The Howling

Polished 20.1, 20.2, and rewrote 20.3 so it’s Krumpus and Wenifas instead of Scurra and Wenifas. I’m considering erasing 20.1 altogether and moving 20.2 to the next book — 2h16m09s — 2022/12/28

Worked on 20.3 — 40m04s — 2022/12/29

Worked on melding 20.3 and 20.4 — 45m27s — 2022/12/30

Polished 2.3 and 2.4 — 1h23m45s — 2022/12/31

Polished all of it. I think I am going to delete 20.1; and 20.2 is going to be moved to book three. Instead, we’ll have one last scene as Crea and Malcolm make their way across the Noethrin plain. They witness several skirmishes between the forces of Gliedian and Yurand of High Plains. Yurand is outmaneuvered, but his forces fight with rage… — 1h36m31s — 2023/03/29

Added 20.5, which needs to be fleshed out. 20.2 will be moved to early book 3 — 9m50s — 2023/04/05

This paradisial world was all before the approach of Oblarra—before the end of the old world. 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 from such a tale.

As for the varying state of the world, I am one of those that believe this earth has always been, and will always be a paradise—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

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 20.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

After growing up on her farm and only going among a few local villages, Crea used to think that Solveny was crowded—but that old town was dwarfed by Land’s End which seemed to go on and on forever. The city walls didn’t appear until they’d walked among houses and buildings all crammed together, for nearly an hour.

Malcolm wanted to find the Silver Service without any help, but Crea wasn’t interested in wandering the city aimlessly, when all they had to do was ask. Admittedly, she had to ask some half a dozen people as they slowly made their way closer to the keep of the silver fish—but it kept Malcolm from heading for the nearest tower, sure that his masters must be in the next fine building, when they invariably weren’t. He couldn’t believe there were so many other rich people and companies in the world—but then, he’d spent all his life near Solveny, only going among the smaller villages near that town.

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.

Or so he told it. Crea had her doubts. Indeed, she wanted nothing to do with Malcolm’s fantasy future, 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 would 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 was not reciprocated—and 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. She thought that maybe she should go to High Plains after all, but er heart wasn’t in it—and so she wandered the city aimlessly, as the day carried on. As she considered her direction, Crea made her way across a lush green park. She felt she should leave the city and go anywhere—but simply wandered instead. She had no interest in going, just as she had no interest in staying. She walked, stopped, turned, started again—only to go a block or two before she turned again and went a different way altogether. She cut across major roads, dipped through alleys, doubled back in parks. She never considered that anyone might be watching, that anyone might have noticed her strange behavior, that anyone might be following. With a pastry in hand, she cut into an alley, only to realize that three men wearing the uniform of the local watch had followed her.

Crea continued through the thin alley as it turned and divided, only to find herself at a dead end. With ahuff, she turned to find herself cornered by the three men watchmen, and immediately realized her predicament. Deciding that she would rather die than have another man take advantage, she drew her falchion and snapped at her confronters. “Get back, or I’ll gut you!”

The first one tsked as he took a step forward. “Now that’s no way to talk to the watch, missy.”

“Keep up that kind of behavior and perhaps we won’t treat you so nice,” the second one added.

“Now put down the sword and behave as we say,” the third ordered. “Otherwise you’ll force us to be unpleasant.”

“I’ve done nothing and you have no reason to stop me,” she replied. “Come close and I’ll prove your folly!” she glared.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 20.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

How many times must I mourn this child?! Wenifas wondered as she held the urn full of Claiten’s ashes. She wasn’t interested in yet another ceremony meant to honor the fallen—but when she heard that the families of Traust and Apulton had gathered, she didn’t want to seem churlish. Still, she hadn’t expected to participate! Indeed, she almost screamed when Scurra took the urn off the shelf and brought it along.

Wenifas stood and stared at the massive oak before her, as Azra droned on in his native tongue. 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.

But this isn’t for me, she reminded herself. This is for these others.

The wife of Traust stood next to the priestess, an older but still striking woman. On the other side of Traust’s wife stood the mother of Apulton. Each of them held an urn. They stood resolute, though tears touched the corners of their eyes. All around them stood their children and relatives, a giant circle of mourners. Despite the endless grief, Wenifas cried in streams. She was a watery soul, and she hoped they’d finish soon, before she had too much time to remember her boy. Before the tears could soak the edge of her collar to the point where she’d have to change her shirt.

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 a cue 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 sprinkled its roots with the ash of their loved ones. Not wanting to give the tears any more time, Wenifas turned her urn upside down and dumped its contents in a single heap. A pile of ash stared back at the priestess, and despite herself, the tears increased. Missing her son, she bent to the ground, and poked at his dust. Was the essence of her boy still somewhere in there? Did it float off to heaven the night they cremated him? Or was he gone the moment his last breath left him, half in 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. Meu joined her with Evereste in her arms, and Celesi joined on her other side. Meu slipped an arm around the Ministrian’s back and offered her shoulder, as they headed toward the big house. When she got to her room, Wenifas laid on her bed, until Naharahna blessed her with sleep.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 20.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

A knock on the door woke the priestess. Irritated, she forced herself up on an elbow and bellowed, “What do you want?!”

After a second’s pause, a single knock sounded.

With a huff, Wenifas yanked herself out of bed and stomped to the door. She pulled it open and glared.

Krumpus stood before her, nonplussed and serious. We go to honor Komotz, he told her with his eyes. It is a howling.

“What is a howling?” the priestess asked.

He told her. Will you go?

Wenifas blanched and thought about the youth. She knew his mending had suffered numerous setbacks, but had figured he would get better eventually. She put her hand on her aching heart. “I feel like it just keeps raining, and I’ll never get out of mourning season,” she said with a gulp. She slipped on her shoes and ignored the heavy wrinkling of her dress. Most of it would settle out.

“I don’t get it,” Wenifas continued. “Aren’t there easier ways?”

We offered the mushrooms—a softer way out of his problems—but he asked to take the warrior’s path, Krumpus shrugged.

Wenifas and the shaman arrived at the cottage to find many others already there.

They’ve begun, Krumpus noted and led her into the crowd. They hugged those they knew and tried to smile.

Wenifas realized they were drifting closer and closer to Komotz. She had not seen him since the day they left Excergie. The youth was thin and sallow, barely recognizable as the energetic youth Wenifas had met in Ebertin some weeks before. He was propped on a board with a large rest about halfway down, so he was sitting almost as much as he was standing. There was a line waiting to see the injured man. One at a time, they hugged, kissed, and talked to Komotz as they held his pale weak hands—then gathered in tight knots, to hold each other and cry, while the others in line kissed and whispered to their cousin. Wenifas realized she was in line to speak with him. “What can I possibly say?” she blanched. “He doesn’t even speak my language!”

Krumpus patted her back. He knows why we’re here. Say what you’d say to anyone in his position.

Wenifas stepped closer and closer to Komotz. All too quickly, she was in front of him, shocked to see the boisterous youth reduced to a mere husk. Before, he’d been so carefree, so full of youth, 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 still purple and yellow with heavy 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. Those pleading eyes! A thought jumped into her head. At least Claiten’s death was quick.

Tears ran from her eyes, and she didn’t bother to hide them. Instead, she brushed the young Trohl’s hair. She kissed his cheek, and then his lips. She tried to smile, but found herself moaning instead. Suddenly sobbing, she turned, and stepped away. Celesi was nearby and pulled her into a circle of women—some she knew, and many she didn’t. They hugged and cried as they gathered her in. She bawled as they rubbed sympathy into her back and arms.

Although not the last in line, Krumpus was close. Wenifas recognized Aim, Andrus, and Homoth among the last. They were slow to say their goodbyes, and most of them wept openly.

Finally, the line was done. Finished with the goodbyes, Komotz was leaned back onto the board, and was lifted by six men, including Duboha and Elpis—with his funny eye. The bearers carried Komotz through the large garden, past the great family tree where Wenifas had dumped the ash of her boy, and further up the ridge. Those that followed sang a mournful song. They walked a good mile or so before they came to a cliff that overlooked a ravine—some two or three hundred feet down. The men that carried Komotz proceeded to set the foot of the platform on the ground, and slowly raised the head so Komotz was standing once more.

Most of the others had backed away and formed a wide semi-circle which opened at the cliff. Komotz leaned forward, and with the help of his grandfather and brother, he took to his hands and knees. Homoth and Azra backed away from Komotz—though the sickly youth shook. Pained an aggrieved, he crawled. Nearly at the edge of the cliff, he dropped to his stomach, then slithered as he pulled himself closer and closer to the precipice. Finally, he toppled over the lip of the cliff, his body sliding over the edge, and dragging a good deal of gravel with it. Wenifas heard a hollow thud and flinched as she imagined the impact.

And then the howling began. Wenifas jumped as chill cries rose from all around her. The others poured their pain and grief at the uncaring sky, in the manner of wolves—as the priestess wondered if they’d all gone mad! Altogether, it was uncanny, eerie, unnerving as it continued and redoubled. It carried on for waht seemed like hours, but was nothing more than several minutes. “That was ghastly!” she whispered to the shaman,” Is this why you call yourselves the Oak and Beast?!”

Kurmpus shook his head. This is not a thing for our militia alone. Much of the tribe observes this tradition.

“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.

Giscelda’s care was without fault, Krumpus shrugged. Sometimes our prayers are simply not answered—or at least not answered in the way we’d like. The pour boy was destroyed the moment leviathan got a hold of him. His suffering has only increased. Some are surprised he lasted this long. You should have seen all the stimulants and painkillers we had to give him so he could stand with the help of that board—then crawl to the edge in such a tortured manner! He shook his head. At least none will ever question the courage of Komotz!

“It isn’t right!” Wenifas complained.

It was his choice to make and that’s all that matters, Krumpus replied.

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

The shaman shrugged. Maybe a couple times a month?

To the priestess that seemed like far too often! She blinked, and stared at nothing. “This is all very distressing,” she said to the dirt. She glanced up at the shaman. “Why so many?”

It is not as many as you think when you consider the size of the city, Krumpus stated.

“Well, I find it dreadful!” Wenifas stated.

As you should, Krumpus agreed. What must it be like to feel so cornered that they’d rather crawl off a cliff than live? he stared. And this was a good one! Komotz was suffering and his family was suffering too! His injuries were so dire and varied that Giscelda were having an impossible time trying to fix one thing without aggravating another! This howling was deserved—but I’ve seen some bad ones. I’ve seen howlings where family members have begged and supplicated themselves to the one that would go. I’ve seen those that cursed and threw insults and stones after the one that fall. The shaman shook his head.

Wenifas shuddered. “It’s all so morbid and cruel,” she stated. “It is so terrible that it makes me wonder how there can be gods.”

Why do you think bad things happen to good people? Krumpus asked.

Wenifas shrugged. “It makes me question the gods altogether…”

Can I answer that question? the shaman asked.

"I did not think it was a question that had an answer,” Wenifas replied.

Of course it does! Krumpus blinked. Indeed, the answer is so surprisingly obvious. I am convinced that is the reason most people do not see it!

“Well then, out with it,” Wenifas scolded.

Bad things happen to good people so good things can happen to bad people, the shaman smiled.

Wenifas frowned. “Well that’s a terrible idea!”

Is it? Krumpus replied. God is in the business of saving souls, not coddling those that happen to be right. In order to save souls, god must speak to them, and there’s no better way to reach a sinner than to give him some undeserved grace. But the good they are given must be balanced, since there is an equal measure of good and evil, so some evil is necessarily foisted onto the shoulders of good people, that we might help bare the burden.

“Well, that sounds like a terrible way to operate!” Wenifas complained.

Krumpus shook his head. Most of the evil in this world is simply returned to those that are evil, just as most of the good is given to those that are good—or—perhaps nobody is altogether good, and nobody is altogether evil, and everyone really does get just what they deserve, he smiled.

“Always spinning in knots,” Wenifas accused. “Is nothing straightforward to you?”

Not much, Krumpus shrugged.

“And did you deserve this?” Wenifas pointed to his scarred face.

His eyes shined behind the scar as Krumpus pointed to himself. This was a blessing! he began. This was given to me so nothing but a look might unnerve my enemies—besides, I am not perfect.

“Are you not a healer?” she replied. “A holy man?”

We are all holy, at least to a degree, Krumpus replied. Do not fret. Everything must fall by the wayside, so there is space for new things, new adventures.

“I should prefer the things I’ve lost,” Wenifas pouted. “All that I know is behind me. I have lost my lover. I have lost my oldest child, and I fear I smother the other. I live in a land I do not know, among strangers. To add to that, Meu is leaving. To add to that, you are leaving!”

And you will stay here, and do you know why you will stay here? Krumpus stared her in the eye. Because here it is safe.

“You make me sound like a coward,” Wenifas replied. Once more, there were tears in her eyes. “I don’t want to be alone!” she grabbed the shaman. “If it’s so dangerous where you go, maybe you should stay too!”

Ah, but there is good reason for me to go, just as there is good reason for you to stay, he told her. Change your focus. Look at what builds, instead of what crumbles, and you will have things worth keeping.

"But everything 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, and 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 hearth and home, that they might raise a new generation, to value the things that nourished and kept us?

"Your magic is slow if it requires the building of life to proceed,” the priestess accused.

Krumpus gave an emphatic nod. Then you understand. Black magic is fast, because it is destructive. But 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."

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

"And what makes them wrong?!” Wenifas snapped. “Who’s to say they don’t have the right of it?!"

Krumpus shook his head. No man has ever had the right of it. Not all of it.

“And why must we die at all?!” Wenifas cried. “Why can’t we be happy and healthy forever?!”

Death shall claim us all, but that is okay, Krumpus smiled. If life is not permanent, what does this say about death?

Wenifas blinked.

We must return here again and again so that we might right our wrongs, Krumpus told her. Beside, is this not the greatest game? To live and love?

“So I am born into debt?” Wenifas frowned. “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 also know that you will get some parts of it wrong, and this is why you must listen to others—because sometimes, others will see what you cannot, even when it is right under your nose, he smiled.

“Ahh, so there is a point to all of this! What are trying to get at?!” she glared. “What is so impacting that I must stay here and be safe—or is this just more of your words running in circles?!”

Ever so slowly, and with a growing smile, Krumpus put his hand on the priestess’ belly.

For several beats the Wenifas tried to decipher his meaning. Wide-eyed, and feeling thick, she shook her head. “No!” She asserted. “I’m pregnant?! How?!”

Krumpus made a circle with his thumb and finger, then plunged the index finger of his other hand through the circle.

“I know how it’s done!” she slapped at him. “I am a priestess after all! What I mean to say is that I have not slept with anyone 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—she thought of him constantly. “I shall have his baby,” she whispered.

Tears of joy flowed. With a wide grin, she grabbed Krumpus and wrapped him in a hug. “Blessed Naharahna! She gives me his child!” she roared as she squeezed his delicate hand, and the shaman winced in pain.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 20.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Crea and Malcolm are bogged down as Yurand’s cavalry mixes with Gliedian’s outriders. Crea is late and convinced she is pregnant. In a moment of high frustration, and using Malcolm’s agitation as an excuse (Malcolm keeps blustering and threatening to attack the marauders that hamper their travels), Crea seduces the young man.

Afterward, he becomes quite possessive.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 20.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Baet woke to the clang of bars and the rattle of chains. At first, he thought it was time for the duel—but then he realized that the cage the jailors had opened belonged to the naga.

Carringten was in the room.

“Hey, Carr,” Baet called, and his former captain stepped close to the bars. “What’s going on?”

Carringten threw a thumb at Maligno, “The duke, Azra, and the shaman all came to an agreement. We think it’s best if the naga comes north with us.”

“What? Why? Why would you want him along?”

“From the first moment, he was Creigal’s prisoner. What do they intend to do with him?” Carringten shrugged. “I suppose we shall simply have to wait and see.”

“Well if that don’t beat all,” Baet blinked. “Did you have a chance to speak with Homoth?”

Carringten nodded, then shook his head. “He’s stubborn, and thanks to the fall of his brother, he’s overly emotional. I told him you’re very good with a pistol. He said, ‘weapon of intimidation,’ and snorted.”

“He’s a fool,” Baet shook his head. “Does he really think he can beat me?!”

“It might be that he’s not thinking at all,” Carringten replied. “You were always a thinker,” he reached through the bars and put a hand on Baet’s shoulder. “I suppose it’s a blessing and a curse,” he said with a nod. “Courage, honor, fidelity, my brother.”

“Courage, honor, fidelity,” Baet replied.

Having nothing else to say, Carringten gave several nods as he reluctantly left.

Baet shook his head. At least he’d get to see Paye today. She’d made a habit of bringing him lunch—though she was giving him the silent treatment. It’s not like he wanted to kill her brother—but that sure beat the alternative! How long would be before she realized he only did what he had to do. How long might she hold it against him?

He knew the answer immediately. Deep down he knew that she’d never forgive him. Women could be like that—resolute and irrational. Figures that he’d find a right proper woman only to lose her at the start. Once the duel happened, he’d go south. He’d return to Gaurring with the money Creigal gave him. He’d settle near the sea and become a member of some local watch, just another poke hoping to keep the peace. Whatever. There were women aplenty in the south. But that’s assuming they’d let him out, and not just keep him locked up for killing their kin. Or worse. By the gods, there was always an ‘or worse’.

Paye brought breakfast, though she didn’t stay. Indeed, she didn’t even smile. In fact, she pulled away in shock when he tried to touch her hand, then ran out of the room without looking back. Baet barely ate as he picked at the plate.

Shortly after breakfast, several guards arrived. “Today’s the day,” they told him, then let him out of the cell and led him through the house. They took him to the back 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 older brother. “Tell them it was a misunderstanding,” he said to his enemy. “Tell them Paye simply meant to clean that fancy crest, that she never intended to keep it, and that I had nothing to do with it all together.”

Homoth galred at the guard. “I’m going to kill you.”

“You’re a fool,” Baet huffed.

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

“Oh, 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 before you fire?” Baet shook his head. “Well, whatever. I’m sure you worked it all out. Indeed, bet you’re a regular terror among the squirrels!” he stared.

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 would 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? Was it a whole family of cheaters?

But the worry would do him no good, so Baet pushed it aside as much as he could. Let the chips fall where they may, and if he was lucky, he’d take his sweet time picking them up. After all, his captors had some sense of decorum. They 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 little time to find the one he liked, the figure of Paye as she stood in black, cutting a fine silhouette against the earthy tones of the garden. He realized the outcome didn’t matter to her. Either way she was mourning. Indeed, 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 any of this at all. The conversation of those gathered all around—often punctuated with nervous chuckles—was incomprehensible, as the heavy beating of her heart drowned out the meaning of their 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 the count.

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, resigned—or was he defeated?

“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. Perhaps she should stand between them! 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!

Yet, she knew she that she would be, on the slim occasion that he should actually win. If her brother excelled at anything, it was fighting.

She realized she had to stop this! “NO!” she screamed as she took a step forward, hoping that somehow they’d listen to her.

“Ten!” Azra called, and the two men took their last steps. Paye was too far away, and 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? Paye wondered. 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. Baet jerked. Paye thought her heart would explode as tears flooded and confused her vision. An overwhelming grief filled her heart. The crowd gasped and was abuzz with what had happened—and Paye realized that she hated them for letting this happen. She hated them all.

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