling irritated and frank, Toar turned to Celesi and glowered. “What do you want?!” he snapped.

With a snort, she stared at him, suddenly serious. For several long seconds she simply stared. “Are you really so thick?” she stared back. “You, you dummy. I want you,” she huffed, then leaned forward, and tried to kiss him.

Toar veered away, and crashed back in the hay—so he might avoid her lips. The kittens that were free to do so scampered away.

Celesi pulled up short, one hand on her hip, the other stretched out to Toar, that he might take it, and thereby apologize for hurting her feelings. “Really?” she began. “Does my affection displease you so?”

Toar stared back at her. “You don’t know what you’re asking,” he replied.

“Of course I know,” she pressed, her hand now upon his knee. “I ask that you love me,” she stared.

“You don’t know what you ask,” Toar repeated, tears swelling in his eyes, as he lay, frozen beneath her touch.

Celesi stared back. “I’ve spent the last several years groomed for the sexual pleasure of my enemies, yet it was not always disagreeable. Conversely, I recognize that a meaningful love must at times be difficult. I know that it will require us both to be at our best, but I am happy to devote myself to such work,” she said as she climbed over and pressed upon him. Don’t resist,” she urged and kissed his lips.

“Celesi…,” his tears were thick in his eyes—and she couldn’t imagine why. Was she not young and becoming? What sort of man would push away an eager and attractive woman? She wondered if perhaps she was not nearly as pretty as she hoped—as so many had proffered, includeing the duke.

“Please,” she begged him. “Please love me,” she breathed and pressed against him, in hopes that his desire might swell. They were alone and she loved him so. If he wanted, she would have him now. She knew what she was asking—the dangers it entailed. Indeed, she hoped he might put a child inside her, and then become the father such a beautiful baby deserved. She kissed his lips, as she stared back at her, frightened, and almost out of his wits. She pressed her hips into his. But there was no interest. Although she could feel his frame beneath her, he only felt agitated.

Something was off.

Why was he so full of tears? She pulled away. Even if they should just be friends, wasn’t it a grand thing to kiss? “What’s going on?” she asked, suddenly suspicious.

“I can’t!” Toar exclaimed. “I can’t be that man!” he snapped at her. It almost seemed an accusation.

There was something she was missing, something obvious and terrible, something that her mind wasn’t willing to admit. “I don’t understand,…” Celesi replied, shaken, suddenly feeling like she’d betrayed and injured him. Why was he so mad at her—and why did she feel like she deserved it?

He hiding something, and she had discovered it, even though she hadn’t yet managed to wrap her mind around it…

“I’ve never been whole!” Toar told her. “One does not come up among a house of concubines fully intact, not as a man! One such as that may betray the master and have his own way with the women—and Kezodel was a very jealous master,” he confessed. “Would you see what I am missing?!” he snarled as his hands reached for his fly.

Aghast, she put her hands on his. “No,” she gasped. “No!”

Still beneath her, Toar turned his face. “Where others have a mighty oak, I have just a stump,” he confessed. “This is a world of filth and hostility.”

“How could they do such a thing?” she said between her fingers, shocked by what he’d revealed. She shook here head, unwilling to believe it, her own tears rising in her eyes. “Why?!”

Suddenly, he was stone beneath her. He grabbed her by the wrists with a tight grip, hurting her. “You tell anyone,” he glared, “and I’ll kill you.”

Her tears were so thick she could barely see. “I’m so sorry!” she pleaded and threw herself upon him once more. “I didn’t mean to pry! I’ve always thought the world of you!” she bawled. “I’ll always love you!”

“What’s the point?” Toar said back to her, once more cool and dispassionate. “I’ll never be the man you need. Not in all the ways you want.”

She wanted to say that wasn’t so, that sex wasn’t everything.

And yet, she knew he was right. She couldn’t settle for a loveless existence. She wanted the touch of a man, the feel of an honest love. She needed to gift him with babies.

It was all too much. Celesi pulled herself up, out of her shattered dream, and fled from the shed. She wasn’t surprised when Toar didn’t follow.

Andrus notes that Celesi has gone from boisterous to incredibly sullen. The night before he leaves, he follows her about the fields and begs her to tell what is bothering her—but she won’t admit anything, except that she confronted Toar and no longer regards him as her beau. Initially, Andrus plans to confront Toar, but Celesi is fiercely defensive of him. Changing tact, Andrus decides to show his magic to her. As he strips, she worries that he means to rape her, but instead, he summons the shadows and transforms himself into a horse. Mesmerized by such a show, she agrees to go south with him.

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

Once more Brankellus turned south, and wondered that his prey kept shifting directions. He might have thought his sense was off, if he had not seen his enemy, riding in the distance, as his urge to go forward moved the horses. For now, his quarry must have settled, likely for the night.

Brankellus slogged through an open field, heading for a clump of trees, near a burned out farmhouse. Because he kept shifting direction, some of ghosts that followed were in front of him, while others were behind. He passed not far from the ruins of the humble dwelling, and found several of his train clamoring about a small fire, with two figures that slept nearby. The fat cleric from Solveny and several others prayed over the two survivors, while others merely wrung their hands and worried. Brankellus continued through their camp, allowing himself to be distracted only for a moment. He wondered that the cleric and the others that prayed should all gather around the girl and mostly ignore the boy, but then forgot them both as he continued on his way.

Crea woke early and refreshed, even before the sun came up. Something had shifted in the night, and for the first time since she left her family’s farm, she felt as if she had a purpose. That purpose was fueled by a righteous anger, by the indignity visited upon her people, and so she took the decorative sword she stole from the Gaur and attacked a nearby tree.

Slowly, the sun came up, and as it rose, Crea hacked and slashed at the cedars all about as a lather soaked her shirt and pants.

Malcolm woke with a start. For a split second, he thought Crea was being attacked. He jumped up, sword in hand, then relaxed as he realized her enemies were all made of wood. At first, he thought to go back to sleep, but as he watched the girl flailing away, he decided it might be best if he gave her a few pointers.

“That works against the trees,” he began. “But that kind of abandon won’t do much good against anyone that knows the least about fighting.”

Crea turned at glared at the young silver fish. “What do you know about it?” she snapped.

“Not much,” he admitted. “But I know a bit more than you.”

Crea huffed and turned back at the trees.

“First, you are doing your weapon no good by assaulting these trees,” Malcolm told her. “You are not the only one doing damage, as the trees are blunting your edge.”

Crea stopped. “Well,” she began as she stared at the postman, “continue.”

“Go slow to go fast,” he said. “Study your weapon. Swing it about. Feel its weight and balance.”

Crea waved the weapon about, then shrugged. “What am I supposed to be feeling?”

“Here,” Malcolm approached, offering his sword. “Swing this one about, and feel it is different. heavier yes?”

She agreed.

“Now, the weight of that falchion is more toward the point, in the heavy curve, where the weight of my long sword is more toward the pommel. See?”

Crea nodded.

“Yours is more a slashing weapon, with one sharp edge, where mine is more of a piercing weapon, with both edges sharpened,” Malcolm explained.

“Does that make yours better?” Crea asked.

Malcolm shrugged. “It makes it different. It’s better for me, because I can heft it, and practice with it often. For you?” he shrugged.

“Well, I thank you for your pointers, but I think perhaps we should pack up, then we can talk about it as we walk. We have a long way to go, you know.”

“And how far do you think we are from High Plains?” Malcolm asked her. “Another day, two at the most?”

“Perhaps we shall not know,” Crea said. “I think it is better we make straight for Land’s End.”

“Land’s End?!” Malcolm’s heart skipped a beat. “And why should you want to go to Land’s End all the sudden?”

But Crea didn’t want to tell him of the dreams she had that woke her early and refreshed. Instead she said, “What do we have in High Plains? Either of us? We have nothing,” she shook her head. “But in Land’s End, you have oaths—that is, unless you wish to go to High Plains.”

“No,” Malcolm assured her. “I wish to go to Land’s End.”

Go back to the scene where Gliedian and Petaerus confront Banifourd, after Crea escapes, and have Gliedian note that Creigal’s sword is missing. Have him send word to Alise in High Plains that the sword is gone, and that she is to offer a reward for its return to the High Commander.

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

Carringten led Baet to the barn. There were several Jindleyak about, trying to act inconspicuous. The only one that seemed to manage it was the large man, Aim. Baet wondered if they were there to. Were they simply there to make sure the Saots didn’t try anything funny?

None of the natives were inside. There was only Creigal, sitting in a chair, in the middle of a wide open area. Carringten waited at the door while Baet approached and sat with the duke. “You must know I was framed,” Baet said.

“Were you now?” Creigal replied.

Baet nodded. “By Homoth.”

Eyebrows arched as Creigal continued to stare. “And what did you do that you angered him so much that he would frame you?”

“Ask Paye, the sister,” Baet stared. “She will tell you the truth of it,” he said as he glanced about the barn.

“I have, in fact,” Creigal noted. “Indeed, I believe her.”

“Well then, Baet smiled. “The guard is not very good. It’d be easy enough for Carringten to get the key and let me out. Then I shall join you on your way north.”

“And how shall that work when many of our newfound friends ride with us?” the duke replied.

“If you do not break me out, I will have to duel the man, and then I shall have to kill him. I’d rather not,” Baet shook his head. He could tell that his argument was not persuading the duke. He tried a different tact. “I have pledged to keep you safe. How will I honor my oath?” he asked.

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 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. Then, once I was compromised, he talked me into letting him onto the grounds. He claimed he only wanted a bit of seed from your garden—though I’ve long known that the words of a liar are not to be trusted. I allowed myself to believe he would stay in the garden, that he would forget the house and all its possessions," Baet held out the palms of his hands.

“Was there any more?”

“Only that I kept it from you for so long,” Baetolamew answered. “I am sorry. Mostly, I am sorry for the lives of my friends—my fellow guards.”

Creigal nodded, his demeanor calm. “I meant to wait for this, to confront you once I’d captured the thief,” he began. “I meant to 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 this 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. You are normally not so stupid that you might steal a garish ornament, no matter how pretty or pricey—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 name to tarnish yours?” Creigal stared at his guard while Baet stared at his feet. “Since Wibbeley you’ve served me well—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 me with these natives? 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 brothers hate me.”

“What reasons have you given them to hate you?” Creigal glared at his guard. “You are careless, just as you were with Humbert! Homoth and Komotz, have you not noticed their rising anger? Did it come upon you so unexpected? Are you not a talented and decorated spy? Have you lost all sense of 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. “Yet, there is hope for you—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.

Eyes wide, Baet leaned forward. He 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 face changed, suspicious and aggrieved, he stared at the guard. “Yet, it was your betrayal that allowed my enemies to move against me and kill my guards, with some of my favorite men among them,” Creigal closed fist around the 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. “Well then, this is it. This is all you shall have from me. Good day to you, and may Abra save you.”

Baet was incredulous. It was a pittance, an insult. Still, a slight stack of silver was better than nothing. It was certainly a lot better than Meriona and the Jaded Blades got, and they caused no blood. Baet gave a stiff bow and took the coin without comment. He turned and proceeded from the barn as Carringten joined him.

Carringten walked next to Baet as several Jindleyaks followed at a discrete distance. The captain held out his hand. “I know you left most in Gaurring Heart, but I ask that you surrender any device of the Duke you may ahve upon you.”

Baet only had one with him, a lead coin of simple and base design, but the coin and the proper words to match it marked its carrier as a member of Creigal’s Fifth Column, his secret army of spies, sneaks, and assassins.

Carringten glanced at the coin, then slipped it in his pocket with a grunt. “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 stared.

Carringten shrugged. “You are not eligible to serve among the duke’s elite ranks, but you are by no means banished. Indeed, if you wish to serve among his regulars, you may return to a military life.”

“There are a few items I’d like to recover,” Baet started. “Perhaps not enough to bother,” he shrugged.

Carringten stared at the junior guard. He stopped, and Baet stopped with him. For a long second, they simply stared at each other. “When did you lose heart?” the captain asked.

Baet shook his head and wondered if he should answer; then a spark caught in his belly, and he thought, why not? Why not give the man such answers? He’d asked, after all! Baet stared at his captain, his expression growing dark. “For a long time I believed,” he began. “It wasn’t until Pagladoria that questions arose.”

“What was it that drove you from our righteous cause?” Carringten wondered.

“He had me kill a child,” Baet shook his head. “A girl. Eight? Nine years old?”

“Ahh,” Carringten sighed. “I remember…”

“I begged you!” Baet stared daggers as he interrupted his captain. “I begged you to reconsider!”

Carringten stared back. “Her father, the viceroy, he killed dozens of our men—and not just men. He captured, tortured, and killed too many of our spies, destroyed several of our secret allies, and learned far too many of our secrets; and he did it with that girl.”

“Are you sure?!” Baet charged. “Even after I killed her, daddy killed four more men—almost five!” Baet said as he pressed a thumb into his own chest.

“And how do you think they found you? Indeed, I think it is a good thing you struck when you did, or he might have killed you first,” Carringten claimed.

Baet shook his head. “She was so young. I can still feel the fine bones of her neck as I squeezed the life out of her,” he said, with tears welling. “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.

“I should hope so!” 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 shook his head. “But non, it had to be the girl.” Baet continued with a grim face, his voice barely above a whisper, as he stared at his captain. “I did it and I was damned quiet. I killed her guards with no sound at all, and stuck a nursemaid that just happened to get too close. Then, I caught the child by her hair and strangled her with my own hands as she stared at me with shock, and horror, and disbelief,” he anguished. “Why did you make me do it?!” he asked. “Why did I have to be as bad as our enemies?!”

“The child had weird abilities,” Carringten told him. “How do you think her father was able to ferret out so many of our spies? Why do you think the attacks stopped after you fled, or did you lose track of events in Rottershelm?” Carringten asked. “Well, me tell you. After she died, the viceroy’s intelligence dried up, and we’ve been able to reestablish ourselves in the Kingdom’s largest city.”

Baet shook his head. He’d heard nothing of such possibilities. “The girl was a chimera?”

“Some sort of magic,” Carringten shrugged. “We do not know how she did it; indeed, we were not even sure it was her that spoiled our work. But we had suspicions, and once she was dead, our losses stopped.”

“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 this,” he shook his head. “No. You have too many secrets,” he continued. “We don’t even talk to each other. Layers and layers of secrets, until I’m not even sure we’re the good guys anymore. How can I be sure, when we are as low as our enemies?”

“It is war,” Carringten shrugged. “Men die daily. Men, women, children… do you think women and children are immune to the effects of war? Now we fight in secret so we don’t have open war, so the dying is by the dozens, and not by the hundreds and thousands. That is the way we want it. But our enemies are pushing for open war, and they shall have it; and as the dying commences, we shall do everything we can to make sure it them that does the majority of it.” He put a finger in Baet’s chest. “You used to know this.”

“I think I’ve had enough of your admonishments,” Baet turned away. “Lead me to my cell, that I might rest, that I might never kill again.”

“Except for one,” Carringten noted.

“Yes, well, I cannot stop others from committing suicide by my hand,” Baet shrugged.

“Almost,” Carringten nodded, “I am almost done with you.” He pulled a small purse from his pocket and held it out to Baet.

Baet glared at the man, uncertain what to think, then lightened up and lifted his hand to receive the unexpected coin.

“The duke is thankful for years of loyal service,” Carringten began. “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,” he finished.

“Why didn’t he say so?” Baet asked.

“He is a proud man, so he left me to say it,” the dark captain noted. “Come, let us see you to your cell,” he put his arm around Baet’s shoulder. “I hear you’ve chosen the musket for your duel with Homoth.”

“I have,” Baet confirmed.

“Tis his folly,” Carringten stated. “I shall pull the man aside and tell him so, though I do not know if it will do him any good.” With that, he returned the junior guard to his cell. As the Jindleyaks locked Baet away, Caringten gave a bow. “Faith, fidelity, courage,” he said with a salute.

“Faith, fidelity, courage,” Baet repeated, though he left off the salute, since he was no longer under obligation to do so.

Carringten and the Jindleyak jailers all slipped out. With a huff, Baet sat himself down.

Snickering sounds came from the cell at the far end of the room.

“Oh what is it with you?!’ Baet huffed at Maligno. “I have but a few more days in here, while seem to be forgotten!” he snapped.

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

After confronting Baet, Carringten returned to the barn where he found Creigal waiting for him. "It is done," the captain said. "I am the last of your guard," and with that he held out his hand.

Curious to know what his captain held, Creigal extended his palm and took what was offered—a pin of a kite with a laurel about it’s head, arrows in one claw, and a cluster of grapes in the other. It was Carringten’s badge of office that marked him as captain of the guard.

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

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

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

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

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

Carringten disagreed. “I cannot command them if they are not here. 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?”

“They are not Gaur. They do not look to me. They know you. A duke is not an unapproachable man to them,” he noted. “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 those he commanded?” Carringten shook his head. “I am your guard, from now until the day I die—but I command. Not anymore.”

“Then I shall hold this until I find a better captain,” Creigal stared at his adopted son. “And if I cannot, perhaps you will consider the rank once more?”

“And what have I done for the men I command?” Carringten shrugged. “I may have proved to be a capable guard, but I feel I’ve also proved to be a terrible captain. Even this last one I could not keep out of trouble. My eyes were too much on you,” he admitted.

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