The Howling

Polished 19.1, 19.2, and 19.3. Removed 19.4 since it was yet another reunion scene between Krumpus and Sephonie (how many times did I write that scene?). Did some work on 19.5, which needs more work. Still need to add the duel between Homoth and Baet, then the book is just about done — 45m18s — 2022/08/25

Wrote 19.4 where Andrus approaches Celesi and shows her that he can skin-walk — 30m37s — 2022/08/26

Added 19.7, where Crea leaves Malcolm, and shortly thereafter finds herself cornered — 36m36s — 2022/08/29

Wrote 19.8… then the internet ate it, so I wrote it again. The book is done! Now everything just needs to be reordered and polished… — 1h31m51s — 2022/09/01

…and that is how the LaPeuvian people built a paradise world.

This was all before the approach of the Oblarra—before the end of the old world ushered in by the Red Moon. Some say this story is impossible, since the world has never been a paradise. Perhaps that is so, but whether or not the story is technically true, there is still much wisdom and humor to be gleaned. As for the varying state of the world, I am one of those that believe this earth has always been a paradise, and always will be—but only if one allows it. Even paradise demands its sacrifices, as this story illustrates, with the destruction of the righteous LaPeuvians.

— Before Oblarra: Tales of the Old World p. 131 by Wybrow the Wanderer

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 19.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

How many times must I mourn this child?! Wenifas wondered as she held the urn full of Claiten’s ashes. She stood and stared at the massive oak before her, as Azra droned on in his native tongue, with words foreign to the priestess. She imagined his comments were poignant and well versed. Not that she cared to hear ‘em. No matter the sentiments, they wouldn’t bring back her son.

The wife of Traust stood next to the priestess, and on the other side, the mother of Apulton; each holding an urn. They stood resolute, though tears touched their eyes. Wenifas didn’t want to cry. She hoped they’d finish soon, before she had too much time to remember her boy.

Finally, Azra left off his words. The wife of Traust and the mother of Apulton lifted the lids from their urns. They stepped toward the tree, and with heartfelt words of their own, they slowly dusted the base of the behemoth with the ashes of their loved ones. Taking her que from these strangers, Wenifas pulled the lid off her son’s urn. The other two women were now sobbing as they slowly circled the tree and dusted its roots. Not wanting yet another bout of tears, Wenifas turned her urn upside and dumped its contents in a single heap.

A pile of ash stared back at the priestess, and despite herself, the tears started. Missing her son, she bent to the ground, and poked at his ash. Was the essence of her boy still somewhere in there? Did it float off to heaven the night they reduced him to dust? Or was he gone the moment his last breath left him, half in the water of the lake and half out?

Wenifas lifted her ash covered finger to her forehead and smudged her brow. Then, still not feeling the presence of her son, she licked her dirty finger. She looked up to see both the wife of Traust and the mother of Apulton staring at her. One was curious and questioning of her actions while the other was simply appalled. Indignant, the priestess stood straight. She dropped the urn, faced the crowd, then pushed her way through. Celesi joined her with Evereste in her arms. Meu slipped an arm around her back and offered a shoulder to the Ministrian as they headed back toward the big house. When she got to her room, she laid on her bed, until Naharahna blessed her with sleep.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 19.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

A knock on the door woke the priestess from a deep and dreamless sleep. Irritated, she forced herself up on an elbow and bellowed, “what do you want?!”

Nonplussed, Scurra called through the door. “I know you’ve had your fill of grief, but the others gather to honor Komotz.”

Wenifas sat up, wide-eyed, “Komotz died?!”

“Not yet.”

Wenifas was still dressed, except for her shoes. She covered her feet, then unlocked and pulled open the door. “I don’t understand. Why do we honor Komotz if he is still alive?”

“He is dwindling,” Scurra informed. “He is in constant pain and will not live much longer—and so we go to say goodbye.”

“Oh,” Wenifas paused. “Your brother was telling me there are ways to bring about a peaceful death to those that are too far gone. Does he means to take the mushrooms?”

“No,” Scurra shook her head. “He takes the warrior’s path. He’s asked for the howling.”

“The what?”

“The howling,” Scurra said, a bit tight lipped, even for her brooding nature.

Although she wasn’t keen on surprises, Wenifas followed. The ladies arrived at the cottage where Komotz rested. The others were already there—and a great multitude more. “They’ve begun,” Scurra noted, as several men carried the prone little brother on a plank over their shoulders. Those gathered slowly followed.

The bearers carried Komotz along the path, through the large garden, past the great family tree where she’d dumped the ash of her son. Those that followed sang a mournful song. They walked a good mile or so up a ridge before they came to a cliff that overlooked a ravine, some two or three hundred feet down. The men that carried Komotz set the foot of the platform to rest on the ground and held him at an angle so he nearly stood. A line formed. The gathered people talked, touched, and kissed the pale and weak young warrior; then stepped away, tears in their eyes. They gathered in tight knots, held each other, and cried as the line continued to kiss and whisper to the injured young man.

“I don’t understand,” Wenifas said as she followed Scurra into the line. “What am I to say to him?”

“Say goodbye,” Scurra told her softly.

“He doesn’t speak Ministrian.”

“He knows why we’re here,” Scurra shrugged.

Wenifas stepped closer and closer to Komotz and wondered what she could say. All too quickly she was in front of the guard, shocked to see the boisterous young man reduced to a husk. Being no sort of healer and not particularly close to the guard, Wenifas had not seen him as he deteriorated, and so she was not expecting his wasted state. Before he seemed so carefree, full of youthful charm and vigor. Now he was gaunt and sickly pale with a number of heavy bandages, half bloody and spoiled. His neck and the bit of his chest that she could see were purple and yellow with deep bruising. Emaciated, he labored to breathe. His pain was obvious and overwhelming. It hurt her just to look at him. It hurt even more when he recognized her and twisted his lips into a tortured smile. A thought jumped into her head; at least death came quick for Claiten.

Tears ran from her eyes. Wenifas smiled as she brushed the young Trohl’s hair. She kissed him on his forehead, then kissed his lips. She tried to smile, but found herself moaning instead. Suddenly sobbing, she turned, and stepped away.

The sister, Paye, gathered Wenifas in her arms and pulled her into a tight knot of strange women that hugged and cried. The priestess allowed them to gather her in and bawled as they rubbed sympathy into her back and arms. Scurra joined them with wet eyes, though she managed to stay silent.

Although not the last in line, Scurra was close. Only Andrus, Duboha, and Aim remained. They were slow as they said their goodbyes and wept openly in front of the guard—and then the line was done, and Wenifas couldn’t imagine what came next.

The others had backed away. Komotz leaned forward, then dropped to his hands and knees with an audible gasp. Wenifas took a step forward, so she might help the man, but a number of hands gabbed her and held her back.

“He will do this alone,” Scurra whispered.

“Do what?” Wenifas asked. “Where does he go?”

Scurra ignored the question. She knew that Wenifas would learn soon enough. Komotz dropped to his stomach, then crawled his way to the edge of the cliff. Wide-eyed and on the verge of panic, Wenifas called to him. “No!” she shouted.

Scurra grabbed her, put her hand over her mouth, and shushed her. “Quiet,” she commanded. “Lest you shame him.”

Horrified, the priestess watched as the young militiaman pulled himself closer and closer to the precipice, then toppled over the edge.

The howling began immediately. Wenifas jumped as these chill cries rose from the others gathered all around. They poured their pain and grief at the uncaring sky in the manner of wolves, as the priestess wondered if they’d all gone mad. It was uncanny, eerie, unnerving.

The howling climaxed, then slowly died away. Wenifas stared at the edge of the cliff as several others stepped to the edge and glanced down. “Was there nothing else to be done? Nothing else to be tried?” She asked as she wondered at the waste of the young man’s life.

“What were his options?” Scurra replied.

“He could take the mushrooms,” Wenifas noted. “It would have been peaceful and painless.”

Scurra shrugged. “Dead is dead. How is that better?”

“Why not simply live?” Wenifas asked.

“For how long? In how much pain?” Scurra shrugged. “Instead, he took the warrior’s path, and now none will ever question the courage of Komotz.”

“It isn’t right!” Wenifas complained.

“Right or wrong, the point is moot,” Scurra replied. “It was his choice to make. That’s all that matters.”

“But...” Wenifas began, then stopped as she realized she didn’t really have a sound argument, only a lot of uneasiness. She realized there was no right answer, just a lot of wrong ones. With a defeated huff she hanged her head. “How often does this happen?”

“A howling? I hear of them once or twice a month.”

“What?!” Wenifas was shocked. That seemed like far too many.

“I do not attend nearly that many,” Scurra noted. Still, it is a common custom, practiced by many of our people. It is not as many as you think when you consider the size of the city.”

“How often do you go?”

“I don’t attend them all that often,” Scurra noted. “Indeed, I think it is morbid to send off anyone I don’t know.”

“I find it distressing,” Wenifas stated.

“It is a howling,” Scurra replied. “There’s nothing easy about it.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 19.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Celesi was minding her own business, which is to say, she was sulking when Andrus found her somewhere among the verdant growth of Azra’s gardens. “Oh, leave me alone!” she snapped, too wrapped up in her own disappointment to hear the young man’s news.

Andrus glared, and Celesi figured he was mad at her. But that was fine. After all, she did ask to be left alone.

“Where is he?” Andrus glanced about. “If he hurt you, I’ll snap his fingers.” He was talking about Toar.

“What?! No!” Celesi shook her head. “If you have something to say for yourself, have it out, but if you came to bother me about my other friendships, it is best that you go.”

“I go south,” Andrus stood straight. “I carry mail for the duke, but I wanted to see you before I left. I wanted to see that you are okay.”

"And what makes you think I’m not okay?” Celesi replied.

“You’ve been sulking the last few days,” Andrus noted. “Everyone’s seen it. It seems to me the only one sulking more than you is Toar, so I figured something must have happened,” he raised his hand, glanced down, and took a step back. “Something that is absolutely none of my business,” he finished.

For a long second, Celesi simply stared at the man. He was well built and dour. “You see things quite keenly,” she blinked. “Well, I do appreciate you checking up on me, but I promise I am quite alright. I am free, among friends, and well fed. So what if Toar I shall never be more than friends. He goes north, and when he goes, I intend to stay here and settle down. Perhaps I shall see you when you return? Or do you intend to stay in the south?”

“It is part of my mission to return,” Andrus stated. For a long second, he simply stared at her with a question in his eyes.

“What is it?” Celesi asked.

“Can I show you something?” Andrus asked, a suspicious grin creeping over his face. Before she could answer, he was shrugging out of his packs.

When he started to take of his close, Celesi turned and protested. “What? No! What are you doing?” She turned and took several steps. He was out of his shirt, undoing his belt. “Stop!” she ordered and turned away once again. At least he made to stop her.

Then the shadows came. The light seemed to go out of the world all around her and gather around the young Jindleyak, and when she turned to see what was happening, Andrus was gone altogether. In his place was a giant horse.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 19.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

(Krumpus Tells Wenifas that She’s Pregnant)

"This is a thing you tell me, that I will not be dangerous?" Wenifas asked.

Krumpus shook his head. You must be dangerous. The world is dangerous and you must be in it. I tell you that you know. I tell you that you will make your choices with open eyes. Black magic destroys the magician as much as it destroys the world around him. White magic heals the magician as much as it heals the world around him.

"And colored magic is the magic of necessity?" Wenifas asked.

Krumpus nodded. Do not think your magic must always be white. Are there not parts of you that should be destroyed? Are you so pure?

Wenifas shrugged. "Then I shall hope to know which color I need when the time comes to use it."

Might I ask that you use it to build a life worth living?

"Is magic so powerful that it might recreate a life?" Wenifas asked.

Magic is all. The shaman's eyes went wide. How does the sun shine?! How do the birds fly?! Are these things not magic?!

Wenifas frowned. “These things are pedestrian. Because I do not know how it happens does not mean there is special power in it. What does this have to do with a different life?”

Krumpus shook his head. Magic cannot give you a new life - but it can bring meaning to the life you have.

"Then you have discovered this secret: that I do not value my life as it is," Wenifas shrugged. "All that I know is behind me. I have lost my lover. I have lost my oldest child. I fear I smother the other. And now I am to live in a land I do not know, among strangers, with no one to help me?"

When have you been alone? Krumpus stared. Can strangers not become friends? Change your focus. Look at what builds, instead of what crumbles, and you will have things worth keeping.

"But they shall be swept up in the storm, destroyed like everything that came before!" Wenifas huffed. "It is an impotent magic to build sandcastles on the beach!"

Krumpus shook his head. All castles crumble. The earth itself shall one day perish. But much of what we build persists beyond our life. Those we leave behind will build upon the things we leave. So the question becomes, do we leave them poisoned spines, to corrupt their flesh, and speed them to their graves? Or do we leave them home and hearth, that they might raise a new generation, to value the things that nourished and kept us?

"Your white magic is slow if it requires the building of life to proceed."

Krumpus gave an emphatic nod. Then you understand. Black magic is fast, because it is selfish destruction. The colorful magics are death used to sustain life, and life raised to destroy. But white is most powerful. Without the slow build of life itself, there can be no meaningful death. Without the slow build of life, there is nothing. There is just the gaping maw of the unquenchable abyss.

"There is always death," Wenifas sighed. "Black magic will not be denied."

Krumpus stared at Wenifas. Is it so bad? If man should ever find immortality in his own fashion, how shall their children ever be free? If there was no death we would be forever shackled to the tyranny of our father's inaccuracies.

"What makes them wrong? Who is to say they don’t have the right of it?"

You cannot escape death simply by serving it. Death shall claim us all. Beside, if life is not permanent, what does this say about death?

Wenifas blinked. "That it is also not permanent?"

We must return that we might right our wrongs, Krumpus told her.

Wenifas frowned. "Again, you sound like the church. Only I know them to be hypocrites."

Krumpus shrugged. Even liars tell the truth from time to time—or else no one should ever believe them.

"And where are you wrong?" Wenifas snipped.

Krumpus smiled a big toothy grin. Now you learn—and that is why you must go within—that you know what to believe. But you must know that you will get some parts of it wrong, and this is why you must always be patient and think of it as a game you play.

“I get a lot of it wrong,” Wenifas replied.

Yes, but how much of it do you get right? Krumpus asked. After all, you realized your church fathers were telling you lies. You learned to trust your own instincts.

“But sometimes I must learn to trust others. Isn’t that waht you want me to say?”

Others shall reveal truths you cannot see, he smiled.

“But will they matter?” Wenifas replied. “There is much I do not know that means nothing to me—or worse, seeks to distract.”

Ahh, but sometimes others will see what you cannot, even when it is right beneath your nose, and just as vital, Krumpus said.

“And you wish to address such a thing? Something so practical, so real, that is more than just your words running in circles?” Wenifas stared.

I do, the shaman answered. Slowly, with a growing smile, Krumpus put his hand on the priestess’ belly.

Wide-eyed, Wenifas shook her head. “I’m pregnant?” she said, feeling thick. “How?!”

Krumpus made a circle with his thumb and finger. then plunged the index finger of his other hand through the ring in a lewd gesture.

“I know how it is done!” Wenifas shot back at him. “I am a priestess after all!” She leaned in close. “I ask because I have not slept with anyone, not since...” Her eyes got wide and she covered her mouth. She remembered quite well the last man that slept with her, his easy grin, his trusting eyes. “I shall have his baby,” she whispered. Tears of joy flowed. With a wide grin, she grabbed the shaman and wrapped him in a hug. “Blessed Naharahna! She gives me his child!” she roared.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 19.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

This whole section moves to book three.

Tahoran Meets Crea, Andrus meets Tahoran

Cleaning the stables was never so terrible, mostly because Tahoran never let it get that bad. At the very least, it was an opportunity to clear his head, to try make sense of the things he’d seen and heard, and generally a chance to exercise his demons with some honest labor. No, the work certainly didn’t hurt. There wasn’t much physical about his true purpose, so shoveling shit also kept in shape, and it didn’t hurt that the smell of it kept others from getting too close.

Today Tahoran was troubled. He leaned into each shovel of manure and thought of the strange news he was hearing about Solveny. There were troubling rumors that some of the invaders wore Gaur uniforms. His next report home would include a dire warning, one that he hoped wasn’t too late.

It wasn’t long before Tahoran had the cart full of horse apples he needed to take it to the mill, where it would be mixed with chips and dust, then left to rot until winter, when it would be spread over the duke’s gardens as a fine fertilizer—but most of that was work for other hands. He only trucked the manure.

“Horsewind!” a small porter called into the stables. Tahoran grumbled so the boy might know where to find him. He didn’t mind the nickname—even encouraged it since it’s use made him seem stupid and weak. He wanted others to see him as anything but a threat—anything but what he really was. “Hey, Horsewind,” the porter smiled as he saw the kind and simple man. “Denerowe wants you to stop by the blacksmith and pick up a shipment of shoes and such.”

Tahoran scratched his head and acted like it took a bit of thought to come up with anything. “Fetters and Fallers?” he asked.

“That’s the one, Fetters and Fowlers,” the boy corrected him with a smile.

Tahoran scratched a thumb of shit into his hair. “I know it,” he said with a nod.

“And I know you will, but Denerowe said to make sure you clean the cart out real good, so…” the porter stammered as a way of apology. “It ain’t the usual shoes and tack, its weapons again.”

“Don’t you worry, young Modrin. I’ll take special care for you. I’ll stop by the well and throw a couple buckets once I unload,” Horsewind smiled. He liked the boy as the child often went out of his way not to give offense—which wasn’t like many in the castle. Most were all too willing to insult a lowly stable worker. It showed the true character of the masters—but also made it easy to get a position in their service—which is just what a good spy wants.

Now here was a thing interesting to the spy. There was such an increase in weapons and military activity among the Dunkels. It must be related to the sacking of Solveny—and yet it started prior to the attack—as if the Dunkels knew it would happen. Now there was an interesting thing indeed.

Tahoran thought he’d have plenty of time to think it over, but he was barely a block from the castle walls when he saw several soldiers at the far end of the alley harassing a fair young woman. Normally, Tahoran wouldn’t bother with a bunch of ruffians in uniform picking on some tart, no matter how undeserving it all might be. He had a job to do, and he wasn’t in the habit of playing small-time hero when it might jeopardize his real work. But something about the girl caught his eye—a very specific something—the glittery she wore on her hip, a falchion of fine and specific crafting, a weapon he’d seen quite often in the hands of another. He paused, and for a long second he considered the impossible. He thought perhaps it was time to burn his cover and return home after all.

Tahoran picked his shovel off the mounded manure and stepped into the alley. “Leave her alone!” he barked.

Alarmed, the soldiers turned and stared at Tahoran, though they all relaxed when they saw who was there. “Horsewind!” One of them scoffed. “Piss off, before you anger us!”

The other two snorted and turned back to the girl, unconcerned by the simpleton.

“Go on!” the first soldier called, a tall and well muscled youth. “Leave your betters to their sport!” he stood, arms akimbo.

Tahoran stared back at the man as he leaned on his shovel.

“I said, git!” The soldier snapped, then swaggered toward Tahoran. He tried to grab the old man, and only when the youth was about to touch him, did Tahoran move—then he moved so fast the youth was uncertain exactly what had happened. He was simply back on his ass, his face stinging, as he cried out in pain.

The other two soldiers turned from the cornered girl and stared at the older man, who was suddenly the greater threat, despite only having a shovel. “Did he just…?” One of them asked the other.

“I said leave her alone,” Tahoran repeated. “If you turn and go, no one gets hurt.”

“We ain’t the ones about to get hurt,” the second soldier stated. He stalked down alley with his friend behind him. He pulled a dagger and waved it at the stableman. “This don’t concern you!”

The first soldier started to get up, but stopped when Tahoran put the shovel to his chest. “Stay down, or I’ll really put a hurtin’ on you,” he said as he glared at the advancing toughs. They were pinched in by the walls of the alley and had to approach from the same side.

The third soldier pulled his sword and rushed the stable sweep. Tahoran dodged the first swing and parried the second with the handle of his shovel. He spun and speared the second man in the chest with the tip of the spade, then caught the third with the flat of the shovel against his face—maybe a touch harder than he planned. The first soldier staggered back and the second crumbled altogether.

Tahoran stepped past them so he was now between the woman and the soldiers. “Go on, now,” he said as he brandished the shovel. “Git yourselves.” He kicked at the first one still on the ground.

The soldiers collected themselves, and staring bloody murder at the stable sweep as they hobbled down the street.

Tahoran turned to the woman as she continued to wave the falchion about. “You better leave me alone!” she shrieked.

Tahoran stared at the girl as he leaned on his shovel. “Those boys won’t be gone for long, and when they come back, there’ll be more than you and me combined can handle. So although I need you to tell me about that fancy weapon of yours, first I’d like to get you somewhere safe, where we’re likely to have less trouble,” he stated.

“What concern is it of yours?” she replied. “Maybe you should just leave me alone before I’m forced to hurt you.”

He threats didn’t phase the spy in the least. “Those three cornered you without even going to their weapons. They pulled them on me and I still beat their asses,” he noted. “If we start fighting, do you really think you have a chance?”

The young lady lowered the blade.

Tahoran smiled. “On the plus side, I’m not out for a cheap thrill like those ruffians. All I want to know about is that sword.”

“Why do you care?” she asked.

“Because that sword belongs to my master,” Tahoran told her.

That got the lady’s heckles up. She raised the sword, her eyes mere slits.

Tahoran cocked his head. “Now that seems to offend you,” he noted. With a heavy sigh, he took a step forward, and before Crea could do anything about it, he was inside her guard. He grabbed the hilt of the weapon and twisted it out of her hand.

“Ow!” she cried as she let go of the sword. She leaned heavily against the wall, dejected and miserable, as tears came to her eyes. She hoped getting raped wouldn’t be as bad the second time.

But the old man just stared at her and frowned. “Got your attention now?” he finally asked.

Crea nodded, unsure of just what he wanted.

“Those boys are coming back, just as soon as they find some of their friends, and I won’t be able to take ‘em by surprise this time. We can’t be here when they return,” he told her. “Now I want your story and nothing else. You can even keep the sword,” he said and held the weapon out to her. “Finders, keepers,” he told her. “Whatever offense my master gave you is between you and him, just know that I serve Abr, Acad, and Abra first and foremost, so…”

Surprised, Crea reached out and took the weapon, then sheathed it.

“Good. Now, if you’ll follow me, we’ll go somewhere safe and have us a talk, like civilized people. No waving weapons around and all that horseplay. He smiled and held out a hand. “I’m Tahoran.”

“Crea,” she told him and put her hand in his.

“Well, Crea. Let’s get off these streets,” he kept her hand, turned, and pulled her down the alley. To her surprise, he left the horse, cart, and shovel.

“Tahoran?” a voice called down the street.

The man stiffened as he turned. He faced two young Trohls, one male and one female. Despite the man’s sword, he did not seem that dangerous. “That’s a name you shouldn’t know,” Tahoran glared. “Speak your business, and speak it quick,” the thick-muscled man said.

The male Trohl gave a slight bow, “My name is Andrus. I have a message for you.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 19.7 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

After growing up on her farm and only going among a few local villages, Crea used to think Solveny was crowded—but that old town was dwarfed by Land’s End which seemed to go on and on forever. The city didn’t eve start proper until they’d walked several hours through houses and building crammed together—then the wall appeared, and Crea realized they had finally reached the outer limits of the old city.

Malcolm wanted to pretend like he could find the Silver Service without any help, but Crea wasn’t interested in wandering the city aimlessly, when all she had to do was ask. Admittedly, she had to ask some half a dozen people as they slowly made their way closer, but it kept Malcolm from heading for the nearest tower, sure that his masters must be in the next fine building, when they weren’t.

Malcolm talked incessantly about how he and Crea would find a place here, that they would get married and have babies together. They were about to make a fine new start with nothing but milk and honey before them. as he told it. Crea wanted nothing to do with this fantasy, and so when Malcolm went into the keep of the Silver Service, quite sure that she would be there when he was finished, Crea turned immediately and left without ever saying goodbye. She felt guilty for this. She was very welcome for Malcolm’s company as they’d marched across the endless prairie of the noeth. How much worse could it have been without him? But she did not want to stay with the boy, nor did she have any interest in telling him that his fancy toward her was not reciprocated. So she waited until he was occupied, then simply walked away.

But where would she go? Crea considered her options as she stared at the fantastic buildings all around her. She knew she would not stay in Land’s End, and although she thought that maybe she should go to High Plains, her heart wasn’t in it—and so she wandered the city aimlessly, as the day carried on.

The day was getting on. She made her way across a lush green park, as she considered her direction. She felt she should leave the city and go anywhere, but could not even decide on a direction. She cut down an alley, only to realize that three men wearing the uniform of the local watch had followed her.

Despite her encounter with the Gaur officer in her own home, Crea had always thought of those in uniform as valorous and upstanding, but these three proved that assumption wrong as they made lewd comments and had a menacing air about them. Shortly, she found herself cornered. At her wits end, she drew her falchion and told the three young guards they best go find easier game—but they would not be so easily dissuaded.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 19.8 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Baet woke, curious to find himself alone. He had not expected anyone else, but he figured Maligno would still be in his cell. What had happened that the naga was gone? Where did they take him? The Gaur wondered if perhaps his captors weren’t as free and fair as he had previously imagined.

At least he would get to see Paye today. She’d made a habit of bringing him lunch. She’d made a habit of holding his hands and kissing him—though he could do without all the tears. What he really wanted to know was how long it’d take her to forgive him after he killed her brother. Once the duel happened, he imagined it’d be a good month before he ever kissed her again—that is, if they ever let him out. If they ever had their duel at all.

Baet never made it to lunch. Shortly after breakfast, several guards arrived. They let him out of the cell, then led him through the house. “Today’s the day,” they told him, then led him out to the lawn where there was a table with two muskets on it; Cloud Breaker, and a stranger. Homoth stood on the far side of the table.

Baet stared at the man. “Tell them it was a misunderstanding,” he began. “Tell them Paye simply meant to clean that fancy crest, that we never intended to keep it.”

Homoth smirked. “So now you’re telling the same story she told,” he noted.

“If stories are what you want to hear,” Baet shrugged. “You could always tell them the truth.”

Homoth ignored the comment and picked Cloud Breaker off the table. “Should I kill you with your own gun?” he lifted it to his nose, then tossed down. “Smells of thieving and cheating—so I guess it’s no surprise that it pulls to the left.”

“So you fired it?” Baet feigned shock. “Well… I imagine you must have practiced the whole week! By now you must be sooo good,” he snipped, then pointed to the other musket. “What of that one? Does it pull to the right? Does it have a hair trigger? Does it have a hard recoil—so hard that you jerk it as you fire?” Baet shook his head. “Well, whatever. I’m sure you worked it out. I bet you’re a regular terror among the squirrels.”

Homoth glared at the man. “You always did talk too much,” he said. “I’m going to enjoy watching you bleed.”

“Well, don’t get too close when I’m dying. Wouldn’t want to mess those fine clothes,” Baet deadpanned.

“Enough,” Azra scolded. “Are you both satisfied with your weapons?”

Baet lifted Cloud Breaker, then loaded it. He turned to the old man and nodded.

“You will turn on ten,” Azra told them. “If either man turns before, he gets an arrow.”

Baet wondered if they’d really do it. Would they shoot one of their own as he dueled a foreigner? Homoth had cheated when they’d played touches, and that was just a game. Hell, he’d lied about the crest. What was to keep the youth from cheating in a duel?

He wondered if perhaps he’d catch an arrow even if he waited. Would they simply claim he cheated, just like Homoth had claimed? He decided not to worry about it. The chips would fall where they may, and if he was lucky, he’d take his sweet time picking them up.

Still, his captors had let him keep the coin Carringten gave him, and also the meteor he picked from the rubble of Kezodel’s court house (not that he told them what it was). All the same, equal treatment seemed possible. At the least, he could expect Paye to raise a ruckus if he was given a raw deal. Perhaps others would be upset if Homoth was allowed to cheat. Could he possibly retain his pristine image if he openly cheated another man of his life?

Baet turned and scanned the crowd. He saw several fine ladies among the crowd of men, but it took him several seconds to find the figure of Paye as she stood in black, cutting a fine figure against the earthy tones of the garden all around. Her face was red and puffy, and he wondered that she could be so beautiful and dour at the same time.

For her part, Paye didn’t understand this at all. The conversation of those gathere all around—often punctuated with nervous chuckles—was incomprehensible, as the heavy beating of her heart drowned out the individual words. The others that had gathered about seemed flippant and incredibly rude, as no matter who died, it would be an absolute tragedy—and it all became more and more unbearable as the scene proceeded!

Baet and Homoth were placed back to back.

“One! Two! Three!” Azra began...

Paye’s breath caught, and her heart hammered even harder. Eyes wide, she stared at her brother and the oddly appealing Gaur. Her brother was determined or possibly tense, while Baet was relaxed or resigned...

“Four! Five! Six!”

She could barely hear the counting of her grandfather as her blood echoed in her ears. Horrified, she watched as the distance between the men increased...

“Seven! Eight! Nine!”

Paye wanted to do something! Anything! She thought to rush forward and interrupt. Why wouldn’t her brother listen to reason! She was so mad at him. Suddenly, she wanted Baet to kill him. She wouldn’t even be mad about it. She took a step forward, hoping that somehow they’d listen to her!...

“Ten!”

It was too late. The two men turned. Baet was quicker as he only turned halfway and raised his gun to the side, while Homoth turned all the way around. Yet, Homoth was the one that fired. Why did Baet pause? Why did he glance at her before he set his sight on her brother? Was he not committed?

Horror filled her heart as Homoth’s musket rang out with a deafening pop, and Baet jerked to hear it. Paye thought her heart had exploded as tears flooded and confused her vision. An overwhelming grief filled her, and as the crowd gasped, she realized that she hated them. She hated them all.

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