Children of the Broken Moon
First Cause
Polished — 11m25s — 2023/11/25
Humbert breathed deep as he moved through the dark of the south hall and considered his next obstacle: the lock on the door of the duke’s office. For years, he’d practiced his hands at picking any number of different locks, and although he had a fine touch, there were still certain styles that gave him trouble.
He looked down.
The duke employed a well renowned lock—and one that was admittedly difficult for most thieves—but Humbert was not one of them. With a grin and deft hands, the thief slid the tension bar and rake into the keyhole and shuffled the pins that held the lock secure.
The lock gave with an audible click.
Humbert cringed and looked about the hall to see if anyone may have heard the slight noise. Since the duke was away, there was only a skeleton crew of servants and guards on the grounds—few people in such a large house. Thankfully, he was alone.
Humbert pulled the door open and slipped inside. For several seconds, he stood silent as his eyes adjusted to the dark of the room. He dared not spark a light. The curtains were thin enough to let in light from the bloodless sky, which meant they were unlikely thick enough to block the light of a match. Anyone standing in the yard would know he was there immediately.
The red moon, Oblarra, was still below the horizon; but the children of Luna—a thousand tiny shards of the old broken moon—danced across the sky, brighter than stars by a hundred fold. Able to make out the shadows of the room, Humbert stepped behind the duke’s desk. He worked on the drawer locks and pulled them open one at a time.
In the first drawer, Humbert found a great deal of correspondence. He glanced at the names of the senders, but could not make out much of the thin scrawl in the room’s dim light. He wondered what secrets the documents might hold and figured the duke’s enemies would pay a minor fortune if he should nab the right letter. Yet, selling letters was a tricky business, and the duke employed a good number of spies to deter such behavior. Humbert felt he was just as likely to get his throat slit and have his body dumped in a shallow grave if he wasn’t careful about such things.
Not that he’d get much better treatment if he were simply caught in this office. Having already risked so much, he stuffed several envelopes into his shirt, in case he couldn’t find more immediate riches.
Humbert continued his search. In the top right drawer, he found what he was looking for, and it was a heavy purse indeed! Despite the dim light, he could see a healthy mix of silver and gold—though he’d hoped to see far less copper. There was still more than enough coin to see him north in search of the ancient mystic, Lasitus. Indeed, it was more coin than most men made in a lifetime!
Humbert fiddled with the lock on the last drawer and wondered if he wasn’t being greedy. The lock clicked. The drawer slid open in a smooth, quiet motion. Among several pens and ink wells, Humbert found an elegant dagger with a filigree handle . There was also a musket with a pearl hilt—pricey treasures for sure! With a grin, he stuffed the pistol under his belt and put the dagger in his bag.
With such fine weapons and so much coin, Humbert felt he ought not press his luck any further. Even if nobody else knew, he still had to consider the rube that he’d conned into letting him in—and so Humbert gently pushed the drawers closed and stepped around the edge of the desk. After all, he still had to make good his escape.
There, on the corner of the desk, sat a fine wooden box. Humbert stopped and considered it. For a long second, he stared at the fine pattern carved into the wood, and brushed his fingers across it. He felt bold with victories already won and couldn’t resist, so he held his breath and lifted the lid. Inside the box was a simple silver chain with a delicate silver locket. It was a sleek and elegant piece of jewelry, but made of silver, and therefore not particularly valuable—or so he assumed. With a grin and nary a second thought, Humbert lifted the necklace and slipped it over his head.
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Thunder Maker
Polished the entire chapter. There was a fair amount of change, though it was all cosmetic — 2h04m22s — 2023/11/25
To Empress Seviticah:
Your most Adoredness,
I have astonishing news: the traitor berDuvante rides for Wibbeley with no more than a dozen men! He pursues a thief and believes he is unknown to us—though I am told that our cousin Drefford plans to give him a most proper welcome! Might this be the end of the Gaurring problem? Then we shall set ourselves to reclaiming the Breck!
Our work continues apace. Praise Rauthmaug!
- Gred duReb, King of the Saot
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 1.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
Duke Creigal berDuvante was a very important man. He usually had an entourage of a couple hundred people hovering around, as they attended the minutiae of their roles, so for the duke to take only a dozen guards and go riding off into the night after a thief was highly irregular.
For the duke to choose Baet to be part of such a limited guard was equally unexpected—except that Baetolamew knew exactly why the duke would bring himself along. After all, Baet knew the thief! Indeed, he let the thief onto the duke’s property, to poke about the gardens and collect a few seeds—or so said the thief. Baet had not expected Humbert to slip away from the gardens. He had not expected the clerk to sneak into the manse and steal whatever it was that he stole—the little bandit! He especially didn’t expect such a big to-do over what was supposed to be seeds—but that’s what one gets when he believes a liar!
Or perhaps Baet was wrong about the duke’s reason for bringing him along? After all, he was a very good guard—or he was usually a very good guard. He sure hoped he was wrong. He hoped his selection was blind chance, or simply bad luck, as it were.
He told himself he was wrong. The duke would never trust a compromised man to stand guard. Not while there was a war going! He convinced himself that Creigal knew nothing of his treachery. No. He was just a good man to have along, a man of talents, a decorated sneak.
On the northwest road out of Gaetilly, and almost two weeks into their quest, Baet suffered a nightmare. He tossed and thrashed in his sleep. Concerned by his friend’s difficulties, Haddelton woke Baet—only to find himself staring down the barrel of Baet’s fancy pistol, Thunder Maker. For too long, Baet stared over the weapon with a question in his eyes.
Haddelton realized his fate hung in the balance as Baet tried to make sense of who looked back at him. “Friend?” Haddelton croaked.
His query broke the spell. Baet blinked and lowered the musket. “You fool! What are you on about!?” he snapped in a harsh whisper as he tucked Thunder Maker back under his pillow.
“It was your nightmare that woke me,” Haddelton snipped, offended to be so threatened.
Baet laid back in his bed with all his weight, “I don’t think I am shook of it,” he complained. “What did I say?”
For a long second, Haddelton considered telling his friend that he suffered guilty dreams, but he was upset by the episode. He did not appreciate having to face his own mortality in such a rude manner, and he found himself flustered. “Nothing,” he finally said with a frown. “You made no sense,” he claimed, then turned his back on his friend, and with a huff, went back to bed.
The episode disturbed Haddelton and made him suspicious. The next day, as they rode, Haddelton surreptitiously glared at his good friend, Baet. Then, as Haddelton made faces behind Baet’s back, he noticed a strange thing: several of the other guards also glared when Baet turned his back. Worse, the duke himself glared at Baet! Haddelton only saw it for a split second, and that from the corner of his eye, but he was convinced he saw the duke glare at one of his own guard! What did Baetolamew do to deserve the ire of the duke?!
As Haddelton considered the possibilities a worse thought jumped into his mind. Was it possible the duke also suspected Haddelton of some treachery? After all, Baet and Haddie were the best of friends. Might the duke scowl as Haddelton turned his own back?
For a time, Haddelton thought that damned fool almost shot me! He deserves what he gets! But then he remembered that Baet was his friend, and so he decided to confront him. He pushed his horse so the two were riding side by side, then grabbed Baet by the elbow and scowled at him. “What’s going on?!” Haddelton glared. “And don’t tell me everything’s fine—because I know you did something stupid! Feed me some line of crap and I’ll bloody you good!”
Baet backpedaled, a look of shock on his face. He was found out! His hands shook. His shoulders fell. For several seconds, he simply stared at his good friend, then simply admitted the truth. “I let Humbert into the gardens,” he said as he looked away. “I did not think he would get into the manse.”
“You?! You let the thief onto the grounds?” Haddelton glared. “But why?!”
Baet shrugged, “He had a debt over me.”
“How much?” Haddelton asked.
Baet hanged his head. “Two sovereign.”
“TWO SOV— !?” Haddelton started, his rage getting the better of him.
Dread filled Baet’s eyes as he covered his friend’s mouth and begged him to be quiet.
Haddelton pulled away and continued—though he lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “Sweet Abra, you’re an idiot! You shit all over your oath for a measly two sovereign?!”
Baet shrugged, as he stared into the dirt, “I had a really good hand.”
“Cards?!” Haddelton snorted. “Why am I not surprised this all started with cards!?”
“...and dice,” Baet admitted, “and a bit of bones.”
Haddelton shook his head. He turned, took a step away, and said, “you are an idiot.”
“The dream gave me away,” Baet complained. “What did I say?”
“The dream,” Haddelton agreed. “And the duke’s ire.”
Baet blanched. “The duke knows?!”
Haddelton shrugged. “Perhaps he only suspects… but he certainly glares at you like he knows.”
Baet turned away, “What am I going to do?!” He asked, as his hands began to shake again.
“What are we going to do?” Haddelton corrected him. He shook his head. “For now, don’t be rash. We won’t reach Wibbeley proper until tomorrow. Keep your head down, and try to keep your nose clean. We’ll think of something,” he said, halfhearted.
“He’s gonna skin me,” Baet blanched.
Haddelton shrugged. “ We could always tell the truth. You’re still a good soldier. Perhaps he might simply send you back to the river lands, to help train the grunts.”
“Might?” Baet snorted. “And he also might flog me in the square for all the other guards to see!”
“Yes, well,” Haddelton put a hand on Baet’s shoulder, and stared off into the distance. “Try not to think of that.”
What more was there to say?
The troop continued toward Wibbeley. As they rode, Haddelton studied the others. He studied Creigal and his captain, in hopes of discovering what they certainly knew and what they only suspected. Then he began to study the others. What did they know? What was being said?
As he studied, Haddelton began to sense rifts among the others that he’d never noticed before, and it bothered him to no end. Half the men couldn’t stand Vearing—though none would say it to the giant man’s face. Garfindel was nearly just as bad—and why was Bence along at all? He seemed to be a waste of a saddle—though Banifourd seemed to rely on him rather heavily.
But why should it matter?! The duke would not bring men he did not trust! Or so Haddelton thought—but then it appeared he did not trust Baetolamew—and yet the duke had still brought him along…
It was all too confusing, and all of the intrigue was making Haddelton’s head hurt. He was never much of a politician. He preferred issues that could be resolved cleanly, with the edge of his sword. Put things out in the open and let them be decided with the skill of arms. That’s why he got along with Carringten so well. They shared the same ideal.
The sun dropped beyond the horizon. A few miles outside of Wibbeley, the duke and his men stopped at an inn and rented several small cabins for the night. Tomorrow, they’d go into Wibbeley, capture Humbert, and reclaim the duke’s stolen treasure—or so they hoped. At least it will all be over tomorrow, Haddelton thought as he rode his great steed to the stables of the inn. For a hot minute, he thought to approach Carringten—or maybe approach the duke directly—though he eventually decided against it. He knew Baet would prefer if he stayed out of it. Still, he wondered if he was he doing his friend a favor, or was he doing a disservice?
That night it was Haddelton’s turn to suffer as he tried to sleep. Something important poked about the back of his head, some terrible thought, some connection among the other guards that promised to be significant—and yet, he could not wrap his mind around it. Whatever bothered him, well, it still needed time to bake and set.
Or did it? Was all the concern simply fear run amok? It’d been a long day in the saddle and Haddelton had done a fair deal of thinking—though he felt he was not terribly suited for it. Likely, he’d done a good bit of overthinking. He wondered, how much of his problems were mere phantoms of his own imagining? How much of it could he simply ignore?
Exhausted, the guard only wanted sleep. He laid in bed, puzzled over his day, as he begged for dreams of his woman. He closed his eyes, relaxed his mind, and slipped the horizon of this waking world—only to be poked by an urgency and stirred awake once more. The shadowy foreboding continued to rattle about his brain and linger in the air. It cast a pall over everything as it promised to come true in some terrible fashion. He felt exposed, in harm’s way, and the feeling would not let him go.
Yet, he refused to get out of bed and do anything about it. Instead, he thrashed and fidgeted—as seconds turned into minutes—as minutes rolled into hours.
In this manner, time slowly ran out for Haddelton. Caught in the great tumult of his thoughts, he did not hear the slight creak of the door, or feel the intrusion of padded feet. He did not sense the presence of menace and malice.
At this time, a peculiar thing occurred. A meteor, a small piece of the old broken moon—now shattered into a million pieces—fell through the air, split yet again; then clicked, clacked, and banged against the roof of the cabin. It was only the third time Haddelton ever witnessed a stone-fall. Upon hearing the unusual sound, he opened his eyes. A face materialized out of the shadow, upside down and grinning. He recognized the face. It was the face of the royal attendant, Banifourd, one of the duke’s innumerable cousins. With a frown, Haddelton sat up. “What are you…?” he began.
Banifourd looped a wire around Haddelton’s neck and yanked him back against the headboard of the bed. Haddelton could not reach his sword, and he could not call to Baetolamew, as the air crushed from his throat. He kicked and thrashed as he attempted to wedge his fingernails under the wire—but he could find no purchase.
As he struggled, Haddelton puzzled everything together. He realized there were serious traitors among the duke’s men. They were misled to this city for the sake of an ambush! None of the other loyal guards had noticed because they were blinded by Baetolamew’s indiscretion. Baet’s guilt drew attention and served as a distraction from the plotting esquire—and how many of the other guards were with the traitor?!
Still, the revelation came too late for poor Haddelton. Terror gripped his heart as he flopped about. Blood seeped, spilled, and ran as the garrote bit deep. His lungs burned. His strength waned. Banifourd proved too strong and his advantage too great. The searing pain of the wire turned to a dull ache, and Haddelton lost his ability to struggle altogether. Images of his wife and babe played before his fluttering eyes. His final thoughts were apologies to Emia. She’d be so upset that he let himself get murdered.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 1.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
Unable to solve his observations, Haddelton was doomed to the great beyond—but fate intervened for his good friend, Baetolamew. The meteor dropped out of the sky, broke into three pieces; then clicked, clacked, and banged against the roof of the cabin. This shocked both guard’s awake—only Baet’s attackers were not yet at hand.
Baet opened his eyes. He was surprised to see several shadows slinking about the room. He was surprised—but not unprepared. He grabbed at the musket under his pillow, but missed the handle and gripped it by the barrel instead.
The first attacker was upon him. Baet was forced to swing the weapon as a cudgel. He lashed out, and smashed the handle of Thunder Maker into the man’s leg. The attacker lurched as the polished stone handle of the musket made a rude popping sound against his knee.
A searing pain erupted in the attacker’s leg. The attacker gave an “ooof!” as he buckled, and took a clumsy stab at Baet.
Baet dodged the thrust, then slipped sideways and kicked the man in the face. The attacker crumbled to the floor.
A second assassin tried to get around his floundering friend. Baet sat up, flipped Thunder Maker about, and caught it by the handle. He leveled the musket at the second attacker and fired.
Light, sound, and smoke erupted into the room. For a split second, everything was illuminated. The most immediate thug was dead on his feet, as the musket ball smashed a hole in his chest and let out far too much of his vital blood. His injured mate rolled into a fetal position as he cowered from the deafening boom. A third attacker, a sentry at the door with a bow in hand, was blinded as he stared across the room. These three men did not concern Baet so much. It was the fourth attacker that worried the guard and sent shivers down his spine. Not only did this man look an awful lot like Banifourd, but he was strangling the life out of Baet’s best friend, Haddelton!
Banifourd, that weasel!
Darkness, deafness, and a fit of coughing set in. The light of the musket was gone as quick as it came, though the smoke still lingered. Baet leaned over the edge of his bed and grabbed for his boots—as an arrow whistled overhead. He felt the arrow would have skewered him if he hadn’t bent over to retrieve his footwear and the goodies he’d stuffed inside. The archer may be shooting blind, but he was shooting well!
Needing to get away, Baet snagged his boots, stood, and smashed through the window above his bed. He rolled to his feet with a wince and a curse, as shards of glass bit into the sole of his bare right foot. Dogs barked and whined as Baet half hobbled and half ran from the cabin.
In his boots, Baet had his shot, powder, wad, hunting knife, coin, several dice, a pair of day old socks—and his other musket. After half a dozen quick steps, he dropped to his knees, and pulled Cloud Breaker from his boot. Coin and dice spilled in the dirt as Baet aimed his spare musket at the window he just dove through.
Banifourd peered out. He saw the pistol and dodged back into the cabin before Baet could get a good bead on him.
“Banifourd, you bastard!” Baet yelled as he picked several coins out of the dirt and stuffed them back into his boot. He did not like leaving any of his money, but knew it was best to run. With a huff, he abandoned the remaining coin—and one of his prettier die—as he turned and hobbled into the night with a stream of muttered curses to mark his trail.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 1.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
Baet crouched behind a carriage near the stables and reloaded Thunder Maker, as he glanced nervously about the corners. He had serious questions, beginning with, why did Banifourd kill Haddelton? For a moment, Baet thought it might have to do with his indiscretion, but then, Banifourd was also wearing a uniform of blue and white... And who were the strangers with him?
Baet pulled the obvious shards of glass from his foot. He put on his socks and boots, then stared at the stables and wondered which of the duke’s men was set to watch the horses and supplies. Why were they not investigating?! He’d fired his musket! With such a racket, half the inn must be awake!
And yet, his surroundings were dead quiet.
Baet slipped inside the stables. He called for the other guards, but found that he was the only one in the building. He also noticed a curious thing about the horses: not only were they unguarded, they were saddled, loaded, and ready to ride. On top of that, there were maybe twenty extra mounts gathered about the barn—which meant there were another twenty men about the inn! Baet cursed as he realized this wasn’t about him or Haddelton at all—Banifourd was after the duke!
For a split second, Baet thought he should put on some proper clothing, but he already had his boots tied, and time was wasting! Then he thought there was no way he could kill twenty some men with only two muskets—so he took a spear from among the company’s long weapons and ran from the stables as well as he could, with several bits of glass still stuck in his right foot.
Outside, a thin arc of white dots stretched across the night sky and cast a faint glow about the complex of small cabins and outbuildings that formed the inn. Baet remembered the bang of stone that stirred him from his sleep and offered his gratitude to the shattered remains of Old Mother Luna. What a wonderful gift from the gods! he thought.
And yet, the stones had not saved his good friend, Haddelton, with a child and a bride at home, a friend as guiltless and guileless as they come! Baet wondered what crazy justice must guide this world that a perfect friend should die while a sneak and a failed gambler should live. He half hobbled, half stalked among the various cabins of the inn as remorse burned in his soul. He did his best to stay low in the shadows as he approached the duke’s cabin.
Baet rounded the corner. He could see the door to the cabin was shut and there was no light in the window. There were no sounds about the night either, except a couple excited dogs that continued to bay in the distance. Thunder Maker must have woke everyone about the inn, and yet no one stirred. He strained to see about the cabins and the trees between them. The killers must yet lurk in the shadows.
The window of the duke’s cabin pushed open. “I can seee yoouuu!” Carringten called into the darkness. Baet smiled to hear his voice. Carringten was captain of the escort and Duke Creigal’s most immediate guard. He was a formidable man, not one to trifle or hesitate, and he was loyal to the hilt.
A shadow shifted to Baet’s left and an arrow streaked through the open window. Several bodies shifted in the darkness and Baet counted those he could see. There were three—no—four men that lurked in the shadows nearby.
A fight erupted somewhere in the distance. Shouts, screams, and the clang of metal on metal ensued. Another musket roared to life. Emboldened by the distant fracas, the shadows about the duke’s cabin broke from their positions and rushed the door.
Something shifted to Baetolamew’s right. He realized there was a fifth attacker just to his side. The man was so close—indeed he was too close! Baet abandoned his spear and grabbed for his knife. He shifted to his bad foot and tackled the man, despite the sudden burst of pain in his right sole. The two men went down in a tumble. Baet stuck his short blade into the man’s side; once, twice, thrice. His enemy went limp as his blood splashed everywhere. Baet wiped his face—though it seemed to only smear the blood about.
Meanwhile, the other attackers kicked in the door of the duke’s cabin and rushed inside. “Have at you!” Creigal roared at the intruders. The flash and boom of his musket followed. Metal rang against metal as screams flowed from the small building.
“Balls,” Baet swore. He sheathed his knife, and took up the spear once more. Despite the pain in his foot, he charged for the duke’s cabin and hoped he wasn’t too late to make a difference.
All of the attackers were in the cabin except for one. The last of them stood in the doorway with a bow in hand. He raised his bow with a smug look of satisfaction.
As Baet approached, he recognized the archer in the doorway. It was Willem, another ball-sucking traitor! “Yargh!” he yelled as he made a wild lunge at the man. The scream ruined the surprise—but it broke Willem’s aim—as he turned his attention to Baet.
Surprised, but well-trained, Willem turned and released the arrow. Baet twisted as he dived forward, so the arrow only glanced his side—but the roll allowed Willem to sidestep Baet’s hasty attack. On top of that, the move overextended the guard.
Willem grabbed the spear below the tip. He gave it a solid yank, then stuck out his foot, and tripped Baet as he reeled past.
Baet sprawled hands and face into a patch of flowers. With dirt in his mouth, he realized he would die for his effort.
Willem dropped the spear, nocked another arrow, and turned toward the downed guard—but before Willem could put an arrow in Baet’s back, Carringten jumped out of the cabin and buried a hatchet in the traitor’s neck.
Willem loosed the arrow—but he didn’t have the aim. The arrow struck dirt a few inches from Baet’s head. Baet stared at the arrow as the harsh gurgle of blood carried from Willem’s throat. He shuddered to hear it. The sound was too similar to the rude noises made by Haddelton.
Surprised that he was still alive, Baet rolled over and stared up at Carringten. With a squint and a smile, the dark captain helped Baet off the ground. “Well met,” the captain said with an approving nod. If he was surprised at all, he didn’t show it. Instead, he stared at the mess of blood and dirt that covered Baet’s face. “Any of that yours?” he asked.
Baet looked down and noted the dark stains all over his skin and underwear. “Just a bit,” he admitted as he showed the captain the nick on his side.
Creigal berDuvante, Duke of Gaurring, stepped from the cabin, as imposing and regal as the name implied. “Tell me what you know,” he ordered with a stern frown.
“Haddelton and I were attacked in our room,” Baet said as he stood at full attention. “I killed two: one in my cabin, and one over there. I don’t know either of ‘em, but Banifourd is also a ball-sucking traitor,” he said as he kicked at the dead form of Willem. “They all wear this blue and white.”
“These are Wibbeley’s colors,” Carringten frowned. “These others are either Count Drefford’s men, or they pretend to be,” he said as he turned to the duke. “What do you think of his lordship?”
“I would not be surprised if these are indeed the his men,” Creigal frowned. “Drefford has always been quite fond of our king,” he surmised, then turned to Baet. “Where is Haddelton?”
Baet shook his head and lowered his eyes. “I barely saved myself.”
Creigal bowed his head and gently patted Baet’s shoulder. “Let’s see to the others,” he said, and turned toward the sounds of conflict, now greatly diminished.
As they moved, Baet considered what he knew. Banifourd tried to kill the duke and Willem was in on it, which meant Bence and Garf were likely traitors too. Baet sucked his teeth. He didn’t care a wit about Bence, who was a coward and far too fond of his liquor; but Garfindel was dangerous. Baet would rather face Bence wielding any and every weapon than have to face Garf with nothing but his dick to swing.
The three men approached the diminishing sound of conflict. They could make out the voice of Vearing. “My brothers!” he roared, “I will avenge you, my brothers!” His words were punctuated by the clang of sword against sword.
Vearing was a monstrous man, even as he squared off against three others—all in blue and white. He used the great reach of his claymore to keep his enemies at bay, and swung the weapon with a speed and dexterity that verged on the impossible. The attackers backed from the man and searched for an opening to exploit.
They could find nothing.
Indeed, it was Vearing that found the next opportunity. With a neat shift of his weight and a sudden change in direction, Vearing caught one of the attackers with his guard too high. He twisted his blade, dropped his strike, and cut across the man’s belly.
Blood and organs erupted from the man as he screamed something horrific, then toppled into the dirt, unable to do anything but squirm.
The other two opponents countered but were turned aside as Vearing danced away on surprisingly light feet. At a safe distance, Vearing turned back on his remaining enemies. A wicked grin split his lips. “Come at me dogs, I thirst for blood,” he bragged.
To their credit, neither of the men broke and ran. Instead, they circled the large man with the claymore.
“My brothers, I will avenge you!” Vearing bellowed as he closed on his enemies once more. With a violence, he pushed his opponents back as they were forced to take up defensive postures.
Creigal, Carringten, and Baet turned a corner. They could now see their friend at a distance. They ran forward as they surveyed the scene.
A trail of dead bodies showed the route of the fighting—but they were not all men in blue and white. Baet noted the limp form of Marik among them—in a pool of far too much blood. He wondered if any of the duke’s other loyal guards might yet survive.
Suddenly, Vearing stopped in his press and stared down, surprised to see an arrow protruding from his chest, dangerously close to his heart. “Huurr...” Vearing croaked as he attempted to press forward. He wobbled as blood poured into his lungs, then bubbled up to his lips.
Another arrow sang out of the night to strike the giant man, inches from the first. Vearing dropped to his knees. The two men that stood against Vearing leaped forward, knocked aside his massive claymore, and struck him again and again. Without another sound, Vearing slumped to the ground and gave up the ghost.
Astounded to see Vearing die, Baet, Carringten, and Creigal stopped in their tracks. Ahead of them, Garf stepped out of the night, with a bow in hand, and followed by four other men. There was blood on their weapons.
From another direction, Banifourd stepped into the light with his two men, one that hobbled as he walked and bore a bloody face—the one that Baet had crippled with the handle of his musket.
Baet muttered a curse and raised his twin pistols. He didn’t know who he wanted to kill more, Garf or Banifourd. Still, he was a good shot, and they were not so far away. There were even odds he might get ‘em both…
Carringten stepped next to Baet. The captain put a light hand on Thunder Maker and shook his head. There were eight men gathered about Vearing’s corpse. Even if two should drop immediately, a pitched battle was a poor option in the captain’s view. At best they’d have their revenge. At worst, Creigal would be captured. Or killed. It was the possibility of losing their duke, weighed against the life of an esquire and his gang of hired thugs. Revenge was not on the menu.
Baet knew the score. The captain was right. With a sigh, he sheathed his pistols, then followed Creigal and Carringten deeper into the shadows.
“My men,” Creigal whispered, his voice filled with sorrow.
“There are still some missing,” Baet noted, all too happy to take a positive view.
“There is much blood on those swords,” Carringten shook his head. “I have little hope.”
Baet realized there was nothing more to do except escape. “We can leave!” He began in an excited whisper. “The horses are ready!”
Creigal and Carringten both turned to the guard.
“When I was first attacked, I retreated to the stables,” Baet continued. “The horses were saddled and loaded, and there was no one about. One of the traitors must have had the middle guard!”
“Bence had the middle guard,” Carringten stated.
Baet shrugged, “he’s not there.”
“Lead the way, and if Bence is there now, the devil take him,” Creigal snarled.
The three arrived at the stables and found everything as Baet remembered. The horses milled about; saddled, loaded, and a bit jittery, thanks to the repeated thunder of muskets. There was still no guard. Whatever his allegiance, Bence was not to be found. Baet figured he was safely out of the way, and likely drunk out of his gourd.
Carringten surveyed the horses with a satisfied air. He turned to Baet, “Cut the cinches and stampede the extra horses. I go to clear the gate.” With that, Carringten slipped from the stables.
Creigal tied several supply horses to their mounts as Baet used his short blade to cut the cinches on the extra saddles. “I christen thee Gore Tongue, as thou hast drunk a man’s life,” Baet said to the blade. With a smile, he repeated the names of his weapons: Thunder Maker, Cloud Breaker, and now Gore Tongue. With the edge of Gore Tongue, he severed another cinch.
“You ready?” Creigal asked with his hand on the main door of the stables.
“Last one,” Baet called as he slipped his blade between beast and leather.
“Time to go!” Creigal called and pushed open the stable doors. He climbed into his saddle and heeled his horse with Carringten’s mount in tow. Several riderless mounts and supply horses followed after him.
Baet got on his own horse and pressed the stallion forward. The supply horses followed with the rest of the animals close behind. He pressed his horse through the courtyard. Six or so horses fanned out in front of him, and a dozen more behind.
The yard was not empty. Several men stood to one side. They all wore the blue and white as they rushed forward. Most had nothing but swords and were too late to cut off Creigal or Baet—but two had bows—and they aimed at the duke.
Creigal rode low in his saddle, a small target indeed. Still, Baet knew a dozen men that would thrill at the shot—and half of them might make it. With a curse, Baet ripped his muskets from their holsters and stood high in his saddle. He took a hasty shot at the closer man. He missed, but the boom of the musket was enough to spook the archer. One arrow sailed high over the duke and the other was well behind, as it struck high on the saddle of the additional mount.
Frustrated by missing their first target, the two archers turned on Baet and nocked arrows. Baet recognized the second man, Garf. He glared as he took aim. The archers fired a hasty shot and scrambled to either side. The arrows missed, but not by much. Baet returned fire, but he also missed, as Garf dove into the dirt.
Baet swore at the traitor as he charged past in his blood-soaked underwear. Garf scrambled to his feet and nocked another arrow. Baet pulled his horse hard to the left, and hugged close to his mount as an arrow sang past him on the right.
Garf’s next shot was even worse as Baet quickly put distance between them.
Creigal slowed as he passed through the wide open front gate of the inn. He could see nothing but the lifeless bodies of three men in blue and white—then a shadow shifted and broke from the wall—Carringten.
The dark captain rushed to the spare horse. Baet stormed past him and Creigal as he continued down the road with their supply horses in tow. Creigal and Carringten charged after him.
Garf and his companion continued to fire arrows, though they fell harmless to the road. The distance was too great and the range quickly increased. Other men in blue and white wrangled horses in hopes of mounting a pursuit—but the saddles slid off the animals and took the riders with them.
Garf swore a blue streak as he watched Duke Creigal berDuvante ride off with only two of his loyal guards still alive. He spit on the ground and kicked at a ruined saddle as the others tried to corral the remaining horses.
Banifourd stepped next to his friend. “He’s still a long way from home,” he noted as he wiped blood from his sword.
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The Flora and Fauna of the Bunderhilt Mountains
Polished — 27m39s — 2023/11/26
Scurra,
You will notice I have sent extra funds. Please spend the usual share on Sephonie and the girls. The rest is for you, as I must ask a favor: does foxbane still grow in the parks and wilds around Hearthstone? If so, I will take as much dried flowers and seeds as you might get. If I remember correctly, it was loved as an ornamental and also among beekeepers.
Why do I request this flower, you ask? Because it is a most potent cure for the distress! Unfortunately, I have run out of it and can’t find it in this land. Immediately, I go south to secure more from Bouge lands, where I first noticed it. Do not worry for me. I will stay far from Kezodel and his Degorouth henchmen. Indeed, by the time this reaches you, I will have left his land and shall be halfway back to Melmorahn with a supply of my own foxbane. Yet, I will need more than I can carry. I only go for a small batch to tide me over until you can see a delivery sent from Hearthstone. Although we have found a cure, we have yet to figure out what is causing this terrible disease. I fear it will be some time still before Melmorahn is fully recovered.
Your loving brother,
— Krumpus
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 2.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
Krumpus stepped along the abandoned road as one question repeated over and over in his mind: what happened to this land? Years ago, he traveled through the area and wondered at the great colonies of foxbane, as large swaths of the mountain were painted yellow with its delicate blooms. Intrigued by the flower, he sat among them and contemplated their nature. He watched and named the various insects that played upon their branches, leaves, and petals. He considered the wind and rains, as he observed the rocky landscape and the simplistic beauty of the setting.
Yet, the flowers were reticent to share their secrets. The day passed, and he continued to sit. After a week of watching the flowers grow and bloom in the bright spring weather, Krumpus wished to get back to his work, so he picked several mature plants and draped them over his pack to dry. Desiccated and brittle, he eventually crushed the dried flowers into a soft leather bag and put them away.
In those days, Krumpus walked the lands and treated the people for various infirmities and diseases, in hopes of curing the people, seeing new places, and making a pretty penny while he was at it. He carried a wide collection of tinctures, poultices, creams, and tonics—many of his own clever invention—and treated the people for their various illnesses, sicknesses, and diseases.
From his home in Hearthstone, he traveled west, drifting into Bouge lands, eventually finding himself beyond Lake Kundilae. For a while, Krumpus considered going all the way to Salyst and seeing if he might not help with their troubles. But news out of Salyst was grim in those days. By the time he approached the border, it was said most her people were either murdered, taken for slaves by the Ministrians, or escaped; either scattered among the other Trohl nations, or disappeared into the wilds beyond the Red Desert.
Not wanting to face hordes of Ministrians, Krumpus decided to turn north, toward Melmorahn. He didn’t get far. Just below the Gopi border, he stepped into an apothecary intent to resupply. In the shop, he was greeted by some of the saddest wares ever pushed on the consuming public, not to mention the eternal scowl of the proprietor. After rounding the store and seeing nothing he wished to have, Krumpus silently slipped away—only to be accosted a block from the store by several members of the watch.
The apothecary accused Krumpus of thievery. Kezodel, the judge that presided over the area, and a good friend of the apothecary, took one look at the shabby shaman, the ramshackle state of his supplies and tongue, and locked the man away for vagrancy.
Thanks to his kind treatment and skill among the locals, Krumpus had many new friends in the area. These fair people immediately petitioned the court and called for his release. Kezodel and his Degorouth clansmen would have ignored these protests—as was their standard response to the people’s displeasure—but another trouble surfaced for the judge and his goons, and their opposition was soon bolstered by a righteous fury. A girl of thirteen, abducted from a strong family and missing for nearly a year, escaped from Kezodel’s own mansion with the help of a young slave. She told of atrocities and shame among the most powerful of the court.
The story of the girl’s kidnapping spread like wildfire and added to years of graft, corruption, and long knives in the night. The good people were beside themselves as their simmering indignation boiled out of all control. Militias took to the streets and surrounded the buildings and neighborhoods controlled by the Degorouth. Support for the opposition poured into town from miles around, and the people demanded a trial—though many wished to skip the talking and get straight to the hanging. Kezodel, the corrupt judge, realized a storm brewed and thought it likely to sweep him under. More opposition arrived daily, and he knew he’d get no support from the feckless courts of Ebertin. Convinced he might lose his head if he stayed in Cedarvil, Kezodel and his Degorouth henchmen gathered their riches and prepared to flee.
Despite his haste, Kezodel took the time to threaten Krumpus personally—after all, the judge’s most recent difficulties started with the shaman’s arrest. “Test me again and I’ll have your head,” he glared at the wanderer. But the shaman need not feel special about it. Kezodel proceeded to scold and castigate another dozen or so prisoners. Then, in the middle of the night, Kezodel and a good number of his Degorouth lieutenants abandoned their offices—but not the community’s coin.
Once it was discovered the Degorouth had fled their posts, the local militias cut the locks and freed most of the prisoners, to the delighted cheers of the gathered crowd—though a few of the inmates were too terrible to be released. All in all, Krumpus spent nearly a month in jail before the winds of change finally freed him. By the time he returned to his journey, the weather had shifted and winter threatened. As Krumpus hastened his way through Gopi lands, early storms swept through the mountains and blocked the passes until the spring thaw. His plans to winter in Melmorahn, ancient home of Rigel, were ruined. Krumpus decided to go home. He turned east.
In Hearthstone once more, the foxbane was further forgotten when Krumpus met Sephonie. He might have stayed in Hearthstone forever and never realized foxbane’s potency, except the grumblings of the sickness in Melmorahn grew loud, and pricked the shaman’s ears. It stirred his wanderlust. With the excuse of wanting to help those most unfortunate people, Krumpus packed his bag and tried to convince Sephonie to go with him. Despite his pressures, Sephonie refused. In the end, Krumpus could not blame her. A city that suffered an unknown plague was no place to raise their children. Krumpus promised to send money—and Sephonie swore to burn his letters.
Krumpus reached Melmorahn to find the plague in full swing. The number of sick had increased and the death toll crept into the thousands. The people of Melmorahn moved about the city with scarves and rags over their pallor faces. The healers of the city struggled against the distress with no real success. In such a climate, Krumpus found himself swimming in patients. He set to work solving the problem. Though many recovered, the distress might wear on a man for weeks, even months, before it finally left him. Victims were lethargic, suffered irregular stool, developed sores about their eyes, mouth, and nose. Although it was only a fraction, many were overcome, and eventually died.
Krumpus did his best to keep his patients hydrated, fed, and comfortable. He poured over his various medicines, potions, powders, and recipes to find a cure. He scoured the local markets and tested anything that looked promising—but recovery was always slow and sometimes didn’t happen at all. As the months marched on, survivors often caught the distress over and over again. Krumpus caught it twice himself.
A year passed and the plague only got worse. At wit’s end, Krumpus decided to go for a ride in the country, that he might commune with the spirits and beg their help. He planned to gather samples of plants, and trap a few native animals, on the chance that something—anything—might reveal some secret of the distress. Could he hope for a cure? The gods willing.
As he began to pack, Krumpus found the long-forgotten pouch of crushed foxbane at the bottom of his bag. He opened the pouch and was astounded by what he smelled. All these years later and the crushed flowers still smelled of summer’s light and clean mountain air. Krumpus had a sneaking suspicion that foxbane was the perfect thing to treat the distress. He immediately canceled his trip.
Yet, Krumpus would not rush the herb’s application. First, he had to be sure it was safe. For a week, Krumpus ate nothing and drank a growing amount of foxbane tea, that he might understand its affects on a human body. Each day he liked it more than the last. The final day, he ate the thin bits of flower he’d steeped and wondered at his vibrancy. The foxbane lent him a subtle energy despite his lack of other sustenance.
Convinced it was safe, Krumpus gave the flower to his most dire patients. He gave them a cup of tea with each of their meals. The effects were quick and startling. The aches and pains of the sickness subsided within a few hours. At ease, the patients enjoyed deep and restful sleep. By the third day, they pooped properly and refused to stay in bed. By the end of the week, the lesions about their eyes, mouths, and noses had cleared up. The foxbane was an unmitigated success!
Krumpus immediately gave the tea to as many as he could. In the coming weeks, he lost only three of his most dire cases! He was very pleased with the flower. It took a disease that killed one in four, and brought that down to one in fifteen among the very worst!
And not only did his patients recover, they recovered quickly!
The only problem was that he’d exhausted his supply of foxbane—and he could not find it growing anywhere around the city.
Still, he knew where to get it. This time, he’d be across Gopi lands in two weeks and back before the proper start of summer—or so he thought. Now that Krumpus was in the Southern Bunderhilt, he could find no foxbane, and there were no people to tell him where it might be hiding. All he found were empty fields and the ruins of several small towns. He wondered if this wasn’t the invasion of Salyst all over again, only among the greater population of the Bouge. Perhaps if he was not so obsessed with the distress, Krumpus might have heard word of what happened here—but then he’d barely stopped at all to hear the talk of the Gopi as he passed through their lands—and the talk he did hear was confused. Were they claiming that the Ministrians were now the good guys and that a new enemy had presented themselves? He brushed aside the talk of war and went about his business.
But war among men wasn’t the only danger. Indeed, Krumpus was far more worried about bugbear after he noticed their scat, then began to see their traps everywhere. These vermin! For a time, Krumpus wondered if perhaps the bugbear chased out the men, but it soon became evident that the men disappeared, and the bugbear simply inherited their empty lands. He’d have to be careful around such beasts. They were all too happy to kill and eat humans if given the opportunity.
Krumpus continued to search for the flower. For a time, he wondered if he shouldn’t go back to Melmorahn and simply await the shipment of foxbane from his sister. Then he wondered if the flower was still in fashion as an ornamental, among beekeepers of Hearthstone. It’d been nearly two years since he’d seen Jindleyak lands. Perhaps it was gone even from his native home! As he wandered, day after day, irrational fears began to spin through the shaman’s mind. He wondered if foxbane was gone from the earth altogether! What if Jindleyak groundskeepers pulled the flower from all the lands near Hearthstone? What if some pest devoured them where they grew among the Untu tribes? What if all the foxbane perished for whatever wet-dry, hot-cold reason that made conditions impossible for the flower?
But then, Krumpus was only imagining the worst. There was always the possibility of finding foxbane around the very next corner…
Krumpus reigned in his thoughts. He wondered if perhaps that one year oh-so-long-ago was simply a banner year for the plant, with conditions just right to see such a proliferation. Perhaps the colonies retracted and were simply smaller, tucked among the underbrush, not so out in the open. Perhaps the flowers were late to bloom this year, and he had passed them unaware of what he saw. Perhaps he simply needed to wait a little longer or look a little closer…
He continued south.
Krumpus arrived at the main road from Ebertin to Wibbeley. For a time he sat at the side of the road and considered which way he might go as he nibbled an early lunch. To the east was Ebertin, the largest city of the Bouge, said to be the largest city of the nine Trohl nations. To the west were the ruins of Salyst, if he should turn north at the ford; or the Saot city of Wibbeley, if he should cross the river and continue west and south. But he didn’t want to go any of those directions, he simply wanted to find a flower!
Krumpus turned toward Ebertin. He’d heard rumor that Kezodel had established himself in the great city—but then, it was such a large city. Even if Krumpus ended up going all the way to Ebertin, what were the chances Kezodel or any of his men would recognize the shaman, especially after all these years?
Caught in his thoughts, Krumpus rode his horse around a blind corner and took several steps before he realized what was right in front of him. His eyes went wide and his heart jumped as he pulled his mount to a stop. Before him, a great serpent curled on a flat smooth boulder in a bright patch of sunlight, just off the side of the road. Its camouflage may have tricked other casual observers, but the shaman saw it immediately. The creature was a tawny color with mottled red patterning and emerald green highlights. Coiled like it was, the serpent sunned itself with its long head resting between the shoulders of its wings. As it was, the beast looked a good deal like one of the native shrubs growing out of the rock—but Krumpus knew it was a wyrm as soon as he saw it! He was downwind from the creature. He realized it would not detect him if he decided to sneak away.
Yet, the wyrm might know where to find foxbane. It might also know what became of the people. The elder races were all said to be as bright as men—though it was also said they were just as capricious. The wyrm might help him—and it might attack. Wyrms were said to possess a deadly venom, and their hides were said to be as hard as stone. They were also said to be charismatic, so much so, they might glamour the unassuming. Indeed, one writer spoke of their ability to control minds—but Krumpus thought that was unlikely. He frowned. Now that he rehashed the things he’d heard of wyrms over the years, he wondered if any of it was true. Indeed, he often wondered if the beasts themselves were real! Everyone had their ideas about the elder races—but few people ever caught more than an occasional glance.
Krumpus dallied as he considered his options, then finally decided that as long as he was kind to the creature, it was likely to reciprocate. He figured he’d be safe, if only he kept his distance. He smiled as he tied his horse to a tree and gave the mount several calming strokes. There was a wyrm before him, and he meant to wake it!
Krumpus thought a song was the proper thing for the job, and so he began to hum. He started with an ancient song of the spring, sweet and whimsical. He clapped and danced with his staff as a prop—just in case he needed to defend himself—and kept a respectful distance.
Slowly, the eyes of wyrm opened and the creature stared back at him. As Krumpus danced and hummed, the wyrm began to uncoil and stretch itself. It fanned its great wings which were as wide as a man’s arms. It yawned and showed wicked fangs, several inches long, as it shook away its sleepiness.
While the beast woke, Krumpus stomped the dirt of the road and swung his staff about in a great show as he continued to dance and hum his song. The wyrm closed it mouth and the dagger-like teeth disappeared. It locked eyes with the shaman. Slowly, it began to wave back and forth in time to his song.
Krumpus could see there was a keen intelligence behind the creature’s eyes. He continued to dance. The wyrm approached him ever so slowly, with a curious and submissive air, as it swayed to the rhythm of his song.
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A Leisurely Day in a Foreign City
Polished — 41m01s — 2023/11/26
Of course, all of this is relevant only if the reader is familiar with the Tallian legend concerning the arrival of Oblarra, the Red Moon. Since this book must inevitably fall into the hands of those that know nothing of this ancient story (or any of its many variants), let me give a quick accounting, as I understand it. For those that know the legend—some in most exhaustive detail—I beg your pardon for the repetition, and also for any minor inaccuracies. For those that know it, please feel free to skip this simplified summary; and for the rest, this is how I know the tale:
There was a time when Luna was whole and the night light was a reflective white. In the sky, Luna stood second only to the Sun, and their dance was peaceful. Then, from the dark recesses of space, something approached: a speck, the briefest dot.
Most people didn’t notice this Interloper until it attempted to pass Tunsar the Time Keeper. As Oblarra approached Tunsar, the two sparked and dazzled the locals with their distant lightning, which made the interloper glow a menacing red. Then, the dark intruder drifted away from Tunsar and continued on her course. She dimmed and disappeared back into the murk of night.
Over the next few years, Oblarra emerged again and again as she slowly circled inward among the infinities. The other infinities were not pleased with her presence, though none of them showed it more than Sram. As Oblarra approached the Chief God of War, great arches of energy swirled, rippled, and spun between the two. These tumultuous bolts lit the sky for days at a time and shook the very earth with cataclysmic booms. After weeks of fiery display, Oblarra was beyond Sram—and although she faded to a dim red, she remained visible.
Despite Tunsar, despite Sram, Oblarra continued inward among the infinities. To the consternation of the world’s peoples, she continued to grow. Eventually, Luna proved to be Oblarra’s final target.
Luna struggled with the angry Interloper above the very heads of our ancestors, and the thunder of it caused no end of difficulties for the world’s many inhabitants. Energies rippled and surged between the two moons as their violent dance shook and deafened the natives. Sparks shot between them and often struck the Earth.
Volcanoes erupted. Storms surged. The very earth heaved.
These disruptions lasted for weeks. In Odim’s histories, it is said this cataclysm “birthed mountains from flat land” and “sunk the hills with sea”. The great civilizations of the day were all but destroyed.
As the war of the infinities continued above them, the battered peoples of the planet cowered and mourned their mounting losses. There was much fear that the gods had judged them and found the world wanting—but the destruction eventually subsided.
Oblarra settled into her current orbit around the Earth, still at cross angles with the other infinities—only now she swam in a sky full of Luna’s remains. Indeed, where the moon once stood, a million billion pieces of shiny white rock spun about the night sky and formed a thin ring of debris. Survivors emerged from the destruction and began the slow process of rebuilding. They need only look up to remember what happened—and if they didn’t want to remember, the occasional stones fell and reminded them anyway.
Two other items of celestial import are said to have taken place as Oblarra tracked across the heavens and settled around the Earth. Nevus, that most lovely nymph and Keeper of the Heart, took her current position around Jupi, the Benevolent Mother. Also, Trismegist, the Mercurial Rake, abandoned the Sun and took up course around the Earth itself—though a good distance beyond Oblarra’s near orbit. It is said that before Oblarra, Nevus used to circle the Sun, closer than the Earth, and Trismegist circled the Sun inferior even to that—if such impossible things might be believed! Of course, all of this is said to have happened a thousand generations ago, so who can pretend to know the truth of it? We have only the books.
So that is the history as it is commonly told. And now that one knows the Legend of the Interloper, let us consider the elder races that are said to have appeared upon the earth, as the Red Moon appeared above it.
- The Elder Races of the World: Considerations, Arguments, and Refutations, by Aogostua Veribos, page 3
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 3.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
Despite the loss of his men, Creigal still wanted to find Humbert. “We came all the way out here. If he’s in town, I’d like to know it.”
“I’ll go,” Baet agreed. “I’m the only one to do it. If we were in the south where Borz are plentiful...” he looked at Carringten with his dark skin and shrugged.
Both guards knew the duke couldn’t go. He was a brazen man at times, but every watchman in Wibbeley was likely to be looking for him, and far too many of them might even know what he looked like.
On the other hand, Baet had a common countenance, especially with a few days’ dirt behind his ears. He was perfect for this mission. Indeed, he was a trained spy, sneak, and opportunist.
After several glances between his two remaining guards, Creigal agreed. He gave a nod to Baet.
“When I find the weasel, what do you want me to do with him?” Baet asked. “I’d offer to bring him out, but...” he let the sentence hang, as he felt such a thing was impossible.
Creigal leaned in close. “If this man has my treasure, then he is guilty. If this man is guilty, then I would have blood for our troubles.”
Baet nodded at the roundabout order and thought it’d be his pleasure to bleed Humbert dry.
“He stole a good deal of coin,” Creigal continued. “Gold, silver, copper, and two fanciful weapons; a musket with a pearl handle, and a dagger with a gold filigree hilt. Above all,” Creigal locked eyes with the guard. “Above all I want my daughter’s necklace. It is a silver locket upon a silver chain and bares the likeness of her mother inside. If you bring me nothing else, bring me that necklace.”
“Silver?” Baet asked—though he quickly put the question aside. It wasn’t his place to ask, though he was surprised that the trinket should be of such a common material. To think, they’d charged to the far side of the Saot Kingdom so the duke could risk his life for mere silver!
Carringten escorted Baet to the door of the small barn and gave the junior guard additional orders. “Be back before sunrise tomorrow or make your own way to Gaurring Heart,” he said as he clapped Baet on the shoulder. “Beware: it was Banifourd’s word that brought us to Wibbeley. Humbert might not be here at all. This could be nothing more than a trap,” he concluded.
“Always thinking of the worst,” Baet shook his head. But despite a solemn countenance, he left the barn in high spirits. He thought it was a grand development that he should search for Humbert alone. He didn’t want to admit it—though he suspected it was already known—he was more than a passing acquaintance to the thief. Just a few months prior, Baet thought of Humbert as a gambling buddy—though it was now glaringly apparent that Humbert thought of Baet as a rube, a mark to be used and discarded. Still, they’d gambled, and Baet had incurred a good bit of debt to the minor court clerk.
As they played, Humbert frequently questioned Baet about his work. One night, as Baet’s debt grew a bit wild, and the clerk’s questions became a bit too candid, Baet called the clerk on his bad behavior. In a smooth and pious manner, Humbert apologized and swore that the information would do him a great deal of good while causing no real harm to the duke. “After all, I’m working on a report for the duke’s own judges,” he noted. In a flourish of affected humility, Humbert promised to drop the debt Baet owed him—a gold sovereign—if only this one last question was answered.
For too long, Baet considered the request. After all, it was a debt of a gold sovereign, several month’s wages at a poke’s pay, weighed against a question of minor importance. Indeed, it was just a bit of formality in most ways. Despite his uneasiness, Baet answered the question. He considered it a minor indiscretion—but it was crack in the dam, a place for the waters of his own destruction to gain hold. Two months later, Humbert approached Baet while he was on duty. He pretended that the meeting was chance and claimed to be simply enjoying the duke’s flowers. as a few tall specimens poked their heads over the high wall. For a time, they talked of the garden, then Humbert had the bright idea to offer a gold sovereign to the guard, so he “might have a bit of a stroll about the garden. Just to appreciate the flowers, and maybe collect a few seeds.”
Creigal was away. A skeleton crew kept the house. No important persons were at risk and no one was likely to see the man, so long as he didn’t stay in the garden too long—and so Baet compromised his oath a second time and allowed Humbert onto the manse’s grounds.
Humbert poked about the flowers and trees of the duke’s private garden as Baet leaned against the archway, and watched the clerk from afar. He only turned for a second—to find the clerk had slipped away among the thick foliage. With a frown, Baet marched into the dark mass of vegetation and pushed among the larger plants, where a person might hide. He brushed past massive hedges full of all sorts of flowers and fruits, and no few stickers and thorns.
After a few minutes of not finding Humbert, Baet began to run. Next, he tried backtracking. Several times, Baet held still and listened for his quarry—all as he muttered curses under his breath.
When Baet arrived at the far end of the fields and saw Marik making the rounds, he realized he’d been away from his post for nearly a quarter of an hour! Humbert could be just about anywhere on the grounds! Baet’s chest began to tighten. A panic set in. He didn’t know what else to do, so he returned to his post and prayed nobody noticed he was ever missing. With any luck, one of the other guards would catch Humbert...
…unless Humbert was a squealer. In that case, it was best to hope Humbert chickened out and simply abandoned the grounds altogether.
Baet returned to his post. He leaned against the archway as Marik came around the corner. Marik nodded and seemed to sense nothing amiss as he continued on his rounds.
Initially, Baet wasn’t sure if Creigal figured out how the clerk managed to get onto the property—though the duke certainly managed to figure out who the thief was with uncanny quickness. Indeed, when Carringten first approached and ordered Baet to follow, Baet thought he was caught. He thought he was being led to the dungeons. Instead, Baet found himself part of a select guard escorting the duke on a clandestine mission to retrieve his stolen treasure—which was apparently nothing more than a silver necklace?!
Baet frowned as he thumbed the gold sovereign Humbert gave him. The light gold coin was a good deal closer to a cabin near Haver’s Port (or so goes the lure) but if Humbert and Banifourd were in cahoots, then the sovereign they gave Baet was blood money.
In Baet’s estimation, the duke was a noble and just man. It rankled Baet to think he almost handed Creigal over to his enemies. He was certainly not perfect, indeed Baet no longer wished to serve the man, but the duke was in most ways kind and just.
As he contemplated this morass of mix feelings, Baet trudged along the road in the ill-fitting clothes of his dear friend, Haddelton. The night before, as they made their escape, Creigal mistook Haddelton’s supplies for Baet’s own, and since Baet escaped wearing nothing but his boots and underwear, he was forced to wear the slimmer, longer garments of his lanky best friend. The outfit bit and pinched at his joints, and constantly rolled over his hands and under his feet. Baet thanked the gods he still possessed his own boots. Haddelton’s spare riders were far too thin to even consider. To think of wearing such evil shoes with glass still in his foot made Baet cringe.
By late morning, Baet reached his destination and decided to take the direct approach. With any luck, a surprised Humbert would answer the door. Then—after beating the duke’s treasure out of him—Baet would stick him with Haddelton’s long knife and find himself with another weapon to name. With a grin, Baet decided to call it Haddie’s Revenge.
“Yes, yes...” an unfamiliar voice called through the door. Baet frowned to hear it. The door opened and a man in blue and white glared back at the ill-dressed stranger before him. “What ya want?” the guard snapped.
Baet glanced past the guard. The apartment most immediately went up some stairs on one side and down a long hall to an open sitting area on the other. At the back of this room sat Garf in full view of the door. A flush of anger overcame the traitor’s face as he stared back at Baet.
“Banifourd!” Garf roared. He picked a loaded crossbow off a low table and leveled it at the door.
“Balls,” Baet muttered.
The guard in the doorway grabbed at his sword. Baet didn’t bother to go for a weapon. He hit the guard in the neck and grabbed the door’s handle. The guard reeled back and Baet slammed the door shut. The door trembled as the crossbow bolt struck it with a solid whack. The wood of the door split and the tip of the bolt poked through.
Wide eyed, Baet turned from the wicked edged chevron and ran down the steps. He winced as he favored his right foot and limp-ran into an alley.
The alley forked. Baet stopped and turned. He pulled Thunder Maker from its sheath and leveled the weapon at the entrance. It was bit of a bluff. If Baet fired, guards would come running from any and every direction—but if he could get a clean shot at Garf, or possibly Banifourd...
Several guards in blue and white approached the far end of the alley, saw the musket, and broke for cover. Baet didn’t get a good bead on any of them, and so he didn’t risk a shot. Instead, he holstered the weapon and ran on. He couldn’t allow himself to be flanked. If he was caught, there was nothing but torture and death ahead of him. He hopped a couple fences as he crisscrossed north and west through the neighborhood.
His side ached where Willem’s arrow had grazed him. His foot throbbed as the glass pounded deeper into his sole. He told himself it was his life if he were caught, and ran on with clenched teeth. For a good dozen blocks, Baet ran, jumped, and dodged like the very devil was after him.
Winded, Baet stopped and listened. There was no more sound of pursuit. Ahead of him and to his left, he could hear a crowd on the street. He eased forward and found himself before a long row of shops and booths. With a smile, he peeled off his cloak, pitched it over a fence, and walked into the market, intent to get lost among the vendors. While Baet considered what to do next about Humbert, he figured he could at least find a change of clothes—one that fit.
The market stretched on and on. All the necessities were available as thousands of people moseyed about. Baet bought a comfortable outfit and a warm white hat with fur trim. He also bought a new cloak with fanciful red stitching. The cloak looked good with the new cap. Although it cost him two lunes for the outfit, Baet went from every other man on the street to a man of means. He looked perhaps a bit of a dandy, all sparkly and new, but the cloth was made of a strong and comfortable material. They’d last the length of the journey—if only he managed to keep them. He had to admit, it was certainly nice to wear something that fit, and even nicer that it was clean. Best of all, Baet looked nothing like before in Haddelton’s tight and overly long travel clothes.
Baet paid for the garments and realized the red sigil of Gaurring sat exposed on Haddelton’s undershirt. The undershirt sat on top of the neat pile of Haddelton’s old clothes. Baet’s heart leapt as the clerk looked down at the symbol and put his hand on it. “For two bits I’ll give you a sack for your ol’ stuff,” he offered.
Baet smiled and gave the man a nod. He turned to the door and caught sight of a rack filled with soft-looking socks. “Add a few of these,” he said, as he pulled several pair off the rack and stuffed them in the burlap sack full of Haddelton’s old clothes.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 3.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
Carringten sat in the door of the barn and looked out over the countryside. Creigal slept as there was little to do but worry and wait while Baet snuck about Wibbeley. The sun approached its zenith and the duke finally took leave of his blankets. He joined his captain at the abandoned barn’s door as Carringten looked out over the countryside.
“Morning,” Creigal noted.
“Barely,” Carringten looked up at the sun. “And how are you?”
“Better days,” Creigal shrugged. “Feelin’ a bit of a fool.”
“Life is folly,” Carringten noted as he stared out over the fields.
“We could be safe in Gaurring,” Creigal replied. “Vearing, Marik, Haddelton; the lot of ‘em still with us.”
“Including Willem,” Carringten noted. “And we might not be safe at all. I distinctly remember two botched assassinations in the halls of your own manse, and a number of dead guards that attended both,” he shook his head. “Its a sad existence to beg for safety. Now at least we have adventure.”
“Is that what you call this?” Creigal asked. “And yet, you justify my position. We would not be here at all if I did not insist on it.”
“We would not be here if Humbert did not steal from you,” Carringten noted.
“Still, I would not feel so bad if this adventure was not purchased with the death of such good men,” Creigal shrugged. “I wonder if I have spent them foolishly.”
“I am sorry for your men,” Carringten put a hand on the duke’s shoulder. “They would be pleased to know you escaped. They thought it an honor to serve.”
“Did they?” Creigal doubted it.
Carringten continued with a shrug. “Yes, we could be safe in Gaurring. Safeish. And eventually we’d die there, of age, of boredom. And what would we have to show for it? Here and now, we pursue a thief. We right wrongs.”
Creigal shook his head. “We mean to collect a necklace—a base and simple necklace—if I admit the truth of it. I could buy a thousand identical and not blink at the cost.”
“There is none identical,” the dark captain disagreed. “None other was draped around Daphne’s neck, and nothing of Daphne was ever base or simple. She was your one true born child. Your pernicious sons stand for nothing.”
Few people took the liberty to say such things to Creigal. He frowned to hear this, though he broached no argument. He knew it was true. He knew what his sons were worth.
“Daphne’s memory deserves your defense,” Carringten continued. “Plots against you will not stop simply because you stay home.”
Creigal wondered if the other men might agree. For his part, Vearing would not have cared. He lived to fight. But some of the others had considerations: Haddelton, Barkaloe, Launden, and Marik all had children—but it would do Creigal no good to dwell on it. What was done was done. Instead, he turned and looked at his captain. “And what’s on your mind?” he asked.
Carringten stared off in the direction of Wibbeley. “Can’t get it out of my head that Baet saved me.”
“And all but naked in his efforts,” Creigal grinned.
“He had his boots, and a good deal of blood and dirt for camouflage,” Carringten snorted, then shook his head and turned serious again. “No, I thought of Baet too much, and in the end, he proved to be loyal—at least as it mattered to your own personal safety. In the mean time, I did not see Banifourd actively plotting with his men.”
“Baet deserved our suspicion,” Creigal began. “And I trusted Banifourd to see me north. There was no reason to question his loyalty—though now I must wonder how long he’s been with our enemies. How long ago was he bought? By whom? How much has he shared?”
“Then we trust Baet now?” Carringten asked. “He will not take this opportunity to betray you once more?”
“He has allowed me to be robbed—and yet he has saved my life,” Creigal shrugged. “It seems he is willing to cross some lines, but not others.”
“He is no good as a guard,” Carringten frowned. “Not in the long run.”
“No, not in the long run,” Creigal agreed. “But I think he can be trusted, for now, in this situation. I believe he had more love for Haddelton than his gambling.”
“Do you think he was ever in league with Banifourd?”
Creigal shook his head. “If Baet hadn’t fired his pistol, we may not have been alerted to Willem and his men as they snuck up on us.”
“Haddelton was our man. I believe that,” Carringten considered. “Perhaps Haddelton’s death soured the deal?”
Creigal snorted. “There’s too much to know. We take a risk no matter what we do.”
“Then it is truly an adventure,” Carringten smiled. “And if Baet does not return, which way shall we go?”
Creigal shook his head. “Is there no time for uncertainty? Must you ask the next question so quickly?”
“We’re in a heap of a mess,” Carringten nodded. “I’ve spent the better part of the morning uncertain—and I find it very uncomfortable.”
Creigal shrugged. At least planning for the future would keep his mind off the immediate past. “If Baet does not return, our task is impossible,” he began. “It will take weeks to get reinforcements to continue the search. By that time, Humbert could be at the far edge of Minist. He could be aboard a ship to Hof Hebrin for all we know—or even go back around to Balliwex.”
“Balliwex!” Carringten hooted, “Let him return to the south! Better yet, let him return to Gaurring Heart!” he laughed. “No, he will never go home! That is folly!”
“Whatever his course, I hope he did not go west. I loathe the idea of going to Minist,” Creigal said. “And if Baet does not return, perhaps we’ll go east to High Plains and have a candid conversation with Yurand. Maybe even go all the way to Land’s End and drop in on the Dunkels,” Creigal surmised.
“The Dunkels?” Carringten sat up. “With only me to protect you?” He shook his head. “I don’t even like the idea of visiting High Plains with nobody but me for your guard, and I am quite fond of Yurand.”
Creigal considered this and gave a nod. “Still, I have ignored the Noeth for too long. I think I shall at least have to write letters.”
“So we might gauge their ambitions?” Carringten stroked his chin. “Yurand and the Dunkels do not like each other. Yet, they both seem to chafe under the rule of Gred duReb.”
“Or so it seems,” Creigal nodded. “But that, my friend, is an apt description of all politics.”
“One that has kept you alive for quite some time,” Carringten smiled. “Gred duReb is still unsure of where you stand.”
Creigal shook his head. “I cannot believe that. For almost a decade, we kept our secret and pretended that the Breckers bested us with our own weapons. But I think the king is on to us now, if not for the last couple of years. I believe it is not only my sons that plot my demise.”
“This was bound to happen,” Carringten shrugged. “What is our next step? What do you think our illustrious king will do?”
“Likely his plans are already in motion,” Creigal sighed.
“We’re prepared,” Carringten nodded.
“Indeed, we’ve prepared for war of any kind on every front,” Creigal agreed. “And now that war seems inevitable, I think we must come up with some sure-fire strategies to force a peace.”
“Now that’d be a thing,” Carringten nodded. “And now I hope that Baet does return, for the retrieval of your daughter’s necklace seems to be a much easier task then suing the King for peace.”
“Then we hope for the easy road?” Creigal asked his captain.
“We hope for adventure, instead of politics,” Carringten answered.
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Plan B
Polished — 23m51s — 2023/11/26
Baet found a secluded corner, sat for a rest, and took off his boots. His right foot felt like burger, and when he finally took the opportunity to change his socks, it looked like burger too. He was not surprised. He ran until it was numb—and then he ran a little further.
Now that he no longer ran, the soaring pain of the glass in his foot was beginning to sing above the fading numbness. Still, Baet was pleased he’d managed to keep the injury clean of outside interference and thanked his boots for their constant company. He changed his socks, stuffed them in the sack with Haddelton’s clothes, and ditched the pack over a fence into a bush that looked like it had suffered only haphazard sheerings.
Eventually, Baet limped his way back around to the house where he still hoped to find Humbert. He leaned against a distant wall and watched the door, convinced the thief was in on the assassination plot from the beginning. It seemed like such an obvious ploy: steal from the duke, get him to chase, then ambush him far from home. Not only is the duke out of the way, but one of his own loyal guard serves as the patsy! This sentiment further enraged the guard. He cursed himself for an idiot and wondered once more what Creigal knew. He wondered if the duke and his captain were still waiting—or did they run off the moment Baet turned his back? Is that why Carringten gave him the order to return to Gaurring Heart, because they didn’t trust him and thought he might desert? Did they think he might turn traitor?!
A darkness caught in Baet’s heart, and he wondered what side he was on. Time to cast lots, and let bygones be bygones, he thought to himself.
Immediately, he scoffed. He felt used by Humbert, and there was no way he’d ever join Banifourd, even if he could! Banifourd! That smug, oozy prick, always leaning on his relation to the Politico Superiore! Baet thought. And his friends are just as bad! Garf is a brute and a bully, always looking for an easy target! Bence is a conniver and a lush, likely sauced out of his mind! And Willem!... Baet frowned. Among Banifourd’s lot, Willem was the only one he kind of liked. He seemed to be normal, even helpful, and interesting at times.
Then he tried to kill the duke, Baet shrugged, his sympathy in short supply. No, I’d never align myself with those ball-suckers! Nor would I run to ground and seek sanctuary in Minist! he thought, firmly on the side of the duke. He recommitted himself to bringing his full compliment of wit and skill to bare against the duke’s enemies! Now all he had to do was figure out how to get at Humbert, who seemed to be holed up in a building with a good twenty to thirty guards, including Banifourd and Garf...
Baet frowned as he stared past the house and wondered how he might get his hands on the thief. He didn’t like his odds. He’d watched a daunting number of guards go in and out. He sighed and relaxed his foot at a convenient bench as he continued to stare down the street. He was quite confident in his disguise and figured his enemies would have to get pretty close to sniff him out. He also moved every few minutes and stared into the distance, seemingly oblivious to the house full of watchmen, as he studied the surrounding city.
The neighborhood was certainly not one of finery or opulence. Indeed, the neighborhood was run down and filthy in the full light of day. Several of the buildings seemed abandoned, or occupied by squatters. One visibly leaned and threatened to fall over into its neighbor—like one of the staggering drunks that too often stumbled down the street. Other buildings held bars, brothels, gambling parlors. Likely there were a few drug dens hidden in some of the less scrupulous cafes and shops. One finds all sorts of distraction in these parts of the world, Baet thought. Indeed, Wibbeley reminded him of Rottershelm a little more with each passing hour, and he didn’t like it one bit.
Although Baet loitered, he looked fairly well to do and competent at the casual glance. Plenty of watch passed him on the street as he wondered from one spot to another. He was always affable to the poke. In return, they paid him the courtesy of leaving him alone. Still, Baet frowned to see so many men baring colors as he waited. If he counted the Ministians, the armed men outnumbered the vagrants—which was no easy feat! Too bad these Ministrians aren’t the pretty priestesses instead of the grim-faced shock troopers, Baet thought. How do they hope to win any converts if they won’t show the ladies?
“Hey dearie,” A voice called with a sweet lilt as Baet stared into the distance. “You seem to have a little time on your hands,” she crooned.
Baet knew what she was before he turned. He’d seen a number of brothel girls as he waited. Although they made eyes at him, none bothered to approach—until now. Still, he didn’t expect her to be so pretty. He turned, and for a second, was stunned by the look of her. A tangle of blonde ringlets framed an exotic face that seemed Ministrian—though perhaps too pale and wide at the eyes. She cut a neat figure in a sheer gown that offered a view of lace-trimmed small clothes, and a strong body several years junior to his own. Her smile was toothy, and there was a devious glint about her hazel-green eyes. “Come inside. Have a drink,” she said with a nod and a wink.
Baet’s heart quickened as he stared at the pretty hooker. “Where you from?” he asked.
Put off by the question, she frowned at him.
“I have not seen features drawn in such a way,” he continued with a smile. “Though your hair is awful light, you look Ministrian.”
“Half,” she gave a reluctant nod. “I get my hair from my mother, a Trohl, a Bouge—but I barely knew either of my parents, and I know less of their homes and people,” she said as she took a step back.
“Bouge...” Baet repeated, unfamiliar with the term, but liking the way it rolled off his tongue.
“One of the Trohl peoples,” she shrugged. “But I’ve been in Wibbeley since I can remember: I am a Noeth by duchy and a Saot by kingdom,” she finished. “But enough of my heritage,” she leaned in with a grin. “Let’s get a drink and speak of pleasure. Are you not hot under all these clothes?”
Baet backed away from the girl. “I should think another time might find us fast friends, my lady, but I have other matters to attend.”
“Oh darling...” she began with disappointment.
Baet did not hear the rest of her words. He glanced past her at a knot of watchmen that stepped out of the house he was supposed to surveil. His heart skipped a beat as he saw Bence at their fore, walking up the street, rot-faced, and glaring. For a split second, Baet thought he was caught—but Bence didn’t see him. Not yet. Instead, Bence turned and studied the whores on the other side of the street. Then, Garf muscled his way through the watchmen, tapped Bence on the shoulder, and pointed him up the street. Indeed, he pointed almost directly at Baet.
Baet’s heart dropped into his stomach. He realized if he didn’t move quick, he was sure to be noticed. He immediately put his arm around the working girl’s shoulders and spun her toward the decrepit door, and slowly hobbled forward.
“Mister, what’s wrong with your foot?” the working girl began.
Baet smiled and ignored the question. “What does it cost to drink, taste, and touch in such a fine establishment?” He asked as he hobbled into the parlor. “I suddenly find myself ravenous!” he claimed. Despite his words, his guts twisted in a knot of dread. At the moment, Baet doubted he could keep down half an apple!
The girl blushed. “Let us discuss such details over whisky or wine,” she said as she led him into the brothel. She moved his hand to her breast, and although he found the sensation agreeable, he wondered what the hell he was doing. This was no sort of plan!
Several women lounged about the main room of the brothel. Most were Noethrin, but there were a few exotics. A few were Hebrinese, and a couple of the women were Ministrian, with their dark hair and freckled skin. One pale lady looked like she might be a full blooded Trohl, though Baet was unsure. Indeed, he was surprised the establishment was so very cosmopolitan—a fine mix of nationalities—and a few of them were even attractive!
Most of the ladies ignored Baet because he was already accompanied, though a few batted their eyelashes and promised not to be boring. Baet reconsidered his company for a split second, then remembered he wasn’t here to attend the ladies at all! He turned his mind back to evading capture.
A grizzled and sour fellow stood behind the bar. “What’ll it be?” he asked as Baet sat in a corner with his back to the door. The bartender was well muscled and grim. Muskets decorated the wall behind him, which was unusual for so far north. Several were fakes, a number were obviously broken, and a couple were undoubtedly sabotaged—but there were likely a few that worked, and those were probably loaded. Even if there weren’t, there was likely no end of knives, bludgeons, and usually a sword or two tucked in convenient hidey-holes about such bars. There was no end of trouble in these sorts of places. Even half the ladies would have weapons; pins, knives, and knuckles.
Baet smiled at the barkeep. “Whisky,” he said, hoping it wasn’t mere swill. Or rancid. The bartender poured a decent finger from a questionable bottle.
“Coffee,” the girl smiled.
Baet cringed. The barkeep turned and stepped back into the kitchen. He returned with a tin cup of the awful black liquid for the girl. “Diem, six bits,” the bartender stared at Baet.
“For whisky?” he frowned as he considered it a steep price indeed!
“And the coffee, and the lady,” the bartender pointed a thumb at the girl.
“Oh...” Baet wasn’t committed to the whore, but he thought it better to pay up and avoid an argument. So what if they did things a little different in the Noeth? Besides, it was only a diem, six! It was cheap price if it kept him innocuous, irrelevant, and most importantly, alive! He set a diem and two bots on the counter. “No change.”
The barkeep eyed the coins and gave an approving nod as he tucked them away, then returned to polishing glassware. Now there was nothing to do but wait.
“What’s your name?” Baet asked as he turned to the whore.
“Pearl,” she said, then continued to speak, though Baet didn’t hear it because the doors banged open. The gawk of the other ladies took on a festive tone as men spread about the lounge. Out of the corner of his eye, Baet caught the blue and white of a guard’s tabard. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He was convinced Garf and Bence were now in the room with him. He hunched on the bar and tried to appear irrelevant as he kept his back turned. He was in a completely new outfit. He felt his best plan of action was to simply ignore the guards and leave them to their own entertainments.
Was it possible they’d seen through his disguise?! He doubted it. It was just terrible luck that they’d stumbled into the same hovel, looking to be entertained!
“And what about you?” Pearl asked. “What is your current concern?”
Baet hunched to one side and leaned into Pearl in a playful manner. The reek of coffee invaded his space as he kissed her. “I should like to see a Pearl so far from the sea,” he whispered as he ignored her question, caressed her arm, and studied her freckles. He leaned back with a smile and fingered his whisky as he wondered if it was a mistake to drink it, or a mistake not to.
“Like I haven’t heard that,” she snorted.
“Have you ever seen the sea?” he asked. Pearl shook her head with a flash of disappointment. “Wibbeley is a long way from any ocean,” she noted. “There are some grand lakes to the west, as one approaches Minist,” she leaned close and kissed him back. “But they reek of Ministrians,” she continued and wrinkled her nose.
“What do you have against Ministrians?” Baet asked. “Are you not half that race?”
“By no fault of my own!” Pearl frowned and struck him lightly. “I swear if I hear one more of them ballyhoo about the sanctity of their twin gods and beg for ritual—I’ll cut off his hog!” Her face took on a savage look. It did not last. “No, I am not a Trohl or a Ministrian,” Pearl said, smooth and lady-like. “I am a Saot, a true child of Wibbeley! I was born here; and one day I’ll see the ports of Rottershelm, Danyan, and Balliwex! I will stand before the Sea of Danya and feel the waves crash upon my legs!” she turned the question back at Baet. “And what of you? Have you seen the sea?”
Before Baet could answer, a face approached over his shoulder and surprised him. “Hey kid,” said a man in blue in white.
Baet immediately gripped the hilt of his pistol as he looked at the guard. Several painful-looking scratches ran down the left side of the stranger’s face. The wounds were rather new, maybe a few days old, and lent a ghoulish air to the man, as he stared at Pearl. Pearl frowned as she glanced back at the haunted guard. She quickly turned away as hostility rippled across her face. “Thank you, kind sir, but I am attended!” she sang in a snide manner. “You’ll have to find other company,” she pointed vaguely about the room.
The stranger glared at Baet. “You don’t want this one,” he said. “She’s more than a dandy like you can handle.”
Infuriated, Pearl complained across the bar. “Grebs!”
The bartender turned, saw the scarred man, and stomped over. “You got a bad habit sir, an’ if you ain’t careful, it’s gonna get you hurt!” He roared at the guard. He had a bludgeon in hand as he threatened, and the guard stepped back and looked to his brothers-in-arms. Grebs glanced about the other guards, a bit nervous that he may have overstepped himself.
“Welen, we ain’t here to fight,” someone called across the room in a disappointed voice.
“Though you might be able to take one of two of the skinnier ones,” someone else chimed in with a chuckle.
Several of the others laughed. The comment broke the tension and most of the watchmen returned to their own matters.
“Come, Welen, try one of these others!” the first voice continued. “Trissa here can teach you proper Ministrian ritual—not that shit Pearl invents!”
“It is a lovely thing to serve the true gods,” one of the Ministrian women—presumably Trissa—called. “Come, sit. You can have my lap for a stool,” she smiled.
“A fig for your false gods!” Welen raged. The scars on his face made him look all the more angry.
“Gimme two figs,” Trissa replied. “And a branch for peace!” She added with a crude gesture—which inspired another round of laughs from the few that still paid attention.
Welen frowned, turned, and leaned on a table as he glared at Baet and Pearl. “You gonna make a night of it?!” He snarled at Baet. “Others be waitin’..!”
Baet frowned and leaned back just enough that Welen might see the stone handle of Thunder Maker. Welen noted the musket, blanched, and turned away.
Pearl smiled to be so defended. She leaned into Baet and took his hand. “Come with me, loving man,” she said and hopped off her stool.
Baet downed his whisky and gave a polite nod to Grebs. He allowed Pearl to pull him across the lounge as he hobbled on his sore foot. He bumbled through the room, muttering apologies. Though he would not turn his head, his eyes darted about the room with furtive glances. His enemies were in here, somewhere, and he refused to give in to temptation and have a good look. With any luck, Bence and Garf were far too interested in the ladies to notice him.
Pearl led Baet down a long, dim hallway. She stopped at her room, produced a key, and unlocked her door. Her fine curtains obscured the view, but not the light. As Baet stepped into the room, he lifted his head and took a casual glance back into the main room. Garf faced directly toward him—but he did not see the duke’s spy. His eyes were down as he stared at the voluptuous mounds of the woman that sat on his lap. She sat with her back to him, arms lifted above her, as she combed and pulled his frazzled hair. One of his grizzly hands cupped a breast as the other moved up under her dress. There was a look of rapt fascination on the dangerous man’s face—then the woman snapped her knees together and trapped his lusty fingers.
“Hey!” Garf complained, loud enough that the entire room looked up. With a raucous laugh, the large woman spread her legs once more.
Baet stepped inside Pearl’s room, closed the door, and locked it; convinced he was still unknown. He looked about the room and noted the door on the far side of the bed. “Does this go to the alley?” he asked with sudden hope in his heart. He made for the door.
“Where are you going?” Pearl asked. From the edge of her bed, she jumped on Baet’s back. She kissed and nibbled at his neck as she wrapped herself around him. He turned on her—but she was so close. She put her lips on his and wrangled him up against the wall. Baet stared at the pretty young lady and acquiesced.
“I don’t know if this is the proper time...” he began to protest.
“I do,” Pearl smiled and held him against the wall. She kissed him again and he realized she already had her shirt off. Her tits were perfect. “You’re quite a looker,” she beamed. The reek of coffee caught in Baet’s nose—it wasn’t such a bad smell. She tugged on him and tried to bring him down to her bed. Baet resisted. “What? You got more waiting to do?!” Pearl asked, flummoxed.
Baet put his hand in her face, “I’m sorry. I have to think,” he said. Bence and Garf were in the lounge, distracted but dangerous. He wondered if he might somehow get the jump on one of them, perhaps in one of the rooms—perhaps caught in a compromising position. Then he’d get some answers!
Pearl slapped Baet’s hand out of the way. “Hello!?” she snapped, not interested in being ignored.
“Wait!” He hissed as he tried to formulate any sort of plan. How many men might he expect to find still at the house? He imagined Banifourd was still there with too many others.
Pearl grabbed Baet’s arm and dug her nails into his skin.
“Ow!” Baet glared at the whore.
Pearl wore an apology as she bit her lip. She leaned close to Baet’s ear. “You don’t have to say anything. You just go on thinking your deep thoughts, okay?” She teethed his neck. She kissed him again and again.
Baet tried to think about Garf, Banifourd, Humbert, plots against the duke—but his blood rushed south. Pearl pressed her body into his. She split his mouth with the tip of her tongue, and Baet found the sensation agreeable, engaging, distracting. Giving into her pressures, Baet kissed her back. She was warm and eager, despite the taste of coffee on her lips. She was strong and enthusiastic as she pulled him onto the bed.
After a few minutes of groping and necking, Baet was fully bothered. This won’t take long, he thought. And then I can formulate a proper plan! Or so he told himself. “Let me get my clothes,” he said as he stood and began to undo his cloak.
Pearl smiled and dropped back on her bed. She kicked up her legs and pulled off her small pants in one quick motion. Eyes wide, Baet undid his belts and piled his weapons on the dresser, one by one, as he stared at Pearl in all her unadorned glory.
“My my my. Loving man is a fighter,” Pearl smiled at his muskets and knives. “You home from the war, loving man?”
“Is there a war on?” Baet asked.
Pearl shrugged. “Isn’t there always some war?”
Baet gave a bit of a nod and pulled off his blood-stained underwear. “I am most certainly not home,” he smiled.
“And with that mess, you must still be at war,” Pearl smirked as she held out her arms and uncrossed her legs. “Come here, loving man. I have a stirring that needs strong hands,” she purred.
Baet did as he was told. Pearl rolled him onto his back. She was a vocal thing as they played hide and peep with Baet’s soldier. She cooed and panted as she pushed against and pulled away. He swam her river as long as he could, but did not last long in her grip. Her mouth hung open, a mimic of Baet’s awkward expression, as his soldier spit seed, and his mind erupted with light and euphoria. It was all over so quickly!
With a bit of a giggle, Pearl climbed out from under Baet and picked up her shirt.
Baet sat up. “That didn’t give me long to think,” he complained.
Pearl turned to him with a chastising look, “It is not a whore you seek but a wife,” she said as she pulled back her hair and gave Baet a remorseful look. She climbed back onto the bed and over Baet on all fours. She took his spent soldier in hand and gently massaged the good man. “I can make it right,” she said. “I’ll take another dose of your seed if your willing to give a girl another diem.”
“Another diem,” Baet readily agreed.
Pearl smiled to hear it. “Let us give your kingly piece a minute to regroup before the next thrust,” she said as she sat across his chest. “And what game shall we play while we wait?” she put a finger in her mouth.
“I haven’t been one for games of late,” Baet shrugged. “You’ll have to decide.”
She paused as she thought for a moment, but there was only one game she liked to play, and they were already agreed to play it again. Instead, she changed the subject. “What’s wrong with your foot?” Pearl asked as she pawed his chest. “Did you injure yourself?”
“I managed to get a few shards of glass stuck in it,” Baet admitted.
Pearl sucked in her breath, “Ooo!” she gaped. “Can I see?! Please! I’ll even get the glass out!” she promised.
Baet squinted at her as he considered the offer. “You have to be super delicate,” he told her. “My poor foot has suffered enough aggravation.”
“Delicate?” she smiled. “I’m the most gentle woman you ever met!” With that she jumped off the bed and grabbed Gore Tongue from among his belongings. “Mind if I use your blade? I’m not to touch the men’s weapons—but I won’t tell if you don’t...”
“That blade is far too big,” Baet protested.
“Nonsense,” Pearl cut him off as she crawled back on top of him. “I’ll just use the tip,” she grinned. “Now roll over!”
Pearl turned around as Baet spun onto his stomach.
“Which foot is it?” She said and slapped his ass with the flat of the knife.
Baet lifted his foot and Pearl grabbed it with her free hand.
“Ooo...” she began. “Loving man, you done yourself a bit of damage,” she said as she gently peeled off the blood stained sock. She licked his messy foot to clean up some of the blood. “Perhaps you want to fish around under the bed?” she continued. “There’s a bottle down there with the last few breaths of whisky in it. You might want it,” she finished, as she gently poked at Baet’s tender foot.
Baet hissed and tensed.
“Got our first trespasser, eh?” she noted as her prodding became delicate and localized. Baet reached under the bed and found a bottle with half an inch of dirty liquid in it. He took a swig and thought it burned like hellfire as Pearl cut her way to the first shard of glass.
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Wyrm
Polished — 13m37s — 2023/11/26
Scurra stared into the distance as she stood over the hot stove. For a long moment, Soirja thought her daughter only looked through the window, after her nieces, or watched the wheel and dart of the birds. Then, Soirja noted the hypnotized look on her grown daughter’s face and realized she was suffering another one of her spells. “Scurra?” Soirja called as she stood and moved to intervene.
Most the time these spells were peaceful enough on the surface—but not always. Scurra was known to lose her balance and stumble as she came out of them. One time, when she was young, Scurra was atop the barn when a spell struck. Soirja just happened to be outside, to turn and see her daughter standing dangerously tall on the roof of the barn, and then Scurra toppled like a leaf in the wind, coming out of the spell too late to catch herself. She flailed and floundered as she crashed to the ground. Soirja thought her baby had died right in front of her—but the fall resulted in nothing more than a busted leg, a bloodied lip, and a bucket of tears. Considering the height of the barn, Soirja was all to happy to find her baby breathing and cognizant, as Scurra wailed and fussed.
But that was years ago, back when the spells first started. Indeed, Scurra’s spells were rarely so bad—which was not like the spells suffered by her brother. When Krumpus had one of his spells, he flopped about like a fish out of water, and frothed like a madman. His eyes rolled back, his limbs contorted, his teeth chomped upon his own tongue as he slobbered and foamed. For years, Soirja thought his spells would be the end of him—but somehow they both carried on.
Soirja led her daughter away from the heat of the stove and sat her in a chair. It was better to have Scurra at the table rather than in front of the stove where she might come out of her spell and do something terrible, like dump a hot pan of sausage and grease all over herself. Soirja shook her head to clear it of such terrible thoughts and continued to prepare breakfast as she waited for Scurra to snap out of it.
After a minute or so, Scurra looked about the kitchen, noticed the gaze of her mother, then turned and hanged her head. “I wasn’t myself,” she said as she often did when these things were witnessed, then stood and joined her mother in preparation of the meal.
“What did you see?” Soirja asked.
Scurra shook her head. “Nothing,” she claimed as she stared out the window once more. This was a common response. Scurra rarely talked of the visions she witnessed whenever she suffered these spells. But then, unlike Krumpus, her visions were often dark and foreboding.
Later that day, a letter came from Melmorahn. It was from Krumpus. Scurra read it with a muttered curse.
“What is it?” Soirja asked.
Scurra passed the letter to her mother. “Your son is on one of his adventures again,” Scurra stated. “I have to go west.”
“For your brother?” Soirja’s heart gave a jump as she read the letter. She had not seen her son since he left to help with the plague in Melmorahn. Soirja read the letter, but there was nothing of great concern in it. Indeed, the note seemed restrained and cautious for her boisterous and adventuresome son. Suddenly suspicious, Soirja eyed her daughter. “Does this have to do with that spell you suffered?”
Scurra didn’t answer. Instead, she looked away.
Soirja snorted, then openly accused her, “You did see something!”
Scurra turned and glared at her mother. “Crows,” she said. “I am needed,” was all she would add. The anger passed, and Scurra pointed to the letter. “He has a request of me. Will you see to it?”
Soirja gave a nod. “You be careful. These spells are never what they seem.”
“Except when they are,” Scurra stated, then hugged her mother.
“You don’t have to go,” Soirja said. “You can stay here with us. It is safe here.”
“One does not live to be safe,” Scurra replied. “I must be useful. I must be effective if I wish to be happy.”
“But you are effective, and you are not happy,” Soirja noted.
“I have a great cloud over me,” Scurra frowned. “One day, this fated darkness will envelop me, and I must be strong if I mean to survive it. I cannot be strong if I allow myself to be coddled whenever there is danger in the air.”
“Yes, but must you seek danger?” Soijra asked. “How can this make you happy?”
Scurra gave a wan smile and hugged her mother close. “One day, the darkness will have me. My prowess is all I shall have to face it, to move through it, and beyond it. Therefore, strength makes me happy. Resilience makes me happy. Courage makes me happy—or as happy as I can be.” She turned from her mother. “I must go pack. My brother is taken prisoner. I must see that he is freed.”
Soirja’s heart leapt to hear it. Her son was coming home?!
Early the next morning, Scurra rode out with her bow, her blades, and a white coat that bore the crest and colors of her militia: an oak done in jade thread, a sleeping beast done in silver thread, and a crow of onyx that was all her own.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 5.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
Krumpus continued to dance, and now the wyrm danced with him. He hummed and hawed and kept a respectful distance from the large creature—but the wyrm wasn’t so interested in boundaries. The wyrm twisted, curled, and slowly extended itself toward the shaman, its movements in time to the song.
The creature crept close in a calm and friendly manner, and Krumpus allowed it to loop about his arm. It’s scales were cool, smooth, and supple, and he thought it was a miracle that the creature should be so familiar!
The humming and dance progressed as the wyrm tangled his limbs and wrapped his hips and chest. On certain beats that were longer and louder than others, the creature spread its wings, showed it fangs, and hissed to emphasize the note, then continued to bob in rhythm to the music as it curled about the shaman.
Several times, Krumpus waned in his performance and thought to end the song and dance. His step slowed and his humming subsided—but there was a pleading in the wyrm’s behavior. As he slowed, the creature became restless and enthusiastic to continue. In this way it begged him to proceed. Driven on, Krumpus increased his step and song yet again, and wondered when and how this dance might end.
One song bled into another. The creature twisted about his neck and nuzzled him. Then, with no provocation, the wyrm bit him! Shocked by the sudden attack, Krumpus struggled against the beasts coils, but he was so tangled about, and the creature’s grip was impossibly strong! Before he could do a single thing about it, he was trussed up like a sheep for sheering. The wyrm’s form grew dark. He couldn’t budge her at all!
The wyrm stared at Krumpus. Sure of his destruction, and unable to do anything else, the shaman stared back. Hints of red and tan danced about the storm of the creature’s emerald eyes. He wondered why she waited, then imagined details he could not possibly know about her. For one, he knew she was female.
From there, the detail grew even greater. In his mind’s eye, Krumpus saw her home: jagged mountain peaks to the west and north of their current location. The Spires of Gendalou, she spoke in his mind as she guided him about the mountains.
How is this possible? Krumpus wondered back at her. Were the things he saw in his mind real? Was he simply suffering an hallucination brought on by her bite? Was he simply losing his mind before she killed and possibly ate him?!
Almost as quick as he asked these questions, he received the answer. I have injected you with a venom that allows us to share our thoughts. It is for this reason that I bit you, she apologized. Though it is a bit painful, it is awful convenient, no?
Krumpus had to agree.
I will let you go now, she said. I will not hurt you further so long as you do not hurt me.
And why would I hurt you? Krumpus replied.
Some men are quick to seek revenge, she answered as her warm color returned and she slowly untied him.
But you grant telepathy! He replied. Do you think my pride is so easily injured? After all, a mere bite is a small price to experience such wonder! Indeed, I would suffer a thousand such bites to speak in the minds of others!
Alas, it is only me you will hear—unless I decide to bite another, she smiled. Her fangs showed between her thin lips. My name is Meu, she said as Krumpus extricated himself from her coils and lifted himself out of the dust of the road. Thank you for your song. You think quite clearly, and yet you only hum. Why do you not sing any words? she asked.
Krumpus thought of the seizures he still suffered from time to time, and how they caused him to chomp as he thrashed about. He stuck out his tongue and showed her the thick scar tissue that swelled his tongue and made it difficult to make proper sounds.
Ah, I am sorry for your troubles, Meu said.
Krumpus shrugged. I have been this way a long time. It is simply the state of things.
You are not from these parts, Meu noted. What brings you to this land?
A flower, Krumpus thought. I found it in droves the last time I was here, but now I see none of it. He shared his memory of foxbane.
I know this flower, Meu confirmed. There is much of it around my home, where others cannot reach. But where the slopes are gentle, there are beasts that hate this flower and rip it from the earth wherever they find it. They are foul and twisted creatures that prefer their own noxious vegetables. She remembered her occasional encounters with these brutes, which were always unpleasant.
Bugbear, Krumpus spat on the ground. Indeed, I have encountered their traps. They certainly hunt here. Perhaps they’ve had the time to destroy it all.
And why do you need this flower? Meu asked.
There is a plague in Melmorahn and the flower cures it, Krumpus answered. It does not grow so far north—and now I think it is because there are bugbear around Melmorahn, he spit.
I know Melmorahn, Meu replied. I am sad to hear her people suffer. Still, I cannot imagine these bugbear have ripped all the foxbane from these mountains. You should find some soon enough.
And where do you go? Krumpus asked. For this is not your land either.
I am heading south to visit my daughter, Meu began. She has birthed a clutch and I wish to see them before they abandon their mother and venture out on their own. Indeed, I am hoping some will come north and live among the Spires.
Are there a lot of wyrms in the world? Krumpus asked. How many colonies are there?
Around the world? Meu shrugged. How should I know? How many colonies of men are there?
Krumpus shook his head. I don’t know. I’ve just never seen any of your sort. I should think you are extremely rare.
Rare in your quarter, she noted. We’re all over the Spires.
But you know of men, Krumpus observed. Why have I not met any wyrms?
And who’s to say you haven’t? Meu laughed. Our races have more to do with each other than most humans—and most wyrms—will ever know! Indeed, Our community was close to those of Salyst, she continued. We were sad to see them taken as slaves, or gone beyond the Red Desert—though I am happy to say there are some hundred or so that survive among our caves. They live quite peacefully among us.
That’s a relief, Krumpus smiled. I’ve long wondered about the fate of that people, he said. Speaking of missing people, all these towns and villages are deserted. Do you know what happened to the Bouge that used to live here?
It is the Ministrians, up to one of their strange machinations. Meu shook her head, I’ve not been through this area in years, and I have barely paid attention to what others were saying, but I know it is the Ministrians and their ever expanding conquest. She shrugged. But enough of such sad speculations! Our conversation has been too grim, though we first met with the joy of song! Come! The light of day warms us! Let us dance once more, I beg it! We shall have plenty of time to discuss the grief of the world after a bit more entertainment!
You wish only to dance? Krumpus replied.
It is not all I wish, Meu smiled. But I love music, and all those that revel in it! It has been a long time since I had occasion to dance, and now I realize how much I have missed it!
I don’t know that I have it in me, Krumpus hedged. I certainly cannot dance for another hour, especially if you should try to wrestle me again.
Just a few songs, but one or two, Meu begged. If you do not do it, I shall have to bite you again—and then I will make you! She flashed her fangs and fanned her impressive wings.
Krumpus took a step back. You cannot make me.
You’d be surprised, Meu smiled and her thoughts went black as she coiled about him once again. For a moment he wondered if such coercion might indeed be possible.
Her thoughts returned promptly. I will not, she continued. Instead, I shall simply beg you. Please. Please...
Krumpus hopped a step and considered which song to chant. In a few minutes he was right back into the swing of it. He hummed and hawed and stamped at the ground.
They danced once again. One song bled into the next, and two became three. Krumpus was in the middle of a long traditional song that told the history of the Broken Legions and their flight into the Bunderhilt Mountains. He stomped about as if at war and used his staff as a prop. It was an energetic and forceful dance, and Krumpus meant for it to be his finale.
As the two danced, Meu suddenly climbed up his staff as her wings beat the air. Krumpus wondered if she meant to take flight and abandon him. But she did not leave. Instead, she froze upon the staff as she wrapped her body tightly about it. She fanned her wings in a dramatic display and showed her fangs with a vicious snarl. Then her body went dark and became hard and still as stone, just the way she was immediately after she bit him.
What is this?! he wondered.
It is my stone form, Meu smiled in his mind.
And you used this as I struggled?! No wonder I could barely move! Krumpus stared at Meu and gently rubbed her smooth metallic face. Her eyes were like emeralds as she refused to blink or budge. How long can you keep up such a trick?
My best is three days, Meu noted. I apologize, but we are interrupted, she sighed. I only just now saw them myself.
Krumpus turned. Several Saot soldiers sat upon their horses and stared at the shaman as he held his staff with the wyrm wrapped about it. They approached around the same blind turn in the winding mountain road and were far too close for comfort. They bristled with weapons as they stared at the Trohl with confused disdain.
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Strained Relations
Polished — 17m52s — 2023/11/26
Despite the cumbersome knife, Pearl proved a steady hand and a delicate manner as she pinched bits of glass from Baet’s foot. “I should ask a diem for each shard I find,” she grinned as she extracted yet another sliver.
Baet winced and sighed his relief. “If I were a richer man, I should happily pay it,” he said as he glanced over his shoulder at her smooth freckled back. “How many do you have?” he asked.
“Nine so far,” she said as she poked about his foot in search of more. She leaned low and once again licked the blood from his foot.
“That’s gross,” Baet turned away.
“I cannot see my work, and it gets all over my hands,” she told him. “Is that the last of ‘em?” she asked.
Baet considered his foot as she gently prodded about with the delicate pads of her fingers. Though his foot was sore, there was no sharp pressure from any remaining glass. He smiled. “Darling, you’ve done good,” he said as he breathed a sigh of relief.
Pearl wiped the blade on his bloody sock, then gently put the sock back on his foot. “Now roll over and let me finish my proper work,” she ordered with a grin. She sheathed Gore Tongue and tossed it onto the pile of the guard’s possessions.
Baet rolled over with a stiffy.
“I see your pawn is well rested,” Pearl smiled and grabbed at it.
Baet pulled away. He sat up, then wrestled her gently to the mattress.
“What are you doing?” she asked, confused to have him simply lay on her.
He stared into her beautiful eyes and kissed her gently. “Let’s go slow,” he said, and proceeded to kiss about her face; her nose... eye... temple... ear... cheek... chin... neck... as he ran his fingers over her smooth freckled skin. She was so warm! The feel of her was electric!
After a long minute of such tender touching, Pearl squirmed and tried to push him off. “Stop it!” she glared.
“What?” Baet began, now also confused. “Am I hurting you?”
“Quite the opposite—you’re boring me,” Pearl sneered. “I not here to breed babies, you idiot. I’m here to ride!” For a long moment, they simply stared at each other. Then, Pearl’s eyes turned to slits. Still pinned beneath Baet, she wrapped her arms about him, pulled him in close, and bit his shoulder—hard.
Baet screamed and recoiled as he pushed Pearl away. She kicked and thrashed and screeched like a harpy. He managed to get free of her and slipped lightly to the floor as he favored his bum foot. Pearl untangled herself from the bedding, then glared at the guard as she rested on all fours.
Thoroughly confused and upset, Baet touched his bleeding shoulder. Now seething, Pearl charged to the edge of the bed, and took a swipe at his face. Baet saw her out of the corner of his eye and tried to duck the blow, but he couldn’t dodge as he was backed against her dresser. The palm of her hand struck him on the ear.
Infuriated by her rough treatment, and having little room to maneuver, Baet went on the offensive. He slapped her back. Pearl’s head snapped to the side. A line of blood appeared on her pretty lip. She stared at Baet in disbelief, and his heart sank. He didn’t want to make her bleed. He felt like an asshole.
Pearl massaged her jaw as shock, pain, and anger rippled across her face. She stared at Baet and her surprise was replaced by a devious lustiness. Pearl licked the blood from her lip, lowered her eyes, and with a seductive gaze, purred at him, “hit me again.”
Appalled at the idea, Baet backed away.
Pearl laid back on the bed with a moan as she settled on her covers. “Come, lover,” she began. “The war is over and I hold a sheath for thy blade,” she said as she spread her legs and arched her back. “Don’t you want to put your brat in me?” she begged.
Despite her rude behavior, Baet’s desire burned. She was certainly something to look at. “No more biting?” he asked, uninterested in the violence.
There was a softness in her eyes. “Promise,” she began. “Please?” she begged, with a frown on her lips and her arms outstretched. “Would you leave me like this?” She crawled over on all fours and begged him for a kiss.
She was being sweet and the burning had returned. Baet leaned in with his lips and slowly allowed Pearl to pull him back into bed. Her eyes were bright and she wore a welcome smile. He kissed her again and again. She rolled him over kindly, eager to proceed, and once more he let her have her way.
For a good dozen pushes, she was kind and gentle—an angel straight from heaven—then she sunk her nails and raked the guard with a vengeance. Several of her claws broke the skin as she drew long gashes down his chest and stomach.
Baet cursed and tried to push her away—only to have his arms raked instead. In desperation, he balled his fists and flailed back at her in order to force her to disengage. A fist caught her square on the left breast.
In pain, Pearl gasped and retracted her nails. She wrapped her arms around her offended mammary and rolled into a ball. Still floundering, Pearl flopped over the edge of the bed in a heap and landed against the dresser where she continued to cradle her bruised boob.
“What in hell’s name, lady?!” Baet excoriated. Blood ran down his chest, stomach, and shoulder in thin rivers from her scratches and bite. He clenched his fist and thought he might hit her again as he stood over her with an increasingly flaccid billy.
Pearl reached under her bed and produced a knife of her own. She pointed it at Baet as he backed away prudently. “Stop trying to use me like your sister!” she raged. “Your fire lacks heat! Come, boy! Fight hard, or fuck off!”
There was a knock at the door.
Baet realized he was being incredibly loud with his enemies in the other room. He blanched.
“Pearl?” A gruff voice called from the other side, full of concern and trepidation.
“I’m fine!” Pearl snapped. “Mind the fucking bar, Grebs!”
A defeated sigh came through the door. “You know Felicia don’t want you gettin’ so much blood on the sheets...”
“I pay well for it and I ain’t never late on rent, so don’t you tell me how to ride!” Pearl snapped and threw her shoe at the door.
Baet listened to the retreating footfalls as Grebs stepped down the hall. For several seconds he stood stock still and held his breath as he waited for any more interruptions. He half expected Garf and a dozen guards to break down the door and come rushing in—but it didn’t happen. Instead, Pearl simply glared at him—only now she had two knives.
Slowly, her gaze softened. Pearl reached overhead and with a practiced hand stuck the larger knife in the wall above her bed. Baet stared about puzzled to see the other knife was once again gone from sight. Where did she put it?!
“You like games?” Pearl moaned. “Let’s see if we can’t shake that blade out of the wall with nothing but my wobbly headboard,” she winked.
“But then the blade...” Baet pointed as she sat below it.
“I only got but one little nick,” she pointed to a neat scar under her eye. “It’s all about rhythm,” she leaned against the headboard and banged it against the wall. Her rhythm grew more insistent and the blade began to wobble. She began to pant, to bite her lips, and moan in an attempt to lure him back into bed—as the knife shivered and wavered above her. He couldn’t fathom that she was so very beautiful—and damned near the craziest woman he’d ever met!
Baet remembered this wasn’t the place to be. He had work to do and this was all an egregious mistake. He turned away from Pearl and began to dress in a bit of a hurry.
Pearl stopped her cavorting and sat up in bed. “Oh what?! So now you’re done?!”
“I have to think,” he justified as he eyed her over his wounded shoulder. Pearl stood as he dressed. She watched him intently and he wondered if she might rush him once again. He really didn’t want to shoot her, but he would if she forced him.
After several long seconds, Pearl snorted, then pulled on her own clothes in a huff. She finished the task long before he did, as it pained him to pull on his shirt, and also to tie his cloak over his jacket. “You better leave the coin you owe!” she roared. “Just because you don’t want to finish, don’t mean you get my efforts, free and clear!”
Baet kept his distance as he latched his belts. He secured his weapons as he kept Pearl in sight. Pearl leaned heavily against the inside door. She glared at Baet as he continued to dress.
With all of his clothes on, Baet produced two diems and set them on the dresser, slow and deliberate. He sure didn’t want her coming after him with half the house in tow. He felt it was best to bite his pride and settle up square. “One for digging glass out of my foot,” he said. “And one for the job undone.”
Pearl stomped over and snatched the diems off her dresser. “Fuck you,” she snarled in his face. “You couldn’t ride my mother to satisfaction!”
Baet backed away and opened the door that led to the alley. He slipped through, his nerves raw and on fire. His whole body sang with rage at having such a good time so thoroughly and pointlessly ruined. He still wanted to kiss and caress her smooth freckles—but he also wanted to wring her damned neck!
Pearl slammed the door behind him. The lock produced an audible click. In a huff, she turned and thought to make trouble for the stranger. She noticed how suspicious he was among the watchmen as he feigned interest in her. What really happened to his foot? And what of the cut on his side? She noted how neatly it healed and almost drove her finger in it right before he punched her in the tit. Pearl turned to the inner door and prepared her story.
Then a glint of something metallic stopped her dead in her tracks. What was that among her bedding? Did she see a coin?
For a long minute, Pearl thrashed about in her covers until she finally dug the small coin from beneath the folds of her blankets. She marveled at the sight: a small, round piece of gold stamped with the profile of some limp king. A sovereign!
Pearl stared at the slight coin and wondered at the potential. She’d never owned gold before!
For some time she held the coin and simply stared at it. Reluctantly, she turned and squirreled it away with the two diems. She beamed at the fine addition the coins made to her small pile of mostly copper. The sovereign alone nearly doubled her value! She now had more than she promised to save before she skipped town and made for the ocean!
Pearl stepped to the door, now slow and uncertain. It might be great fun to make trouble for the man-at-arms, but as she grabbed the knob, she wondered if Baet wasn’t some hoity-toity Politico Superiore, as they liked to call themselves. He certainly dressed like one. She realized that if he was, going after him might cause her a world of problems, and he might discover he’d lost his money to boot. If so, he might force her to return it, and beat her bloody for the trouble—and not in a fun way!
Instead of causing misery for Baet, Pearl decided to focus on her earnings. Suddenly, she had more than she planned! She could leave at any time, and the sooner the better—except that one of her favorite clients was waiting at the bar. Pearl decided she’d work him hard, have him pack her bags, then go. After all, she still wanted—no, needed—a good tussle.
She yanked the door open. “Welen!” Pearl roared. “Get your ass in here!”
Welen stood from his post, charged across the lounge, and down the hall. Pearl rearranged her bed as Welen appeared in the doorway. “Hey kiddo...” he sighed.
“Where’s my coffee?!” she snapped. “Get it quick, and make sure it’s hot!” she threw a shoe at him. As Welen ordered coffee from Grebs, the few others still gathered about the common room snickered and took bets on whether or not Pearl would make his face bleed again.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 6.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
Baet stepped into the alleyway as a man loafed at the edge of the street. “Rough day?” The stranger snickered as he bent over a match and a roll of conicle.
Baet snorted but thought better of making a reply. After all, he recognized the voice. What were the chances he should step out of the bordello and find this man in the alley, smoking all alone?! It was a fortuitous turn indeed!
Baet kept his head low, as he approached. He acted as if he simply meant to pass. Then, as he walked by, Baet lunged at the man, still fueled by the discord with Pearl.
At the last second, the man saw the attack and managed to save his throat. He ducked as much as he could, and caught an elbow to the right side of his beak instead. He reeled from the blow as blood gushed from his nose. Then, Baet grabbed a handful of his stunned opponent’s tabard and yanked the man into the opposite wall of the thin alley. Off balance, his opponent just managed to get his hands up before he collided with the unforgiving bricks of the next building. He bounced off the wall in an awkward and painful manner, and flopped to the ground in a heap.
Blood drained from the man’s face as Baet stepped over him. “That’s for Haddelton,” he said as he stripped Banifourd of his sword and tossed it down the alley, then put a knee in the esquire’s chest and held Gore Tongue to his throat.
“What are you doing here, old buddy?” Baet grinned at his former colleague.
“The Velvet Tassel?” Banifourd coughed. “It’s my mother’s place. Been in her family for years.”
“Fancy colors,” Baet continued. “Where’s your red and black—or do you think you can just be done with us any ol’ time?” he asked, then slapped the man before he could answer. “What happened to the others?”
Banifourd groaned and squirmed under Baet’s knee. “It wasn’t me!” he yelled.
Baet pressed a bit more with the edge of his knife. Banifourd sucked air as he tried to back from the blade—but the ground wouldn’t let him sink any lower. Baet leaned in close. “Now quiet like—and you just might live,” he said. “You attract attention, you’re the only one that’s sure to die.”
Banifourd gulped.
“What happened to Edderfeld?”
“Killed by Garf. I swear it!” Banifourd gossiped in a harsh whisper.
“What about Barkaloe?”
“Dead.”
“Ainju?”
“Also dead.”
“Launden?”
“The same,” Banifourd nodded. “There were only three survivors: you, the captain, and the duke.”
“Hucks, Julead?” Baet leaned in a little closer. “And Bence—where was he while Garf murdered everyone?”
Banifourd gave a little nod. “He loaded the horses, then kept the innkeeper and his family from interfering. It was his plan so he got the easy detail.”
Baet snorted. “Where’s Humbert?” he asked. “Is the count protecting him?”
“Who?” Banifourd replied, perplexed.
“Humbert! You know? The thief? The reason we all came so far north,” Baet glared as he explained the obvious. “Did you coax him to rob the duke—to lure us out of Gaurring?”
Banifourd shook his head. “No. From Gaetilly, Humbert went north and east, toward Land’s End.”
“Land’s End?!” Baet’s heart sunk. From Wibbeley, Land’s End was at two hard weeks away! “How the hell did we end up here if he went sideways?!”
“It was Bence’s plan,” Banifourd gulped. “We diverted Creigal to Wibbeley so we could ambush him.”
“So Humbert is acting on his own accord?” Baet asked.
“I don’t even know what he stole,” Banifourd claimed. Baet stared at his prisoner and considered the implications—which made Banifourd nervous. Not wanting to die, he continued to spill the beans. “Bence sent the letters. He’s the one that contacted Drefford and requested the additional men, then he panicked and didn’t want to do it because he saw that pin Launden flashed in Tollaub. Bence went on and on about it—a crumbled pillar with an iron core—supposed to represent Creigal’s secret army, the Fifth Guard,” he snorted.
“Ya don’t say?!” Baet cut in with a mocking tone.
Banifourd stared at Baet and realized the rumors were true. “I don’t... I didn’t think it was real..! Are you...?”
Baet said nothing, but there was a reason Baet landed a cushy guard detail at the duke’s manse the day he returned from his years in Rottershelm. He certainly didn’t stay in that overgrown nest of rats and vipers for its genteel and balmy climate! He was a patriot!
“What other secrets does Creigal keep from his nobles?” Banifourd asked.
“I’ll ask the questions,” Baet pointed.
Banifourd squirmed. “You have to believe me! It was all Bence and Garf! Bence came up with the plan, and Garf carried it out!”
Baet leaned in close. “And what about Haddelton, you snake?!”
Seized by horror, Banifourd floundered. Unsure what to say, he huffed and choked as he struggled to get free of Baet’s knee.
Baet had everything he wanted. He hit Banifourd in the side of the head with the butt of Gore Tongue, maybe a little harder than he intended. Banifourd’s head lulled to the side. His eyes glazed and closed as he went limp. Baet stood up and watched as Banifourd curled into the fetal position, unconscious. He spit on the downed man and considered sticking Haddelton’s blade through his heart, just for good measure. Banifourd deserved no less for what he did: blood for blood.
But some part of Baet thought it was right to leave the man alive—or at least as much as he was... Banifourd twitched several times, and Baet wondered if he might not die anyway. Chances were he was already dead, his body just going through the process of shutting it all down. Either way, he appeared to be suffering, and Baet was satisfied with that. If Banifourd lived, he might never be right again. A bad blow to the head could do that to a man. From there, Baet decided to leave it up to the gods.
Baet wiped his bloody hands on Banifourd’s shirt, picked the roll of conicle out of the dirt, and stepped away. He looked up at the sky and realized there were still a few hours of light left in the day. He stepped east, intent on returning to his duke and captain, pleased to have information, even if it wasn’t the news he wanted. He hopped as he walked. Despite Pearl’s disagreeable temperament, she did a surgeon’s work getting the glass out of his foot. Baet stepped along the road, rather pleased with the results of his day, as he looked for a place where he might get a match.
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Captive Audience
Polished — 34m09s — 2023/11/28
Krumpus stood face to face with a half dozen mounted Saot soldiers. He held his staff with Meu wrapped around it, as they stared at the dirty unkempt wanderer. Her appearance was dark, as Meu was still in her stone form. She looked like nothing more than an ornament—and a very fine and heavy ornament at that!
With Meu attached, the staff was much heavier and had a strange balance. He prepared to swing the weapon and wondered if Meu could take a strike from a sword.
“We heard song,” one of the soldiers spoke. “Was it you?”
The soldier did not speak the strange language of the Saot, which was good, because Krumpus did not speak it either. Instead, the soldier spoke Ministrian—as more and more soldiers continued to pour around the corner. by necessity Krumpus could speak enough of the language, as there always seemed to be more Ministrians about these days.
With a sigh, Krumpus glanced at the gathering mob and danced a simple step around the staff. He half-heartedly hummed and hawed, then lifted the staff and swung it around—but mostly to get a feel for its weight. Sweet Jeiju! he thought as he nearly stumbled and almost threw Meu to the ground. She must weigh a good six stone!
After a half dozen steps with Meu in the air, Krumpus stopped the demonstration, planted the staff in the dirt, and shrugged.
“Do you not speak?” the soldier asked.
Krumpus stuck out his tongue, mangled and thick with heavy purple scarring. Several of the greener soldiers gawked and cringed.
Can you sign? The soldier asked in Tallian Hand.
Yes, Krumpus replied, surprised by the man’s use of the silent language. Most Trohls didn’t know it, much less foreigners.
“Well, come along,” the soldier turned his gaze from the shaman and waved him closer. “We can’t have you out here all alone, wandering around the wilds. There’s a war on after all.”
There’s a war on… Krumpus thought and remembered Meu’s words. Minist continues her conquest. So why were they dressed as Soats?
Meu responded with the equivalent of a mental shrug.
The shaman considered fighting, as more and more troops continued to pour around the bend, in a constant stream of bodies. There were two dozen soldiers, then three, then four dozen. After a time, the soldiers didn’t bother to stop and stare at the lone Trohl at the side of the road. Indeed, now that Krumpus held still, he noticed the grumble and shake of an approaching army! There would be no fighting, as the stream of men continued on.
“Give us the staff,” the officer commanded as Krumpus watched the crowd roll by.
For several seconds, Krumpus frowned at the man. He held the staff back as a knot of men condensed around him. Several had weapons out.
“Come now,” the officer encouraged him. “Do not make us take it from you.”
It’s okay, Meu soothed him. I have seen these eyes before. They are greedy men, and think me valuable. They will not harm me. I am in no danger in their hands.
With a sigh, Krumpus held out the staff. They’d take it anyway, and they might give him a beating to remember if he wasn’t quick about it.
The officer hopped off his horse and examined the staff as two other men held the heavy weapon between them. Another soldier took the shaman’s pack from his horse and searched it. “Fine knives, needles, bandages, bottles...” he reported the contents. The soldier pulled his purse from the bag and glanced at the contents. “He could certainly have more coin,” he said, then threw the purse to the officer. The officer checked its contents, shrugged, and tucked the small purse into his shirt. Krumpus frowned as he figured it was the last he’d see of that coin.
“Some heathen witch doctor?” The officer speculated as he too rifled through the bag. He turned to Krumpus. “Have you any experience against the waokie and their rot?”
Krumpus frowned and shook his head. He’d never even heard of the waokie.
“Then what good are ya?!” The officer snorted as he returned the bag to Krumpus. “Our hands are full. If you want it, you carry it.”
Krumpus glared at the officer as he snatched his bag away. Of course he wanted it! He didn’t drag it through the mountains so he could abandon it now! He held his hand out for the staff, and also the coin.
The officer ignored him. “Bring him along,” he said and mounted his own horse.
Several guards held their spears on Krumpus as a soldier bound his hands and tied him to a long line. Meanwhile, Meu was tied to Krumpus’ saddle and his horse was led away by one of the captain’s lieutenants.
After the soldiers tied the shaman’s hands, they did not bring him along. Instead, they waited as the caravan passed. For a few moments, Krumpus thought to ask why, but decided to watch the people, and leave his captors to their own reasons. He was sure of one thing: whatever the purpose, he probably wouldn’t like it.
The stream of people continued to spill along the road to Ebertin. After the soldiers—a couple hundred or so—wagons appeared on the road, very practical and in good shape. These wagons were loaded with supplies and driven by soldiers. After these wagons came a herd of cattle, escorted by a dozen wranglers, followed by goats, sheep, pigs, and several carriages loaded with various birds that squawked and honked and carried on just so. Then came the common folk, swinging babies and hammers. They drove wagons of every capacity and character, loaded with a life’s worth of tools, supplies, furniture, and personal affects. There was also a good number of handcarts—though most of the commoners proceeded by the power of their own two feet, and carried their possessions and children on their backs.
As the commoners passed, the guard grew bored, and decided to needle Krumpus. “You know why we wait?” he asked.
Krumpus shook his head.
“It’s so the people can see you. That way if you try to escape, there’ll be a thousand men looking for you!”
Krumpus turned his attention back to the caravan. He watched the commoners pass. Most took one quick glance and proceeded—if they bothered to look at him at all. Krumpus frowned and looked at his guard sideways.
“...and once we get you to the end, we’re gonna run you to the front!” the guard grinned. “It’s a long march, and you’re gonna be tired for all of it!” he said with a mischievous grin.
The van approached. Several dozen cavalry stepped along the road as the last of the caravan limped before them.
The lieutenant of the van looked perturbed as he approached. “As if we don’t have enough work, Leverkusen finds more prisoners to keep,” he complained as his men drove several hospital carts full of the sick, the dying, and the dead—which included livestock that was developing quite a smell. Krumpus wondered why they didn’t just leave the corpses.
“Orders be orders,” the guard gave a shrug—though Krumpus could tell he was bothered by the lieutenant’s tone.
“I know your orders,” the van lieutenant said as he stopped in the road. “And I know mine! Now move along so we can be the last ones on the road—per orders!”
In a huff, the guard turned his horse and whipped the beast. “Hiya!” he roared as he drove the horse to run.
Krumpus realized immediately what was about to happen. He stood and ran down the road after his guard, wide eyed, and quickly losing ground. After a good half dozen steps, the line around his wrists went taut and Krumpus was pulled off his feet. He sailed into the dirt and dust of the road as several of the caravan hooted and hollered to see the shaman dragged a good hundred feet or so.
Blessedly, the guard stopped his steed and let Krumpus get to his feet and catch his breath. The shaman spit dirt and checked his elbows and knees for any lasting damage. There was a hole in his shirt and a raspberry the size of a lune where his forearm rubbed the road.
As he brushed himself off, the guard pushed his horse forward at a walk. The shaman was forced to follow. Meu spoke in the shaman’s head. Do not worry. We will dance again, she said, her words tinged with sympathy.
Can you really stay like that for days? He thought at her.
I have a cousin that can maintain his stone skin for over a week, she replied. But I cannot. Do you know where they take us?
No, Krumpus admitted.
We will not be their guests for long, Meu told him. We will escape in the night, when they make camp. I will find you. Will you wait for me?
Krumpus agreed. He had no plans of his own.
Hour after hour, the caravan continued its slow crawl eastward as the rope chafed against the shaman’s wrists. Only his conversation with Meu made the journey tolerable. The sun dropped behind the mountains and the world grew dark around them. The venom is wearing thin, Meu warned him. We will not be able to speak much longer. But know this: I will find you, she assured him.
I will wait, he told her. Shortly after, he was alone in his thoughts once more.
Although the caravan slowed, it did not stop. As the darkness encroached, the soldiers kept the commoners moving, and Krumpus wondered how long they could march without the sun. Indeed, it was no easy task. The pace slowed to a sullen slog as the miserable lot pushed forward into the dark night.
They marched an hour or two in the dark before a line of watch fires cut across the road and the wall of a massive fort materialized in front of them. The giant wall stretched across the main road, a crude work of earth and lumber with towers all about. This wasn’t here the last time, Krumpus wondered as he approached the gate.
A knot of Trohls huddled outside the fort in nothing but rags. They curled up against the timbers of the wall with their faces hidden, filthy cloaks pulled tight against the chill mountain air. The guards of the fort ignored these vagrants, as did most of the caravan. A few took pity and offered bits of bread, cheese, and other small things. “The blessings of Naharahna upon the least of us,” one said as he gave an apple away.
Krumpus stared at the beggars as he passed. Most were barely men, and the rest were merely boys. Their hands were stunted, little more than base clubs with thin hollow fingers curled in uncomfortable looking knots. They fumbled the kind offerings into the grime of the road, and Krumpus wondered what happened to their hands. It did not escape his notice that nearly all of the beggars were Trohl.
They passed through the gate. Inside the fort were several wooden structures and no end of tents. There was a large fenced area where the soldiers kept Trohl prisoners. Hundreds, maybe a thousand Bouge shuffled about behind the high slat fence that formed their open air prison. The only buildings inside these walls were barely hovels. The fence looked weak in many parts—though it was being improved on the near side. A series of small towers circled the pen, as did several heavily armed patrols. Malnourished, the prisoners were mostly women, children, and the elderly. Krumpus realized this prison had everything to do with the empty lands to the west. There was indeed a war! Yet, these soldiers—obviously Ministrians—were dressed as Saots... Why? What sort of subterfuge was this?
He turned and looked about the rest of the fort. The other half of the camp was occupied by barracks, sheds, stables, cabins, tents; everything an invading force might need, and several things it might simply want. There were clerks, cooks, urchins, and priestesses galore. There were hundreds and hundreds of soldiers, all in Saot uniforms. Krumpus did not recognize any of the crests they wore—but then he knew only a few Saot houses: the Lion of Land’s End, the Rose of Hyber Pass, the Phoenix of Danya. Aside from the largest and most noteworthy houses, he only knew a few smaller ones that traded in Hearthstone. There were said to be as many Saot houses as there were Trohl militias, which was an impressive thing indeed! There were several hundred different militias among the Jindleyak alone!
Not that it mattered. These soldiers were obviously Ministrians no matter what uniforms they wore, and most of them wore red and black with a bird as their symbol.
The caravan dispersed among the camp. Guards pushed Krumpus toward the large pen of prisoners.
“Non,” the officer shook his head. “This one goes to the Corpus.”
The guards led Krumpus through the fort all the way to the east wall. Two men carried Meu and the staff as the captain accompanied them. They entered a building with a single large room. To one side of the room were the Saot tabards, while the other side of the building had the pitch black tabards of Ministrian shock troops. Krumpus frowned as he stared at the uniforms of Minist. He’d not seen a single man wearing the black of the Empress—except that now every member of his guard changed from Saot to Ministrian uniforms, as if it was the most natural thing to trade between the two.
Once the soldiers were changed, they led Krumpus down a wooden stairway. Down, down into the earth they went. The stairs stopped, and although they turned in circles as they came down the stairs, Krumpus was sure they faced east as they marched through the close confines of the tunnel. Krumpus was sure they traveled under the outer wall of the fort. He wondered why they changed just to take him outside. Would they kill him and steal the staff? He mentally prepared to fight and run. He did not like his odds as he glanced about his numerous guards. Still, he had a few tricks up his sleeves—and they’d be more effective in the dark of night!
After several hundred feet of smooth tunnel, the group came to another stairway, quite like the first. They stepped up, up, out of the earth, and found themselves in what seemed to be an empty closet. The door opened and revealed a barracks beyond. More Ministrians dressed as Ministrians! Krumpus thought as they marched through a building full of resting soldiers. These shock troopers glanced up occasionally, mostly to stare at the staff with Meu wrapped around it. Several glanced at Krumpus, a few with hostility, a couple with curiosity, but most with little more than boredom.
Outside, Krumpus found himself in another fort altogether. The high towers of this camp faced west, and were manned by Ministrians in their proper black garb—but it wasn’t Ministrians alone on the towers. There were also Trohl militia along the wall.
This fort was smaller than the other fort—not that it mattered since the men secretly fought for the same side. Krumpus wondered if the Trohls about the camp were privy to the truth and thought most of them must not be. If they were in on it, why put on the show?
A large stone tower dominated the northwest corner of the camp. There were several stone structures about it—the only stone structures in either camp—which made up a fine little neighborhood. The soldiers led Krumpus into the tower, down a flight of stairs, through a long hallway, and into a small room with nothing but a table and two chairs at the center. The table had leather straps to secure the hands of a prisoner, but the guards did not bother. They set Meu on the table and left the room, except for the officer, who waited with Krumpus.
This was the first rest Krumpus had since his capture. It wasn’t long before he was leaning heavily in his seat, on the verge of nodding off. As Krumpus blinked against a much needed rest, the door popped open and a rather corpulent and suspicious man entered.
The officer stood straight and saluted the fat man. “Majoris,” he said.
Fedring, Corpus Majoris of Camp Calderhal, frowned at the officer. “Leverkusen, I don’t have time to advise on every Trohl you find in the wilds!” he waved an impatient hand at Krumpus. He caught sight of Meu on the table and lost interest in berating the officer. “Glory! What is that!?”
“I do apologize, your grace,” Leverkusen began. “He was dancing with it.”
Fedring glanced at the Trohl, then returned his attention to Meu once more. “Such incredible detail... and it is very solid,” he said as he tried to lift it. He poked about her jeweled eyes and tugged at her fangs as he marveled. “Well, Leverkusen. I must say that you’ve done the right thing!” Fedring smiled as he shifted his attention from the staff to the shaman that carried it. The smile disappeared. “Why do you have this?!” he asked in Trohl.
“He doesn’t speak,” Leverkusen answered. “He is a mute.”
“Can you write?” the Majoris continued his questions.
“He knows Tallian Hand,” Leverkusen noted.
Fedring glared at the officer. “And this is not the first thing you mention?!”
“The staff was the first thing...” Leverkusen pointed.
“And where did you get it?” Fedring said once more in Krumpus’ native tongue as he signed the words.
“He knows Ministrian,” Leverkusen shrugged.
Fedring glared at the caravan captain.
“I never said he was stupid. Just mute,” Leverkusen explained with a shrug.
Slowly, Fedring turned from the captain and glared at Krumpus instead. Is this true? Fedring asked in Tallian Hand. Do you speak the Hand? Do you speak Ministrian?
Yes. Krumpus gestured, and wondered that so many Ministrians made a study of the silent language.
“Why do you have this staff?!” Fedring repeated.
It is mine, Krumpus replied.
With a frown, Fedring looked to Leverkusen, “What’s in his bag?”
“Bandages, knives, potions,” Leverkusen shrugged.
“A surgeon of some sort?” Fedring turned from Leverkusen and faced the Trohl. “Is this a staff of office? Is it an award for services rendered?”
Krumpus shook his head. It’s a wyrm, he signed.
Fedring stared at Krumpus as his expression grew darker—then he slapped the shaman across the top of his head. “Obstinate! I can see it’s a wyrm! What does it represent?! What office?! What charge?! Don’t give me some riddle?!” he snapped.
Krumpus glared at the man but kept his peace.
“Ahh, but I know what this is, even though it may not register with you,” Fedring touted the weapon. “This is a caduce, the legendary staff of Trismegist!” he snorted. “You may see some mundane beast, but I see the relic of an old god!” Fedring sneered. “Put him in a cell! There’s no reason to quarter him with the common chattel!”
“Here, in the tower?” Leverkusen asked.
“Yes—and do keep him out of sight!” Fedring barked. “We don’t need the militias bothering us about another Trohl prisoner!”
Leverkusen gave a nod and grabbed Krumpus by the arm. “Come along.”
“Captain, since you have me here...” Fedring began once more. “Will you tell me how you found the road?”
“In what respect?”
“Was there any trouble with the waokie?” he asked.
“I’m happy to say only one set of traps on this occasion, though it was a bit of a maze,” Leverkusen stated. “It took a bull, two cows, and half a dozen sheep to clear the tangle.”
“You brought the corpses?” Fedring asked.
Leverkusen nodded. “To deprive the waokie of meat.”
“Dreadful beasts,” Fedring snorted. “I’m happy to hear they didn’t get any of the pigs.”
“We hold the pigs back, sir—too expensive.”
Fedring gave an approving nod.
Leverkusen continued. “Six people died of the rot, three more died from other poisons and traps, and four died of other causes altogether. One man recovered from the rot, but he lost his arm.”
“And what of Valcovour’s Pass?” Fedring cut in. “I hear they always take someone over Valcovour’s Pass.”
“We believe it is their way of telling us the pass belongs to them,” Leverkusen nodded. “This time it was one of the settlers, a mere girl, seven years old.”
“Poison?”
Leverkusen nodded.
“Was it one of the quick ones?” Fedring continued.
“Not even a minute,” Leverkusen answered. “And every second of it was ugly.”
“How awful,” Fedring frowned. “And what are your orders concerning Valcovour’s Pass?”
Leverkusen shrugged, “We were sending in archers for a time, but then the waokie just killed an archer—or worse, several. They’re sneaky bastards and hard to catch, and they have a number of bolt holes all about the pass. Now the men are told to wear their heavy leathers and face plates. We keep our shields up. Lately, the waokie are lazy about it. They just go for one of the civilians. Easy targets.”
“Cheaper for the company,” Fedring nodded. “Thank you, for the update, captain. You are dismissed.”
With a nod Leverkusen pushed Krumpus from the room. At the bottom of a narrow flight of stairs, Leverkusen turned the shaman over to a couple of massive guards. They took his bag and cloak and led him to a small dark cell with no windows. With a huff and a snort, the guards left him alone in the cell with nothing but a nub of candle and a shabby blanket.
In the dim light of the candle, Krumpus considered the events of the day; as he rubbed his sore wrists, knees, and elbows. Today, he’d searched for foxbane, met a wyrm, was captured by Ministrians, and discovered the fate of so many Bouge peasants. Now, he was stripped of his possessions and locked in a cell. Still, he had his health!
Krumpus stretched and listened to the pulse of the blood in his ears. He had his health and that meant everything! The rest of it could and would change as long as he stayed healthy. Besides, there was a wyrm in the camp, and it meant to set him free! They’d escape. Somehow, he knew they’d escape. The one true god wouldn’t give them away so easily—or so he hoped.
Before he slept and while he still had a nub of light, Krumpus decided to inspect his cell. The floor was dirt and the walls were stones set in mortar. On one side was a cot. On the other was a small drain. He lifted the metal grate off the drain and realized it didn’t go anywhere. There was just a hole in the ground no wider than his arm, maybe a foot deep, with a bit of dried filth about the bottom. As he glanced about, Krumpus was bothered by the sturdy construction of the room. There was a heavy permanency about it.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
Carringten and Creigal sat across from Baet as the guard began his report in earnest. “I was unable to find the thief, but I managed an intimate and illuminating conversation with Banifourd,” Baet began with a bit of a smirk. “Unfortunately, we are duped. From Gaetilly, Humbert went to Land’s End,” he said with a frown.
“At least he didn’t continue in to Minist,” Creigal spat the word. “Very well! If Humbert went to Land’s End, we go to Land’s End!”
“The road will be heavily monitored,” Carringten replied. “We will be hounded all the way to Solveny, if not beyond.”
“No road is safe for us,” Creigal surmised. “Drefford will send men in every direction. I only hope they send few men north, along the Trohl road. We will go that way, and once we reach Hearthstone, we will turn south,” Creigal stated.
Carringten stood with a nod as he moved toward the horses.
“Let’s not be hasty,” Creigal shook his head. “Drefford will have his men out in force tonight, and one of us needs a rest.”
Carringten considered this and nodded his agreement. He returned to his seat and turned back to Baet. “What of the others?”
“Bence is a traitor. All the rest are dead,” Baet said.
There was a rage in Carringten’s eyes as he stared at Baet. “And Banifourd? Did you add him to the growing list of dead?”
“It’s possible,” Baet shrugged. “I left him unconscious, in a growing pool of his own blood.”
“It would have been easier if you killed him proper,” Carringten said.
“I had no orders,” Baet replied. “I certainly gave him a beating to remember, but he was very forthcoming. I do not think he lied—except to blame it all on Bence and Garf.”
“Is it a moment of weakness to leave a defeated enemy alive, or a moment of strength?” Creigal considered. “If Banifourd dies, Drefford will assume it was us that did it, and that we know the truth of things. If he lives, then Banifourd will confirm it. Either way, it is the same.” Creigal set his hand on Baet’s shoulder and gave the guard a warm squeeze. Baet tried not to wince as Creigal put his hand on the bite Pearl gave him. “You’ve done well,” the duke smiled. “Get some sleep.”
“There is one more thing to speak of,” Baet stated. “Count Drefford has an inordinate number of men. I should think he does not need so many just to patrol the streets of Wibbeley.”
“Men?” Carringten asked. “How many men does he have?”
Baet shook his head. “I took no count, but there seemed an excess.”
“And what do you make of this?” Creigal asked.
Unsure, Baet shrugged and said the first thing that came to mind. “I feel that he prepares for strife. Perhaps it is because of all the Ministrians. There are a lot of shock troops in the city.”
“It is not a city,” Creigal noted. “It is but a town.”
“It is an awful large town,” Baet replied. “There are smaller cities in the south.”
“Population has nothing to do with cities and towns. The designation is strictly political,” Creigal answered.
“Would a town have more men?” Baet asked.
“Less,” Creigal answered. “But as you noted, Wibbeley is quite big.”
Baet shook his head. “Drefford has too many men. My instincts tell me that he mobilizes for some action.”
Creigal and Carringten eyed each other and considered the implications. “We’ll keep it in mind,” Creigal stated.
Baet smiled, pleased that he had mentioned it. Now finished with his report, he collected Haddelton’s blanket and made a bed in the hay loft. For a second, he lay on his stomach, until the pressure of his weight inflamed the wounds from Pearl’s nails. Baet rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. For the time, he thought of Humbert and Haddelton, then pushed his guilt aside, and wondered if he might meet a kind, sane version of Pearl in his dreams. Maybe, just maybe… he thought as he remembered the smooth touch of her skin, her countless freckles, and the light in her eyes. With such a pleasant thought in his weary head, sleep came quick.
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A Beast of Wing and Fang
Polished 8.1 — 25m00s — 2023/11/29
Polished the entire chapter. Several small edits, especially in part 1 — 51m39s — 2023/11/30
For a time the dwellings had grown anemic and piled on top of each other. The crush of the crowd could be a bit much, especially after coming through so much wide open country. Indeed, Scurra felt that she could be squarely in the center of the city—but she also knew that Ebertin was large, and this was just another neighborhood where the houses shrunk and grew on top of each other. After all, this city was massive.
Some said the city stretched for days—but that only applied for those that traveled by foot. Scurra had been to the far edge twice before. Indeed, she swam in the waters of Lake Kundilae, a highlight of her first journey; so she knew that with a good horse she could get from one side of Ebertin to the other in just one day—but she’d have to start early.
Scurra knew she was approaching her cousin’s neighborhood when yards appeared and then stretched around the growing houses. A low fence cut across the street. Beyond it were mansions. A mass of trees obscured these estates, which were few and far between; with barns, sheds, and cottages all about. The hills grew, and one could almost make the mistake that they’d entered the countryside again—but this was simply one of the richer districts in the great city of Ebertin.
Indeed, Scurra found her uncle’s house with little trouble at all, the journey costing her five days of uneventful riding. The gate was open as she approached. She led her horse up the walk.
As she got close to the main house, Andrus came around from the back. He was young and fit, just growing into his manhood, and she smiled to see him. He stopped when he realized someone was coming up the drive, then smiled and waved when he recognized her. “Hey, cousin! What brings you here?”
“I’m headed west,” Scurra answered, then hugged him and gave him the reigns. “Seems my brother got himself tossed in a hole somewhere, and I mean to go find him.”
Andrus tsked to hear it. “That’s surprising. As much as your brother wanders, I’ve never known him to need much help.”
“Yeah, well, last time he was in that neck of the woods, he spent a month in jail,” Scurra shrugged.
“If a month is all he suffered, well, that’s not that bad,” Andrus replied.
“Yes, but that was several years ago,” Scurra noted. “The way I hear it, things are getting worse.”
“They say its a full on war,” Andrus shook his head. “Whatever is happening, they don’t let just anyone pass.”
“And who are they?”
“The Degorouth and their Ministrian allies. They have the roads blocked beyond Falderfallen’s Hovey,” Andrus said.
“Ministrians, eh?” Scurra replied. “There’s got to be other ways to go out west.”
“Well, we know a guy that bribed a guard, and I know of a couple more that went over the lake,” Andrus said. “I don’t know what happened to the two that went across the lake—I think they’re still out there—but the guy that slipped the checkpoint returned a few days ago. He said its a mess. Strife, uneasiness, refugees everywhere. Nobody knows who’s on what side.”
“There’s a lot of fighting?” Scurra worried.
“Sporadic,” Andrus replied. “He said its mostly quiet—and then some battle or massacre takes place, and whole towns are lost. He says its all blamed on Soats, be he wonders if he saw a true Saot there. Heck, the fighting isn’t even reserved to the westlands. We’ve had scuffles, fights, and ambushes break out here in Ebertin—though you might never know it in this neighborhood. Not much happens in the Apricot Hills.”
“Good thing,” Scurra said. “I need a rest. Is Traust here?”
Andrus shook his head. “It’s just me and the brothers right now, but Traust will be back later. Indeed, the whole lot is going to be on hand. Even Duboha and Aim should be around.”
“Duboha?” Scurra repeated, rather surprised. “Is something special going on?”
“Don’t tell?” Andrus asked.
Scurra gave a solemn nod.
"Elpis met a girl and he’s been seeing her for some time. He’s bringing her here, and I think he means to ask for her hand,” Andrus smiled, then the mirth left him, and he grew serious. “You really thinkin’ of going out west?”
“I’ve already petitioned the courts. Tomorrow I go to have their answer,” Scurra replied.
“And if they tell you no?”
“I will go anyway.”
Andrus nodded, then asked, “You thinkin’ of taking anyone with you?”
“Why?” Scurra countered. “Are you offering?”
Andrus answered with a smile.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 8.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
Fedring called a council together. He included Gliedian, High Commander of the Eastern Campaign, and of course the surgeon, Celt. Several other associates and esteemed colleagues with influence and money were included—though the ranking Jay was noticeably missing.
“Should we not include Meriona?” Celt whispered to the Corpus Majoris, a bit anxious at the prospect of leaving her out of any important discussion.
Fedring snorted and dismissed the idea. “I have no interest in her money or connections, much less her opinion,” he whispered with a snarl. “She should try doing her job and not always playing with men and their knives!” He then turned to the wyrm staff as it lay on the table. “Gentlemen!” he exclaimed. “We find ourselves in possession of this rare and beautiful artifact!”
All eyes turned on the Corpus Majoris and the staff before him. Cautious hands went out to meet the object and slid along the fine edges of scale, feather, and tooth.
“The detail is magnificent,” Tehris began. “The intricate crafting of the serpent is so keen and meticulous. It almost looks as if it must be alive!” the Degorouth lieutenant glowed as he rubbed the stone skin of the serpent. “Such a caduce could fetch as much as five hundred gold sol, maybe a thousand...” he said reverently.
“Considering the intricacies of the beast wrapped around it, the staff is plain and garish,” Celt noted. “I bet this is not the original mount,” he tugged at the staff and tried to separate it from the snake—but Meu had a vice-like grip on the weapon and would not come free.
“Where did you get this?” Gliedian asked the Majoris.
Fedring turned to the High Commander, a man of superior rank, though it mattered very little since one was of the church and the other of the military. “The last caravan apprehended a man wandering the road to Wibbeley,” Fedring began. “Indeed, I have the captain himself to tell you.” He stepped to the door and brought Leverkusen into the room.
Leverkusen swallowed hard and bowed before the gathered dignitaries.
“What can you say of the wanderer that had this staff?” Fedring asked the captain.
Leverkusen nodded. “We found him dancing and chortling as he waved the staff about. He had a pack filled with the implements of a healer. He knows Ministrian, though he does not speak it. His tongue is in a terrible condition. He makes the noises of a halfwit.”
“He did not fight you?” Gliedian asked.
“There were many of us and only one of him,” Leverkusen shrugged. “He could not hope to win such a fight. He surrendered as a prudent man must.”
“He did not run? No trickery? Nothing?”
“We came around a blind corner, and he was right there. He was away from his horse. He could not escape us. He gave up as soon as he saw us,” Leverkusen shrugged. “It was the wise thing to do.”
“A halfwit you say?” Celt continued.
“A mute for sure,” Leverkusen gently corrected the man.
“He cannot be the staff’s original owner,” Celt frowned. “I put a dozen sovereigns on it! This staff is a thing of rare and potent magic! I can assure you that it does not belong to some halfwit!”
“Did he tell you anything concerning the staff?” The High Commander asked.
“He would only say that it is a wyrm,” Leverkusen shrugged. “Personally, I suspect it is a holy relic—though it can be nothing compared to the relics of Ooroiyuo and Naharahna,” he finished with a grin.
“And who has asked for your estimation, dear captain?” Fedring glared at the man. The staff’s obvious connection to Trismegist made it far more compelling than the average man might assume, and Fedring didn’t want the stupid caravan captain cheapening it with his pet preference for the child gods of Minist—but then, a lowly caravan captain would believe no better. Fedring raised a hand before Leverkusen could respond. “Let me ask something pertinent,” he continued. “Do you think he stole it?”
Leverkusen gave a shrug, “It is possible. It is either that or he was given the object by one of the heathen kings for services rendered,” he speculated.
Fedring slipped a gold sol from his pocket and allowed the captain to glimpse the heavy coin, then repeated his question. “Do you think he stole it?”
Leverkusen swallowed to see the large gold coin. Slowly, he began to answer. “He is a rather common sort to be carrying such a fine staff. His clothes are dingy and stained from the road. Despite his luggage, his appearance is not that of a careful and hygienic healer,” Leverkusen lifted his eye from the gold and stared at Fedring. “I think it is not his. Considering what I know of the race, I am of the opinion he stole it—along with the pack.”
Despite the discomfort of Tehris—the only Trohl in attendance—Fedring smirked, “It seems the true owner of the staff is unknown to us! There is nothing to do but hold it in trust until the rightful owner comes forward!”
This caused a stir among the others. Fedring took the opportunity to escort Leverkusen to the door.
“Thank you, captain, thank you,” Fedring patted him on the back and gave him the coin as he pushed him out.
For some time, the important men argued about the staff—all except Gliedian. He watched with growing skepticism as the others mused and postulated fantastic magical properties for the staff. Celt the surgeon, threw bones and tried divination tricks, but they only added confusion to the discussion. After a time, Gliedian grew bored of the wild speculations. The High Commander stood and turned toward Fedring. “I for one must be going. A couple scouts are missing, and one of our northern lookouts is three days late in reporting,” he said as he made his way to the door.
Fedring snorted as Gliedian stepped from the room. There was always a scout or two missing, and there was nothing in the north to report except roving waokie. Still, the air of mystery about the staff was shattered. The others grumbled their regrets and excused themselves to their tasks. With a frown, Fedring gathered the staff in hand and followed the others out. He heaved and huffed under the considerable weight of the wyrm in her stone form.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 8.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
Meu didn’t know the Ministrian language and without Krumpus to interpret she could not follow what was said by Fedring and his crowd of investigators. For the time, there was simply nothing else to do but play dead—and so she listened to the distant patter of her perplexed examiners through the hazy filter of her dimmed senses—an unfortunate side effect of her stone form.
Suspicious and awestruck, the men stared as they ran their fingers over her rock hard scales. They caressed her feathers, teeth, and especially her eyes. One threw several bones and polished gems on the table a good half dozen times. Discussion proceeded for the better part of an hour.
Finally, one of the observers made an excuse, turned, and abruptly left. Whatever he said broke up the party. The others slowly disbanded and scratched their heads as Fedring lifted the heavy and awkward staff once more. He nodded and shook hands with several others as they shuffled out of the room. Some asked him private questions and poked at Meu’s gem-like eyes as Fedring slowly made his way to a large stone house with guards in front. Fedring panted under the weight of the staff and wondered that the thin shaman was said to be dancing with it since it was incredibly heavy!
Upon seeing the Majoris, the guards at the large stone house stood straight and gave a salute. He grumbled his appreciation, and half saluted back to them, as they opened the door. Meu thought he should be done with her and set her aside so he might take care of other concerns—but he did not. Instead, he set her upon a table and proceeded to study her, consumed by her exquisite detail. For some time, he stared at her fine wings, intricate scaling, needle point fangs, and jewel-like eyes. He tugged at the various parts of Meu with his fat fingers and tested their strength. Then he did about the worst thing he could possibly do. He fetched a pair of pliers and began to tug at her in earnest! He chipped one of her feathers and wondered that none of the others were blemished in a similar fashion, since they were rather fine at their thinnest edge. He pried at her various accents as he muttered to himself in his strange language. Most grievous was the fact that he yanked at her eyes and teeth, and became more and more insistent as he pried!
After a time, the tugging began to give Meu a headache. Her anger flamed. In this form she was very solid—but not indestructible. With enough pulling, this fat idiot could do incredible damage, he might even kill her! She felt she had to do something before he pulled her apart. Still, she could not act until he stopped prying, and then she’d have to be quick—which was always difficult coming out of stone form.
With a grimace, Fedring set aside his pliers and stared at the statue once more. Everyone was most interested in her eyes and he thought them the most valuable too. Although the staff as a whole was quite fascinating, he felt it was far too cumbersome. She might be worth double as the full piece, but he thought he could get a hundred sol for just her eyes—and they’d fit easily in his pocket! Then he’d ply the rest of her off on one of the others, so they might study her materials for five, ten, maybe twenty gold sol; if he talked fast.
But the eyes were set deep, and although the pliers were padded, he feared scratching the jewels. With a frown, he set the pliers aside and stared into the wyrm’s emerald eyes. They were so sharp and bright that he felt they were looking back at him!
As Fedring stared, Meu softened up her tail. She knocked the pliers off the table, then began to soften up the rest of her body. Fedring cursed as he bent down to retrieve the pliers. He huffed and puffed as he picked them off the floor. When he sat up, he was puzzled to see that Meu now moved! He muttered something as he stared at the creature in rapt fascination, and stretched out his hand that he might take up the serpent once more. As his hand grew close, Meu struck the man and disgorged a good deal of venom.
“Oh!” the Majoris recoiled.
Injured and frightened, Fedring pushed back from the table in an effort to get away. His chair tipped back and crashed to the floor. He spilled from the chair and onto his back. Meu spread her wings, dropped off the table, and landed on Fedring’s chest.
Eyes wide, he pushed at her as he tried to get away. He sputtered and swore as he struggled with the long form of the wyrm. He grabbed her by the body and squeezed as Meu bit him again and again.
Stop fighting! Meu ordered.
An incredible amount of venom swept through the fat man’s veins. With so much of it in his blood, Meu’s commands were immediate and overwhelming. They were also beyond mere language. Though they spoke different tongues, Fedring understood the command and was forced to comply. He paused in his struggle as she curled up on his chest. She fanned her great wings and showed her fangs.
Terror and rage surged through Fedring. He jerked about, though Meu was now in control.
“Your luminescence?” A guard’s voice called through the door. “Are you okay?”
Fedring sputtered. A froth gathered at the corners of his mouth.
Order them away, Meu thought.
“Mind your own damned business!” Fedring roared at the door as he lay on his back. He flung the pliers, which bounced off the door, and clattered to the floor.
Be still! Meu commanded, and his stillness was nearly complete. If Fedring could have stopped his own heart, he would have. Instead, he held his breath as Meu fed him thoughts of his impending death. You will suffocate, and you will die, and there is nothing you can do about it, she thought to him. Terror and fright surged through his mind—but there was no fighting her with so much venom in his veins. Fedring’s mind began to unravel. Darkness set in. He passed out. Unconscious, he was beyond Meu’s command. He took in a sharp breath.
The Majoris coughed and sputtered. He huffed and puffed and slowly began to breathe normal. His eyes fluttered open and Fedring woke once more. He flinched when he saw that Meu was still on his chest—and since he was conscious again, she dominated his thoughts with an iron will. Fedring sobbed despite his constricted muscles, and Meu encouraged it. Then she began the questioning.
Where are we?! Meu commanded, What is happening here?!
Fedring’s thoughts turned to the two forts. To the west, the Invader’s Fort was occupied by an army of fake Saots, nothing more than Ministrians in counterfeit uniforms supplied by Count Drefford of Wibbeley, all for the purpose of incriminating a distant enemy. To the east stood the smaller fort, manned by Ministrians in their proper dress and a contingent of Degorouth. In this way, the Ministrians could play both sides, and pretend to ally with the Bouge people—as they corralled and sold the commoners west as slaves. Indeed, many of the Trohls in Camp Calderhal were agents of Kezodel and collaborated with the Ministrians—but not all. Some were there to continue the fraud and pull the wool over the eyes of any honest observers that came to see the hostilities for themselves. In this way Kezodel stayed the hand of respectable militiamen—though he was forced to murder a few of the more meddlesome. As far as Kezodel was concerned, too many of Ebertin’s militias wished to investigate the troubles of the west and form their own opinions. Why wouldn’t they simply trust his word? Well, Kezodel and his Ministrian allies weren’t above sticking knives in a few people’s backs.
Of course there was no actual fighting between the forts. The twin camps served mostly as a processing center for Bouge slaves and Ministrian settlers, both of which were sent south toward Rynth Falls. From the Invader’s Fort, the prisoners were taken west through Wibbeley and into Minist, where they were sold for every imaginable purpose: labor, sex, games—or maybe just for blood. Some of the young men that might fight for coin were conveniently rescued by their Degorouth brothers. Some returned home and spoke convincingly of the fake war, while others went south to Rynth Falls, where they were trained for the day they might exact revenge against their supposed enemy, some Saot duke that was oblivious to the conflict. In this way, the Ministrians fomented endless war, so those that knew how might profit.
And still the machinations of these plunderers continued to grow and complicate. It wasn’t just the westlands that were being emptied. Kezodel and his Degorouth henchmen enforced a number of trivial laws in Ebertin. The jails of the Bouge capital were crowded with offenders of the most petty variety. Then, in a hushed manner, the surplus of prisoners were sold to Minist as slaves. The slow corruption and erosion of the great city of Ebertin was in full swing! The fruit of Ebertin was ripe for the picking as Kezodel funneled prisoners to the Invader’s Fort, and eventually the slave markets of Tikatis and Umsuppa. In the process, he made himself and his allies very rich!
And what of the Bouge men and boys that saw through the ruse and would not participate in the fighting, or those that caused troubles with their questions and defiance? Fedring crippled their hands and set them in front of the Invader’s Fort to beg and die—as they deserved!
For several hours, Meu plumbed the depths of Fedring’s knowledge. Not only did she learn the layout and particular purpose of the camps, she learned where the Ministrians held the shaman and noted where the Majoris hid his coin. She discovered the important players about the camp and how Fedring felt about each of them. Yet, with all this information, Meu was not finished. Her right eye still ached from Fedring’s use of the pliers, and she decided to torment the Corpus to no end for his rude treatment. Indeed, she was so enraged that she meant to spill him open completely.
Meu investigated Fedring’s rank, and how he became such a powerful man among the Ministrians. Indeed, she thought she was a worldly creature, immune to the shock and horror of the most ruthless sorts. The slaving of the Bouge did not shock her. The endless war did not shock her. But the Corpus Majoris was a fanatical and devious man. His secrets included many terrible things: malfeasance, manipulation, hypocrisy, conspiracy, torture, molestation, even murder. The blood of men, women, and a surprising number of children ran through his fingers and stained his treacherous hands. The extent of his crimes mirrored the slow climb of his political power, and Meu realized the rotten ruled in the Ministrian Empire.
The rotten: they were called Baradha among their own kind, and they ruled with an iron fist, gloved in velvet.
His sins laid bare by the wyrm, Fedring began to sob anew. He squirmed and bawled as snot ran from his nose. There was no remorse in his black heart—except that Meu knew his lies and treachery. His crimes did not haunt him, only their discovery.
Once more Meu was tempted to destroy the Majoris. There were a dozen ways to kill him, any of which should be easy enough. Yet, she reconsidered. In part, she knew his death would put the camp on high alert, which would make freeing the shaman all the more difficult. Instead, Meu slithered to the window. She unlatched it, as the disgusting thoughts of Fedring continued to ring in her head. The light of dawn crept into the room and she was surprised that her interrogation had lasted so long. She spread her wings and leapt from the window.
Though she might secure physical distance from this wretched beast, the reek of Fedring’s sins flowed through her thoughts and would continue to do so for several more hours. She’d injected him with so much venom. She’d injected him with too much venom! Indeed, after biting both him and the shaman, she was now quite low.
Meu surged into the sky. She pushed herself straight up into the early morning air and regarded the forts from a height. She considered marching the fat man into the shaman’s cell and ordering his release, but knew such a simple plan would not work. As a military prison, it was not under Fedring’s jurisdiction. He did not have the power to get anyone released—though if he greased enough palms... but the guards would wonder, and she knew no viable excuses as to why he might make the shaman free.
Due to a lack of sleep and an incredible headache caused by Fedring’s rude pliers, Meu decided it was best to simply disappear for a time, to rest up, and consider her options. She angled down and aimed for the trees just outside the fort. She cut close to the stone tower, in hopes of getting a good look at it. She was not giving up, she told herself, she was merely regrouping. She didn’t see the archers at all.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 8.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
“I tell you, it’s right there!” Petaerus pointed up at the sky.
“I don’t see it,” Dolif said as he blinked his eyes against the gathering light of dawn.
“Right there! How do you not see it?!” Petaerus snapped. He muttered a curse as he pulled the bow off his shoulder. “It’s coming down!” He said as he nocked an arrow.
Dolif pulled his bow and also nocked an arrow. He aimed in the same general direction as his friend, though he couldn’t see the thing... and suddenly there it was! A long, thin beast with wide, massive wings had dropped out of the sky! Indeed, how had he not seen it?! It was the largest, strangest bird Dolif ever saw!
The creature twisted above the great stone tower and angled over the wall just past the guards. Petaerus followed the beast, and as it dipped toward the trees, he fired. In the low light before dawn, it was impossible to see if the arrow hit. The beast curled up and dove into the underbrush as the missile passed.
Dolif also fired, but he did not have a good read on the creature. His arrow was off by a wide margin. Petaerus frowned at Dolif, and Dolif shrugged.
“Biggest damned bird I ever saw,” Dolif noted. “Do you think you hit it?”
“So you did see it!” Petaerus turned on his friend.
Dolif huffed. “Did you not see me shoot at it?”
“You aimed that shot? I thought you just...” Petaerus turned toward the trees, swayed a bit, and pretended to release an arrow with a shrug: a mock of Dolif’s wild shot.
The old veteran glared at his young friend.
“Stay here, I’ll go see...” Petaerus stepped toward the stairs.
“Non!” Dolif blocked the way. “If any of the commanders hear of it, you’ll get us in trouble again! You know the protocol! Send the gate guard!”
Petaerus frowned, but he knew Dolif was right. He leaned from the tower and whistled. “Who’s down there?!” he yelled to the gate.
From the ground, Derris looked up at the archers.
“Oh, fuck you,” Petaerus cursed under his breath as he recognized the guard. “It would be Derris.”
Dolif smirked.
“Derris!” Petaerus shouted down from the tower. “I shot a bird!” He pointed into the woods. “Go see what I hit!”
“A bird?!” Derris called back, bothered that he should be sent into the woods for such a small thing.
“Not a bird!” Petaerus said the word as an insult and held his hands close. “But a bird!” Petaerus threw his arms out wide and said the word as if it were some mythic beast. “Go, see, and know that it is mine!”
With a frown, Derris shook his head and made his way through the gate. He stepped into the woods. Though he thought it was a waste of time, he had to follow the order of the high guard. About such things, they had authority.
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Proficient Hand
Polished — 43m25s — 2023/11/30
Perhaps a note concerning bugbear is warranted. Very well. Here are my observations concerning these vicious, snarling, sharp-fanged devils. Bugbear may weigh as much as 150 pounds but are usually less than 100. They have a highly social structure and tend to congregate into groups known as rabbles, which can be heard from quite a distance when they are not sneaking about. As they are bipedal, bugbear make great use of their hands, which means tools and weapons. Most of their materials are rudimentary, and so their weapons are often made of stone and wood. They often possess metal, but it is always found or stolen. Because they are smaller than humans, bugbear are weary about direct confrontations. They prefer sneakiness; thievery, traps, and poisons.
Bugbear are cultivators. They raise dozens of noxious plants among their own rough gardens; most notably strangle vine, rot-heart sycamore, and wobble weed. By contrast, humans raise thousands of plants as food, materials, or simple ornaments—not to mention man’s capacity for husbandry. Men raise a great variety of different animals for food, work, and pets. In contrast, there is no record of any bugbear valuing creatures outside its own race, except as meat, and most immediately so. They may allow an animal to live a few days while it suffers the rot, but they do not care for them in any meaningful fashion.
Unlike the elder races which suffer estrous throughout their adult life, bugbear go into estrous only during the summer and fall. Pregnancy lasts six months and usually results in two to five live born pups, though I’ve heard of litters as large as nine. By the age three, bugbear are full grown and sexually mature, thus populations can increase rather quickly.
When numbers become unsupportable, bugbear are known to maraud en masse—a phenomenon known as a war. As the population blooms, the majority of males frenzy into a murderous rage. Bugbear wars can do an astonishing amount of damage. They are known to travel hundreds of miles in pursuit of blood, plunder, and glory. Villages and towns on the edge of the wild are highly susceptible to such attacks and must take great measures to secure themselves against these beasts.
- The Elder Races of the World: Considerations, Arguments, and Refutations, by Aogostua Veribos, page 825
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 9.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
A fine mesh of thin branches stretched the width of the road covered with leaves and sand. Toar knew it immediately for what it was; the humble pretense of a bugger trap. Concerned by the sight, Toar stopped in his tracks and took stock of his immediate surroundings. He put his hand on the pommel of his sword, and half expected to find something to fight.
There was nothing else about.
Toar picked several rocks off the ground and threw them at the covering of the trap. After the third rock, a large section was sunk. He approached and leaned over the edge of the slight pit that he might inspect its crafting.
The pit was a couple feet deep. Spikes were set in the bottom and each one was tipped with a cocktail of bugger poisons. Even if a victim should escape, they wouldn’t get far. Toar shook his head. So many bugger traps, and this one stretched right across the open road! Frustrated, he continued on. He wasn’t far from the ford.
At the river Quick, Toar decided to take a break and think over his options. He climbed up a slight slope where an outcrop of rock overlooked a fork in the road. The road continued along the northeast bank, but also crossed at a wide shallow ford. He could see quite a distance down the path in all three directions.
Toar sat in the freckled shade offered by a jumble of small aspens and poked at bits of a makeshift lunch as he gazed up the valley. He rolled bits of cured meat between his fingers as he considered going forward and going back. He really didn’t want to go back, but it was looking increasingly impossible to go forward.
Forward was the northwest road that led to the ruins of Salyst. Back the way he came were the western wilds for two weeks, and Ebertin after that.
Toar found himself staring down the third option. Across the ford, the road ran south and west, in the direction of Wibbeley, a hard day’s march. He had no interest in the Saots or their city, especially since it bordered so close to Minist. Yet, he still found himself staring down the road, as if expecting something.
Toar turned north and west. what interested him were the mysteries of Salyst. He’d long heard that a good many of the people went out into the Red Desert to escape the Ministrian slavers. Did any survive? If so, he’d sure like to meet them.
As he thought of Salyst and her vanished Salystians, Toar heard grunts, curses, snorts, and murmurs from across the stream. Aware that he would soon have company, Toar ducked out of view and pulled his supplies off the rocks.
A rabble of bugbear crawled out of the woods and began to cross the stream. It was a hunting party, laden with success. They approached the ford with their trophies: raccoons, foxes, squirrels, skunks, even a fawn. Four bugbear carried a massive dead boar on a rail. They struggled to get it across the ford, but the managed the work eventually, as the river got pretty deep for the beasts.
Not all the creatures captured by the buggers were dead. Several animals were still alive, caught in snares and traps, lashed and likely poisoned. They mewed, pleated, and stumbled with frightened eyes as the buggers pulled them through the water. There were some twenty bugbear in the rabble, all mature and well armed. They brandished swords, axes, spears, clubs, and knives aplenty. Some of these were genuine bugbear weapons made of chipped rock with wood handles. Others were metal, rusted and heavily dinged, taken from men in wars long past. The native weapons were not as straight or as hardy, but they were certainly in better condition.
The rabble stopped at the ford of the river and prepared to take a lunch of its own. Toar realized he was cut off. The way down from his ledge was visible to the bugger rabble. He could try and climb up from where he was, but the slope was steep. He felt such a route was folly at best. He wouldn’t attempt going up unless the buggers forced him. Instead, he sat back in the dappled shade, content to watch the beasts, and hoping simply to wait them out.
The bugbear took their time. They picked among their small winnings and devoured some of their plunder. A dozen duck eggs and a good number of lizards were consumed whole. Several of the bugbear started a fire as one cleaned some poor dead beast at the river’s edge. Toar never saw the creature, but he certainly smelled the well rotted corpse! he covered his face with his shirt.
Several of the beasts arranged a series of traps on the bank of the river Quick. Toar rolled his eyes. So many traps!
The wind shifted and something clicked in the distance. Something clacked. For a long second, Toar wasn’t sure he heard anything, then came the hollow sound of a distant laugh. Chances were it’d be a caravan from Wibbeley. If so, the bugbear must flee—and then he’d watch Ministrians suffer and curse the bugger traps as they came out of the water! He grinned with anticipation. Maybe the men would spot the little devils and give ‘em hell. Maybe he’d get to see a battle where each casualty was a blessing. There was nothing to love about buggers or Ministrians!
The clomp of hooves grew as the horses approached. A snippet of conversation carried on the breeze. A raucous laugh rolled through the trees. Finally, the bugbear caught the sound of men over the rush of the river and the tumult of their own activities. The buggers became very quiet. At the next sound, the bugbear scattered. Several kicked out the fire. A half dozen bugbear took the living animals up the road with all possible haste. The remaining bugbear hid in the thick undergrowth at the edge of the river and shook with anticipation. There was a lot of vegetation and the beasts were well hidden. Even knowing they were there, Toar had a hard time spotting them.
Eventually, the men appeared. They laughed and conversed easily, unaware of the lurking danger as they moved along the road—but it wasn’t a caravan. Indeed, there were only three of ‘em with six horses. One of them had skin as dark as night. Whoever they were, they certainly weren’t Ministrians.
The bugbear squirmed and glared at the men, unconcerned by their color. There were at least a dozen bugbear on the bank. Not only did they have numbers, they had the element of surprise!
Even if the men were not MIinistrian, Toar did not want to get involved. There were few people in this part of the world that weren’t slaves or slavers, and these three looked decidedly more like the latter. He decided to let the ambush shake out.
The three strangers hopped off their horses and stepped into the river. The waters climbed over their ankles, past their knees, and above their waists. The deeper the stranger’s went, the more a sinking feeling caught in Toar’s chest. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on edge. Then, as the oblivious approach of the strangers continued, one of the bugbear turned and looked directly at him! Somehow, despite the camouflage of the ledge, he was spotted! Toar locked eyes with the beast. It showed long fangs and silently snapped at him.
For a long second, Toar thought it was best to run. He turned to the slope going up and decided it was impossible. He looked down the way he came and wondered if he moved first, might he outrun the buggers? He glanced at the strangers and wondered if he should tie his fate to their own.
The men in the river Quick were across the deepest part of the channel. They climbed into shallow water, down to their thighs, the tops of their shins. They were almost across the wide, slow ford. If Toar was going to act, he had to act now!
Without another thought, Toar picked a stone off the ground and chucked it at the bugbear that glared at him. Committed, Toar didn’t wait for the stone to hit or miss. He simply lobbed stone after stone into the brush where the bugbear hid.
The first rock caused the men in the river to jump back and pull weapons. After the first, the youngest of the men swore. “Balls...” he said as he noted the stream of rocks that fell from the sky. Sure of trouble, he pulled pistols from the dry saddle of his horse.
Although the rain of rocks ruined the ambush, the bugbear still attacked. A couple ran for Toar, and tried to scramble up the hill. Toar continued to throw rocks, though he shifted his aim. His right hand glanced the pommel of his sword, aware that he might yet need it.
At the river’s edge, a bugbear stepped from the brush and shot the eldest of the three strangers with its blowgun. In retaliation, the dark man leaped forward with his spear and struck the offending bugbear before it could dodge back into the brush. The bugger shrieked and dropped into the waters of the Quick.
Several more buggers jumped from the bushes and confronted the dark man. The metal tip the dark man’s spear flicked and whistled as he used it to keep the buggers at bay. He nicked another beast and the bugger howled in pain.
Several leather balls flew from the hedges. Most missed their target or scored ineffective hits, but one caught the youngest man full in the face. Blinded, he leveled his muskets in the general direction of the offense. A puff of smoke appeared, and a split second later the force of the blast ripped at Toar’s ears. It’d been years since he last heard a musket and the bang of it was something he’d never got used to to.
Despite being unable to see, Baet’s aim was true. Blood exploded from a bugbear’s arm and the beast howled in pain. The afflicted beast turned, stepped from the river, and ran up the road, as it gripped its injured arm and cried with impotent fury.
The oldest of the strangers also had a musket. He pointed and fired at the buggers that slowly pushed the dark man back. Another clap of thunder roared through the air. Unaccustomed to the racket, Toar and the buggers flinched again. One of the buggers flopped back in the water, as if smashed in the chest with a hammer. Blood swirled about as the lifeless body was caught in the current and slowly rolled down the deepest channel of the river.
With another member dead, the resilience of the bugbear was shattered. The vermin panicked, broke, and ran. They squawked and snorted and huffed in their strange language as they retreated up the road, toward Salyst.
Toar’s heart sank to see them headed for the old city. He was beginning to think he’d never see it again. Even if he should, he was convinced he’d find nothing there but bugbear among her ruins. He’d be forced to continue across the Red Desert if he hoped to find the exiled—and the Red Desert promised to be no picnic either! There was rumor of giants in the desert, especially near the Red Hills that bordered on Minist. Toar frowned and wondered at the impossibility of his road.
With the enemy fled, the three men in the river waved and beckoned to Toar. He watched the men, confused by their strange Saot tongue. He only hoped they would also go away.
They did not. Instead the old man switched to Ministrian, and though he despised the language, Toar knew it well. “Come down here, that we may talk,” the old man said. “My name is Dandifrod, and these are my men; Carr and Baetolamew. We are far from home and care for your council!”
Since Toar could talk to them, he decided he must. “Stay in the river!” he yelled back. “There are traps!” He decided he had not saved them from the ambush only to have them all poisoned by the bugbear’s trap.
The men waited at the edge of the water. Toar grabbed his pack and hurried down the slope. He approached the river and searched for the trip lines, which were easy to find since he knew where to look. He gently cut the bugbear string and the first trap fell apart.
“Thank you for your warning. Twice you have saved us. We are increasingly in your debt,” Dandifrod smiled.
Toar huffed. He ignored the man as he gently cut another line. The fiber separated—but he put too much pressure into the cut, and the trap activated. A dart flew through the air and just missed his face. Toar breathed a sigh of relief. A face infected with rot was not a pleasant thought.
Safe from bugger traps, he stood and addressed the three men with a sour expression. “Are you slavers?”
“No,” Dandifrod answered with his hands up and helpless. “We’re simply passing through.”
“You do not belong here,” Toar replied.
“Are these not the Freelands?” Dandifrod asked.
Toar snorted, “in name alone.”
“Are you not a Trohl?”
“I am an exception,” Toar stated. “We are a good week from the nearest Trohl settlement. Between here and there its nothing but bugbear and Ministrian shock troops.”
Dandifrod frowned to hear that. “We make for Hearthstone,” he began.
“Then you should go another way.”
“Is it safe now?” Dandifrod asked as he pointed to the bank of the river, undeterred. “This water is cold, and we would be out of it.”
Toar shrugged. The men climbed from the river.
“Thank you for breaking the ambush,” Carr, the dark man said, and shook Toar’s hand. “We are lucky you were around.”
Dandifrod approached the man with a small dart resting in his palm. “I fear I am poisoned,” he said to the young man. “Do you know what those devils use?”
Toar took the dart and examined it. He saw what he expected. “The oily substance is rot root. The Ministrians call it sweet rot. You can smell it,” he wrinkled his nose.
Dandifrod sniffed the dart and cringed. “How bad is it?”
“Bad,” Toar admitted. “Without treatment, you will get sick and die. May I see the wound?”
Dandifrod lifted his shirt. There was an angry red pock mark just below his ribs. “It is very delicate,” Dandifrod noted.
“If it can be infected, it’s dinner,” Toar shrugged. “Anyway, it’s a good thing they use the rot when they hunt. They have quicker poisons for when they go to war,” he spit.
“You said there is a treatment?” Dandifrod asked.
“Normally, the rot kills in a day or two—three if you’re lucky. I can stretch it to a week or so, depending on your strength,” he searched in his bag. “I know a witch. She lives eight days from here—six if we hurry. She can heal you. It’s good odds,” he shrugged. “All you need to do is live that long.”
“If you shall take us, I will be forever in your debt,” Dandifrod bowed.
Toar frowned. “Let it not be forever,” he said as he handed a slight jar of ointment to Dandifrod. “Rub this on the wound.”
The man took the jar and applied a thin ribbon. “It bites,” he complained.
“Add more,” Toar told him. “You do not look well. How do you feel?”
“To speak the truth, I feel weak and nauseous,” Dandifrod confessed.
Toar nodded. “Wobble weed, quick and disorienting. It makes it easier for the bugbear to catch their prey.”
“It is not lethal?” Dandifrod asked.
“Kill the quarry and you stop the spread of the rot. If the point is to get a meat that is thoroughly marbled, the victim must die of the infection itself. Still, wobble weed causes problems. It tries your balance and makes you tired,” Toar said as he searched among his bag. He grinned as he pulled out a pouch and offered a small spoon of green powder to Dandifrod. “Try this.”
Cautiously, Dandifrod ate the powder. He ground it against the roof of his mouth. Toar could tell it was working before the man swallowed. Dandifrod’s eyes went wide and he stood up straight. “This is marvelous!” he smiled at Toar. “What is it you give me?”
“Fio,” Toar said in a bit of a whisper. He took a spoonful for himself as he imagined it would be a long day among these strangers and wanted the extra strength and centering.
Dandifrod was taken aback, “But fio is white. You give me a green powder.”
Toar shook his head. “What you know is the fio of Minist, and their attempts to isolate the drug’s euphoric and energetic effects. The Ministrians would addle your brain and make you an addict.”
“Yours is not addictive?” Dandifrod asked.
“Not as addictive,” Toar corrected.
The old man smiled. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome,” Toar offered a spoon of the powder to Carr and Baetolamew. Carr declined immediately. Baetolamew thought on it before he finally shook his head. If he took some now, he’d only carve it for the remainder of their mission. He felt it was more trouble than it was worth.
With a shrug, Toar returned the pouch to his bag. “If there is nothing else that needs our attention, I suggest we go. The buggers are just as likely to come back as they are to stay away. I’d prefer not to be here in case they return.”
“I have a question,” Baetolamew pointed at his watery eyes. “That devil hit me with something. It stings,” he explained.
“That is not a question,” Toar noted.
“Well, what was it?” Baetolamew glared at the Trohl. “What hit me?”
Toar leaned close to the man. He could see remnants of the dust caught in the man’s lashes and brows. He pulled several long, thin spines from Baetolamew’s cheek. He showed them to the man. “Moon thistle. They use it to blind and get birds.”
“I can see mostly...” Baet said unconvincingly.
“You are lucky. There are no spines stuck in your eyes. You will be okay,” Toar assured. “Wash your face in the river. Be careful not to push any spines into your skin. If they get too deep, they can irritate and get infected.”
Baet gulped, turned to the river, and washed his face.
“It is lucky you know Ministrian,” Dandifrod said.
Toar shrugged. “Half the world knows Ministrian—or so I am told.”
“I have heard this too. You speak it well,” the old man continued.
“I was raised in the courts, a servant if you will. It was a difficult upbringing, but it afforded an excellent education.”
“Why are there Ministrians in these mountains?” Dandifrod asked. “I thought these were Trohl lands.”
“It used to be, before Kezodel began his deals with the Ministrian devils,” Toar shrugged.
“Who is Kezodel?”
Toar eyed the men suspiciously. “Kezodel is the Muaha of the Bouge. He is supreme leader and final judge in the courts of Ebertin.”
“I am confused,” Dandifrod noted. “What is a Bouge, and when do we enter Trohl lands?”
Toar stared at the strangers. These men had no knowledge of bugbear, Kezodel, or even the Bouge! They knew nothing of the land in which they traveled! What had chased them into this country so unprepared?!
“When shall you enter Trohl lands?” Toar repeated the question. “That depends on who you ask. Many including Kezodel say this is Bouge land—a tribe of Trohl—as you say. I say this is Ministrian territory, if it belongs to anyone. They patrol it and keep it in the order they care to maintain, which seems to be none at all. Instead, they allow the buggers to proliferate,” Toar continued. “As for Trohls, there are nine Trohl tribes. There are the Bouge, Pulbouge, Jindleyak, Gopi, Untu, Gramgoar, Melmore, Mormosse, and Indrah,” he informed. “The Salystians used to be among this number, but they are all gone; dead, enslaved, or disappeared beyond the Red Desert,” he answered.
“Nine tribes? How big are they?” Baetolamew asked.
“Millions strong. The Gramgoar are the most numerous and the Untu are the fewest now that the Salystians have vanished.”
“How many men does this Kezodel command?” Dandifrod continued.
Toar thought on it. “Twenty maybe fifty thousand among the watch? They answer to the office of the Muaha—but many are decent men and hope only to keep the peace. His house guard is five, maybe ten thousand strong, and they are all fanatics. They will do anything the Muaha commands, and peace is not in their nature. They occupy all the top offices of the watch. Lastly, there are the militias, maybe half a million strong.”
Carr gave a whistle. “Now that’s an army,” he said.
Toar shrugged. “The militias are filled with men and women of all ages, boys and girls from ten to sixty,.. seventy,.. even eighty years of age. If you can carry a weapon and are willing to defend your home, you are welcome in one or another of the militias. Besides, nobody really knows how many troops the militias can muster. They all fudge their numbers, and while some are filled with brave warriors and dangerous men indeed, others are ranked with cowards and utter incompetents,” Toar shook his head. “Now, of the militias, some side with the Muaha and carry out his various corruptions, while others are openly critical. Most care little for politics and can’t be moved beyond the boundaries of their own neighborhoods. However, a few have become so incensed with the corruption of the Muaha that they’ve moved east, and now call themselves the Pulbouge.”
“Ebertin must be quite the city,” Dandifrod noted.
“Everyone says it is the largest Trohl city, and I’d hate to be the one that had to count it,” Toar noted. He turned on the three men and eyed them critically. “And what of you? Where are you from?”
“Ewile, far to the south,” Dandifrod answered. “It borders the Sea of Danya and the west bank of the Wander Water. It is a land of rolling hills, green and fecund.”
“Are you not Saot? Subject to King Gred duReb?” Toar asked.
“It seems that all of our histories are a little more complicated,” Dandifrod noted. “The Saot is made up of several duchies. There is Danya, Ewile, Gaurring, Kelm, the Noeth, Pagladoria...”
“Pags,” Baetolamew snorted.
“Don’t be rude,” Dandifrod chided.
“I see,” Toar turned to Carr. “What of you? Are you a Saot too?”
“Yes.”
“And what of your color?”
“Very well. My native home is Borzia, even further to the south, across the Sea of Danya,” Carr said. “Borzia is a bloody and troubled land. I much prefer my adopted home.”
“They say blood and money flow free in Borzia,” Baetolamew interjected.
“And all of it coming from the natives,” Carr added.
“Is that a joke?” Toar asked.
“Of a sort,” Carr said. “Though it is not a very funny one.”
Indeed, Toar thought it sounded like the jokes told among Kezodel and his henchmen, which were rarely funny.
As the four men proceeded east, they continued to speak of their peoples. With the setting of the sun, the company made camp. They built a fire against the side of a large boulder, in hopes that it would not be seen. Toar scavenged wild vegetables and heated them over the fire. They enjoyed these fresh foods with hard tack and preserved meats provided by Dandifrod and his men. As they ate, Toar inspected Dandifrod’s wound once more.
“It is growing,” Dandifrod worried.
“It is still smaller than the palm of my hand,” Toar noted. “Today was a good day for you. You may yet live.”
“Will the road be so quiet all the way east?” Dandifrod asked.
“No. It is quiet until it is not. Due to the bugbear, the Ministrians tend to travel en masse. It is usually large caravans that pass with plenty of guards,” Toar said. “As for the watchtowers and the supply stations the Ministrians run, well, there are ways around those.”
“I should not like to be stopped by Ministrians,” Dandifrod admitted.
“Nor I,” Toar smiled. “But they are easy enough to avoid, so long as we are vigilant. With so many feet, they tend to make a lot of noise.”
Although Carr, Dandifrod, and Toar ate with fervor, Baetolamew continued to poke and curse at his makeshift meal.
“Why do you not eat?” Carr asked. “What is wrong with you?”
“I can barely taste it. I can not smell it at all,” Baetolamew complained. “What did that devil do to me?”
Toar approached so he could get a better look at Baetolamew’s face. The man-at-arms was flush. His eyes watered and snot ran from his nose. “This is not moon thistle,” Toar thought out loud. “...and it is quite warm and late in the season to have such a cold...” He gently poked at Baetolamew and checked his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth, as he considered other possibilities. He stared at the miserable foreigner, stumped for a long moment. “Something seems familiar…” Toar muttered as he studied the symptoms once more. Suddenly, he leaned back and eyed the stranger critically. For a long second, he didn’t know how to broach the topic. He glanced at Dandifrod and the dark captain, then decided to just have it out. If they didn’t like his words, he could always just leave. “Did you lay with a Trohl? Maybe in the last week?” he asked.
Baetolamew looked at Dandifrod and Carr as the two turned to each other with a bit of smirk. Shame overcame his face. After a long pause Baetolamew sighed. “There was a woman, in Wibbeley. She said she was half Trohl...”
Dandifrod’s eyes went wide as he gave a long whistle.
“A bit of celebration?” Carr asked.
“Garf and several men approached on the street,” Baetolamew explained. “I hid in the first hole I could find.”
“And it happened to be a brothel?” Dandifrod asked, somewhere between consternation and amusement.
“Our enemies were not established in what I would call a fine neighborhood,” Baetolamew complained. “The streets were filled with whores and men in blue and white, with time and metal on their hands! It was vexing to stand idle, so close to those that would capture and kill me, if only they knew my heart! Yet, I stood, waiting, as if I had nothing to hide—until Garf and Bence stepped down the street with a dozen men in tow! They came right at me, and I concealed myself as I could! I used the wrapping arms of a half Trohl girl to disguise myself—that is true! I did what I must, and I lived because of it!” His words trailed off before he began again with gusto. “It is because of my folly that I got my hands on Banifourd! Come to find out, the bordello was established by his own mother! My failure became my success!” he added defiantly.
“Whatever else happened, this girl has given you disease,” Toar stated.
“What do I have?!” Baetolamew asked as his concern crept toward hysteria.
“Many call it the drips, or the Tikatis trickle. It is an affliction Ministrians and Saot sometimes suffer when they couple with Trohl. Untreated, you will become dehydrated and weak as you continue to snot and ooze. It is a slow process, and may not subside for months. Your kidneys may fail. You may well die if it remains untreated.”
“Months!?” Baetolamew stood and backed from Toar. “Naharahna’s tits! I’m going to die!?” He pulled Gore Tongue from its sheath. “It’s just a ball-sucking cold, you scandalous liar! You tell my master he has the rot and might live for a week, then you claim that I’ll die soon after?! How do I know you have not poisoned us?!” Baetolamew ripped Haddelton’s long knife from its scabbard and spun blades in each hand. “Draw your metal! I will have blood for your lies!”
Carr stood and put a hand out toward Baetolamew. “Sit, Baet. Relax. He is here to help.”
Baetolamew wiped his face and eyed the mess on his sleeve. With a huff, he put his knives away and sat back down a good distance from Toar.
“There is a cure,” Toar said.
“Oh, there’s a cure!” Baetolamew mocked. “The witch has it, a week from here!”
Toar ignored the interruption. “There is an herb that grows in abundance. It is very effective. We will make a tea. Tonight, you should feel some bit of comfort, and tomorrow you will feel quite a bit better. In three or four days, you will forget that you were ever bothered. I shall also show you this herb and how to prepare it. If the affliction should ever return, you can make this simple tea and it will clear up in short order.”
“I shall suffer these drips for a lifetime!?” Baet asked.
“It is the luck of the draw,” Toar shrugged. “Some drink the tea a few days and never see the drips again. Though some few unfortunate bastards must drink the tea all their lives to keep the sickness at bay.”
“It is but a tea, you say?”
Toar nodded. “This plant grows everywhere throughout the Bunderhilt. I am told it grows in the mountains about Minist. Likely, there is much of it in the south, in your own nation, among your own mountains. It is pleasant with honey,” Toar stood and walked from the fire light. “I go to find the herb.”
For some time, Toar wandered. He was in no hurry to find the distinctive silversage and return to the fire. Although the older man and the dark man were amiable companions, the younger Saot was full of piss and vinegar. Toar did not like him. Still, he found a large clump of silversage and took several branches from it. When he had enough for a few days, he returned to the fire. He examined his findings and stripped the outer bark into a small pot of water. He then discarded the young leaves, slight flowers, and remaining bulk of the silversage into the fire.
“Why do you junk the bright young foliage? Why is it you break up ragged and shaggy bark, adding only the rough bits to the water?” Baetolamew asked.
“Silversage is a precarious plant. It is toxic and dangerous as it first blooms. But the toxins shift and mellow as it ages, becoming subtle medicines during the hard months of winter,” Toar explained. “When you make it, make sure you use bark that has suffered at least one winter.”
“He will kill us all,” Baetolamew muttered under his breath.
With a pained smile, Toar set the pot on the edge of the fire. It took several minutes to boil. When it finished, Toar pulled the tea from the fire and poured a cup. He handed the cup to Baetolamew.
Baetolamew looked to Dandifrod and Carr. Both men watched him, curious. Baetolamew lifted the liquid to his nose. “Balls, I cannot even smell it!” He fumed.
Carr waved the vapors to himself. “It does not smell too bad,” he nodded. “It has a subtle perfume that might make it enjoyable.”
“I do not trust it!” Baetolamew set the cup aside. “He would poison me and let the old man die! Then, there is only Carringten between him and all that we have!”
“If that is so, I will kill him,” Carr stated, nonchalant.
The statement was a bit of a shock for Toar, but the words were light. Carr looked at Toar and shrugged as a way of apology. It did not seem to be a threat, only a reassurance meant to calm Baetolamew.
For several seconds, the drink sat alone. Finally, Toar took the cup. Fear shot across Baetolamew’s face as he expected the Trohl would dump it. Instead, Toar sipped at the hot tea. He made sure it was an audible sip, then gurgled to prove it was in his mouth. With a smile, he swallowed and offered the cup back to Baetolamew. “It is safe,” Toar told him. “Though it is still quite hot.”
But it was not Baetolamew that took the cup. It was Dandifrod. The old man looked to Toar. “Any reason I should not?”
Toar shook his head and gave a shrug. “So long as one uses the right parts of the plant, the tea was quite safe.”
Dandifrod sniffed the drink and took a slow, ponderous gulp. “Not bad,” the old man noted. He passed the cup to Carr.
The dark man sniffed the concoction and sampled it. With a bit of a nod, he passed the cup. “You must try it Baet. It is almost pleasant.”
Carringten and now Baet... The strangers interchanged nicknames and full names. With a suspicious look, Toar turned on the old man. “Dan?” He said as he hoped to catch the old man off guard, “Dan,” he repeated.
Dandifrod perked up. “Nobody calls me Dan,” he replied.
“Dan is a common name, is it not?” Toar asked.
“Which is why he don’t use it!” Baetolamew snapped. “Does he look like a common man to you?!”
Irritated, Baetolamew turned back to the tea and finally took a sip. The others watched as he finished it without further complaint.
With the initial cup down, Baetolamew turned to Toar. “Is that all, or should I drink the rest of the pot?” he asked, his temper all but faded.
Toar shrugged. “It cannot hurt to have some more.”
Baetolamew took up the pot and calmly poured another cup. He picked bits of bark from the tea, careful not to singe his fingers. “It is not terrible,” he stated as he brought the cup to his lips once more. Toar watched as the younger Saot drank the silversage tea, and was happy to note the accusation and hostility was finally gone from his eyes.
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Loyal Servants of the Empire
Polished — 46m08s — 202/12/01
Curses are blessings.
Blessings are curses.
Nothing but mouth and tail,
forced to crawl on its belly,
the serpent is said to be
the wisest of all god’s creatures.
As such, there is none
better at seduction.
- Book of Odim Kalodim, author unknown
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 10.2 +_)(*^%$#@!~
Derris made his way into the forest, trusting his ears that he might hear the cries of any wounded beast—but there was nothing so dumb or so desperate among the trees. The shadows of the woods were long in the early morning light and the undergrowth was heavy. The soldier moved slowly—though he expected nothing more than a raven, or maybe a hawk—if he should find anything at all. Methodical and slow, he walked several hundred yards, turned, walked a good twenty feet parallel to the wall, then doubled back so he might canvas a wider area. He was out here, so he decided if there was anything to find, he might as well try to find it.
And find it, he did. There was a dusting of feathers on the ground, mostly exploded—mere fragments. Among these bits were two long feathers, nearly complete and quite impressive. Both were beige, with a soft slow fade to red on one side, and a bright green stripe that cut straight across almost the width of his finger. Both tips that would have connected to the beast were rudely broken and dappled in blood. It must have been a big bird indeed!
Meu rested under a lilac. She worried about the arrow in her wing, her pain and consternation loud in her head. She missed the slow step of the guard and his quiet manner, and he did not see her for all the leaves and flowers. He brushed the lilac aside, so he might see beyond, and almost stuck a finger in Meu’s sore eye.
Frightened by the sudden invasion, Meu struck the guard’s hand. She flushed the remainder of her venom into him, and hoped he was amiable to a conversation. If not, she’d have to try intimidation, since she didn’t have enough venom for out and out control.
Struck by the wyrm, Derris cursed as he stumbled away. “What the devil...?!” He pulled his sword and stared down the hedge of clustered purple flowers anew. Now that he knew something hid among the lilac, he could see Meu’s camouflaged form coiled about the stalks. “Jeiju’s tits!” He swore as he realized the size of her.
Jeiju? Meu spoke in his mind. You are not a Trohl.
Derris stared at the creature. Did it speak to him? “I am not a Trohl,” he admitted. “I worship the true gods, Ooroiyuo and Naharahna.”
Yes, the true gods, Meu grinned.
Her language was strange, yet Derris understood it. “How...?” he began.
Are you the one that shot me? Meu interrupted. There was something menacing about the way she said it. She rose to the top of the lilac and showed herself. Glory, she was massive! Her wings were as wide as a condor! Meu nudged the arrow with her snout as it hung among the feathers of her right wing.
Derris frowned to see it. “Non, beast,” he began in a soft tone. “I am sent to find you and take your corpse back to the one that did,” he admitted. Despite his harsh words, he did not approach, or raise his weapon. Indeed, he could barely speak. The words came so easily only because he need do nothing more than think them!
Her candor matched his. Will you do it? Will you kill me and deliver my body for a trophy?
Derris frowned. “I should think it is you that kills me. Am I poisoned? Do I die already?”
You are poisoned, Meu told him, but you will not die. I do apologize. It is the venom that allows us to think to each other. Painful, I admit, but oh so convenient among thinking beings. Please, let there be peace between us.
“Peace,” Derris agreed and leaned toward Meu in hopes to getting a better look at her. “Are you chimera?”
Non, she chuckled. I am just a wyrm, though some would call me a wind serpent, or a basilisk. What do you know of chimera?
“Only that they possess great magics,” Derris noted. “And since you are magic...” he shrugged.
Aren’t we all?
Derris snorted. “I should think I am not as magic as you.”
It is difficult for one to see his own magics when they are hard won with work, Meu winked.
Derris frowned. “Hard work cannot give me venom that lets me talk to others.”
That is true, Meu agreed. But I was born to this figure. Do you not see your own advantages? You have hands for holding and writing.
“And you have wings,” Derris said.
One which has an arrow in it, she complained.
“I am sorry he shot you,” Derris noted. “Petaerus should not have done such a thing. He has very poor manners.”
I thank you for your sympathy, Meu replied. Despite the look of it, I do believe it is a minor concern. I have lost little more than a bit of blood, and perhaps some pride. Besides, it has given me the opportunity to meet you. Indeed, I am quite happy that you found me and not some other. I imagine it should not be so cordial between me and some of your brothers.
“I am not very good at soldiering,” Derris answered with a frown.
Indeed, you are too frank and friendly. I should think there are better uses for a man like you, the wyrm smiled.
“For one of my birth, there is nothing greater than to be a soldier,” Derris replied. He hanged his head in shame. “Your venom is cruel. I suspect none can lie with it in their veins.”
The wyrm chuckled. Most men lie to themselves. Indeed, lies come all too quick to the mind and tongue. It is the truth they cannot speak, she mused. But you are not such a man. No. Instead, you have sussed a great secret of the venom—it will have your truth—even if you know nothing but lies. Still, you must believe it to speak it.
Derris considered her words. “Can’t one lie by omission?”
We all lie by omission, Meu replied. There is no way to include everything. For a long moment there was a silence between them. Shall we be friends, that I might ask you a favor? Meu began again.
“There is already peace,” Derris noted. “It is a small step to being friends. What might I do for you, wyrm?”
Will you break this arrow and take it from my wing?
Derris gulped. To approach the creature was to take a chance. He wanted to trust her. She seemed sincere in her apology. But there was a dark fringe at the edge of her mind that seemed a torrent of rage and hatred. Could she be trusted, or did she hide a part of herself? Was she as honest as she claimed she had to be? Or was she simply mad at being shot and angling for revenge?
First, you must find a good bit of dirt under the leaves below this bush, and when the blood comes, you must be ready to press it on my wound. Meu told him. Both sides.
Derris got down on his knees and scraped under the lilac. He gathered several handfuls of dark earth and made a neat pile. Meu crawled out of the lilac, slow and sure. Derris raised his hands so he might examine the injury.
Gentle... the creature cautioned as Derris moved close. She lowered her wing.
Derris broke the fletching from the shaft, then slid the arrow through. She trembled and sighed as the arrow slid free. “Sorry,” he apologized, then stuffed the pieces of the arrow into his pocket. Next, he leaned over and picked up a handful of dirt. He pressed the virgin earth on both sides of the wound, then brushed away the excess.
Meu flexed her wing, then curled it to her side. I thank you, she breathed with relief.
“You are most welcome,” Derris gave a bow.
Son of Odim, what is your name? Meu asked.
“I am Derris, guard of the Empress’ Own,” he replied. “Who is this Odim?”
You do not know the great book of the Odim Kalodim? Meu asked.
“I know several books, but this Odim is not among them,” he shrugged.
It is a Tallian legend. The Odim Kalodim was the first, the last, the every. He is the abstract from which the specific is stamped. All men are his sons, and all women his daughters, Meu stated. I thank you, Derris, of the Empress’ Own. It is no wonder she keeps you for herself.
Derris wondered that this creature did not know that all the armies of Minist were called the Empress’ Own. Derris thought to correct her but decided to let the point slide. There was something else he wished to address instead. “You speak in my mind, and you are kind and considerate...”
Thank you, Meu noted as he paused.
Derris gave a slow nod and a nervous smile, then took a step back. “Yet, there is a vulgar darkness about your thoughts,” he noted. “Why is this?” He realized if she was devious, this might provoke a strike. He wondered if he might yet return to camp with a trophy.
Ah, that, the creature snickered. Are you sure you wish to know? she asked. There is no remedy for knowledge. One does not undo experience.
“I would know. It will tell me if you are more angel or devil,” Derris stated, though he did not mean to reveal the second part—it was simply too easy to speak to her!
That it may, she agreed. I have bit another. His mind is still linked to my own. Do you know this man? The wyrm opened the thoughts of Fedring to Derris. Pain, rage, and obscenity crashed upon the guard’s mind. The dark memories of Fedring flooded and staggered him. Derris gasped, shocked that the Corpus Majoris should harbor such vile proclivities, and take part in such twisted machinations. It seemed that Fedring gorged on the fears of men, the tears of women, and the blood of children! Was he not a holy man?! A man of the Twin Gods?! A Sacred Protector of the Throne?! But Derris saw how the Majoris reveled in his atrocious acts. Worse than that, he saw through Fedring’s eyes an entire society of such corrupt and scandalous individuals of all stripes and manner.
Derris leaned heavily on the trunk of a tree against this revolting onslaught. The illusion of his very world crashed about him in fantastic fashion. He’d always had his doubts about some of those with badges of authority, but never suspected that so many among the ruling elite were so nefarious, and so terribly bloodthirsty!
The dark thoughts of the Baradha subsided. I am sorry. I do not mean to pain you, the wyrm stated. Secretly, she felt the revelations might do him no end of good—but for now they’d only bring him pain. I must go, she told him. I have been up too late and need a good rest. I bid you farewell, Derris, of the Empress’ Own. If your Gods shall have it, I pray we cross paths again.
“Wait!” Derris yelled after her. “What do I call you, or shall I call you beast?”
I am no mere beast, she pointed out. Call me Meu.
As the wyrm crept away, Derris sat on the forest floor and watched her fade from view. Conflicted, he considered the hate and cruelty of Fedring. Although he may have refused to look at it head on, the general corruption of the ruling elite was something he’d secretly suspected for some time—but now he was forced to face it in a very immediate manner. He wondered if it was true and begged for some proof that it wasn’t. Could Meu manipulate the thoughts of those she bit? Was she twisting Fedring’s words, so to say?
For a second, Derris convinced himself she was a devil, come to divide the good people of Minist. He wondered if he did the wrong thing when he pulled the arrow from her wing. Should he have killed her and taken her corpse to Petaerus after all? But as he thought this, a small voice told him he did the right thing—a voice he recognized as his own.
For some time, Derris sat against the tree and considered the tight knots of his own confusion. Finally, he stood and walked back to Camp Calderhal. He took the feathers to Petaerus and told him a bold-faced lie.
“This is all you found?!” Petaerus asked as he snatched the feathers from Derris.
Derris shrugged, then remembered the broken arrow in his pocket—but he would not be returning that! “What was it you shot?” he asked and pointed to the fantastic nature of the feathers, curious to know if Petaerus got a good look at Meu.
Petaerus shook his head. “Some giant bird...” he stared at Derris and slowly turned sour. “Nothing else?!” he finally erupted. “You found nothing?!”
“A bit of blood... a trail that did not last,” Derris shrugged. “Whatever it was, I do not think you killed it. Shall I go back out? Shall I search some more?” He asked, and thought he might like to have more time to himself.
Petaerus swore and muttered under his breath. He pulled off his helmet and secured the feathers with a band of cloth, then placed the helmet back on his head. He turned to Dolif. “How do I look?”
Dolif admired the feathers and smiled. “They’re quite impressive,” he assured his friend.
“Dear gods, let that beast return!” Petaerus flexed. “I’d rather take another shot at that monster than rub against naked Naharahna herself!”
Derris was shocked at the impropriety. “Blasphemy!” He whispered.
Petaerus heard him. He turned on the lesser guard and scoffed. “You are too serious! Do you think the gods even notice us as we crawl about the dirt? To them, we are but ants!”
“Who informs your faith?” Derris frowned.
“Informs my...” Petaerus repeated as he drew himself up. “Listen here, Derris: we are dust before the gods! We are nothing but the fallen children of a broken moon—and she is most broken! Do you not see? This life is nothing but our torment! The gods have demanded the impossible of us; the task of reforming this world! But I am not dumb enough to attempt the impossible! Instead, I shall take what I can hack out of this jungle! Hischeidah has the right of it; all is folly! Do as you want!” Petaerus touched the stylized star on Derris’s collar. “But I see what you are. One day, the school of Addivus will see the light—if the Empress doesn’t put an early end to his band of bleeding heart enablers! Why she tolerates him at all is beyond me!”
Red faced and furious, Derris shrugged and stepped away. He wasn’t about to argue politics with a higher rank, especially after he just witnessed the secret thoughts of Fedring.
Or were they from Fedring at all…?
“Hold!” Dolif called after him. “You haven’t been released!”
“Let him go,” Petaerus scoffed. “It must be quite taxing to be so incompetent and wrong all the time. At least we can let him be these things on his own,” he called after the retreating guard.
Derris returned to his post. He finally relaxed after his confrontation with Petaerus and Dolif, only to be bothered by the foul thoughts of Fedring once more. The longer Derris dwelled on it, the more convinced he was of Fedring’s sins, and also of general corruption among the Baradha. The Baradha—now there was a term he had not known at the start of the day! To think that he served in their various corruptions! What were they really doing in this foreign land?! They were certainly not bringing peace to the natives, as was so often said!
Meu continued to eavesdrop on the guard’s unprotected thoughts, She felt sorry for him. We need not explore the fetid acts of Fedring anymore. It is not your responsibility to remake the Empire, she said. Instead, let me entertain you with memories of my own.
Derris wasn’t expecting her to still be in his head. A righteous indignation came over him—but was quickly erased as the sensation of flight washed through the guard. The warmth of the sun and the cool of the breeze mingled as strong wings twisted in the wind. In his mind, he remembered spinning lazy circles in thermal updrafts as he drifted higher and higher above the fading ground. He dove for the earth at incredible speeds, and the world rushed up to meet him. He skittered about the edge of storm clouds, and danced next to the sheer face of cliffs. But even as his memories drifted among distant clouds, Derris was troubled by the hate and secret motivations of his betters. He could not shake it. He could not break free of Fedring’s memories.
After his shift, Derris wandered about the camp, unsure what to do with himself. He was a lost soul. The reason and purpose he carried through his days were turned on their head. He was suddenly without course. A rudderless ship. Out of mere habit, he found himself in front of the mess hall. He paid a bot for a late lunch and ate out of obligation to his body.
As he ate, Derris looked about the mess hall. Several priestesses sat around a table with a number of their children. He wondered if he should take his troubles to the priesthood. Who better to help with a crisis of faith?
There was only one among the faith he cared to trust. Derris didn’t bother to change his armor. He went straight to the tent of Wenifas and rang her bell. Agitated as he was, he rang again, impatiently. Only then did he realize she might be with another petitioner. The idea that he might have to wait was repugnant. He turned to leave, disgusted by the need to share his troubles.
A slight hand pulled aside the thick canvas door of the tent. Wenifas stared at the retreating form of Derris. For a split second, she thought to let him go, as she preferred to be alone—but she liked the man and decided his company might be a fine thing. “Patience, friend,” she said to the guard.
Derris turned. Wenifas smiled at the man she knew well and often. She was a petite thing with dark hair and lots of freckles. Just to look upon her melted his troubled heart.
Her eyes caught on his sword. She frowned. “What is it? Am I summoned?” she asked. A look of horror crept across her face. “Is it Claiten?”
“No,” Derris replied. “I apologize, I have not thought to remove my gear. Must I go to the barracks and change, or might I come in?”
Wenifas stepped aside as she held open the canvas door of her tent. He seemed so distracted and she wanted to ffer him comfort. She was afraid if she sent him away, he would not return again for some days. “Do not make a habit of it,” she smiled as she stepped aside. “I trust there is reason for your hastiness?”
“I suffer,” Derris frowned as he removed his sword and helmet. He set them aside, then sat among her worn rugs. “I have witnessed a thing and I do not know what to make of it.”
Wenifas sat facing him, dressed in the soft clothes of her profession. “What causes you pain, my friend?” she asked as she rubbed sympathy into his leg.
“A crisis,” Derris admitted. “A crisis of faith,” he whispered.
“You are in the right place,” Wenifas smiled. “Might I ask after the tithe?”
“Yes,” Derris answered. “I shall have this day and night—though I must return to my duties before the sun comes up,” he gave her several coins, a proper and generous offering.
Wenifas took the money and quickly counted it. “I accept your charge and bid you welcome,” she smiled and set the coin in a small bowl. She would not take the coins out of the bowl until she accounted for his visit in her book of absolution. “Now, how shall we start? Shall we perform ritual?” She leaned into him. “Shall we dance and meld ourselves?” She licked his ear.
“I would speak,” Derris admitted. “I would tell you what I’ve seen.”
“Then I will listen,” Wenifas sat back and stared at Derris. She smiled at him expectantly.
For several seconds, Derris couldn’t speak. What if she didn’t believe him? What if she was a secret friend of Fedring? After all, Fedring was the Corpus Majoris of the church. Wenifas was one of his many charges. As Derris considered his difficulties, he noticed the edge of her clothing. He allowed himself to be distracted, as he studied the curve of her shirt, where it rose and fell over her chest. Worn about the edges, her blouse had an intricate lace border made of a fine, though old, material. At one time, the shirt must have been expensive. No longer. Many of the other priestesses would not wear a thing so thin. As Derris considered her shirt, he looked up to see the patient, smiling eyes of Wenifas gazing back at him, and he realized the shirt was the finest garment in all the land, simply because it touched her skin so freely.
“Should I ask questions?” Wenifas asked.
Derris frowned. He opened his mouth. He closed it. In the back of his mind, Derris could still sense Meu, as if she was looking over his shoulder. This made the guard even more reticent to speak. He looked about the tent. He stared at Wenifas and then looked away. He could not force the words to come out.
“Okay,” Wenifas leaned forward and kissed the guard. “We will talk later, yes? For now, leave your words and concentrate on your senses.” She lifted his shirt and undid his belt as she kissed him again. “I am the avatar of Nahrahna, and you are my Ooroiyuo,” she whispered as she pushed him to his back. Her warm, sweet breath made his head swim. The storms in her eyes spoke of mirth and succor as she lifted her shirt over her head. With his hands on her waist, he stared at her bare skin. She shook out her long, dark hair.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 10.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
Having purged Derris of his lust, Wenifas laid with the guard and considered his mood. Normally, Derris was gentle and attentive in his ways, but today he was forceful and aggravated. An edge of suspicion colored his lovemaking. Though Wenifas did not like the cling and neediness of most of the guards—there was too much of it among the men—she enjoyed the change of this quiet and often inhibited man. It spoke of a depth she had not encountered and a complexity she did not expect.
“Now what of this crisis?” Wenifas began.
“I am hearing thoughts,” Derris replied. “Not my thoughts, mind you, I am always hearing those. But I am hearing the thoughts of others.”
“Sounds unlikely,” Wenifas kissed him. “What am I thinking?” she challenged.
“I cannot hear everyone’s thoughts,” Derris frowned. “It is but a few—two if I am exact.”
“And how did this happen?” Wenifas asked.
“I was ordered into the woods after a bird—a giant bird, mind you. I found it, or should I say, she found me? But she was not a bird at all. She was a serpent with wings.”
“She?” Wenifas caught on the word.
Derris nodded, “She was twelve, maybe fifteen feet long? A great beast though she was no beast at all! Her wings were as long as my arms! She bit me, and after she bit me, she was in my head.”
“Then I make love to a serpent?” Wenifas smiled. “Does she like it?”
Derris frowned. “It is not a joke,” he said, though Meu chuckled in his head.
“Of course not,” Wenifas agreed. “She bit you like this?” Wenifas playfully teethed his neck.
“Only she broke the skin and put her venom in me,” he said and pointed at two marks several inches apart, one on his hand and the other on his wrist.
“Indeed,” Wenifas frowned as she inspected the bite marks. She was not expecting such proof.
“She was beautiful,” Derris noted. “She called herself a wind serpent, a basilisk, and a wyrm. Have you ever heard of such things?”
“Not a one—and she is a thing of beauty, you say?” Wenifas smoldered. “Tell me, do you think of her as you dig in me?”
“Don’t be vulgar,” Derris frowned. “She is beautiful in the way of the wind, or waves as they roll off the ocean. One does not make love to the landscape.”
Wenifas shook her head. “Every flower begs for the rape of the bee,” she smiled and put up a hand to cut off his protest. “You are quite right. Do not mind my jealousy,” her fingers played across his skin. “So this serpent bit you, and with her venom in your veins, she could put thoughts in your head. Perhaps she causes you to hallucinate?”
Derris thought on it, “I do not think so. I have suffered hallucination—under guidance of course.”
“Of course,” Wenifas nodded. “Was she trying to kill you?”
“No. Her only motivation was communication. After she bit me, she could speak in my mind,” Derris repeated. “Is such a thing even possible?”
Wenifas shrugged. “There is so much I do not know.”
Derris nodded. “I must believe it is. The things she showed me... We talked for some time. She was very polite, and I was very honest. I removed the arrow from her wing,” Derris reached across the room for his pants. He pulled the pieces of broken arrow from his pocket and showed the fragments to Wenifas. “It is not possible that I have simply imagined this,” he stated.
Wenifas frowned as she noted the blood on the arrow. “She was shot?”
“By Petaerus, the savage. He shot her without even knowing what she was,” Derris explained.
“Ah, then you are at the gate.”
“For another night,” Derris admitted. “Then I go back to prison duty in the other fort for another week,” he whispered as he was not supposed to tell her such things.
“So you went out into the woods to secure a kill for Petaerus,” Wenifas surmised. “Then this wind serpent bit you, which allowed her to speak in your mind. Then she told you things—and you believe they are true?”
“She’s rather wise and honest,” Derris noted.
“The devil is wise and honest to a fault,” Wenifas replied. “She may tell the truth, but if she is using it to convince you of lies, you must not believe any of it. It is the nature of evil to use good things in bad ways.”
Derris shook his head. “The things she showed me were not unbelievable. In fact, everything she showed me makes perfect sense. But that is what worries me. It is easy to think she deceives me, that her thoughts are all lies. But that means I must go against my own observations. It is hard to believe she showed me the truth—except that it brings a cruel clarity to the world. It simply makes sense—and so I find myself in an intolerable situation!”
“Am I intolerable?” Wenifas teased.
“No,” Derris turned from her, embarrassed. “You are among the best of my world. You are beautiful, honest, kind...”
Wenifas blushed to hear his compliments.
“Is a good soul a thing for humans alone?” Derris continued. “Is it possible that a good soul might wear a serpent’s skin?”
Wenifas narrowed her eyes. “What did she tell you? What has so changed your world that you now call it intolerable?”
“I said there were two voices in my head. She bit another before she bit me. She shared his thoughts. His memories ran rampant through my mind,” Derris explained.
“And his thoughts were... dark?” Wenifas guessed. “Evil?”
“He is the worst of things: proud, corrupt, filthy. He does the worst of things: lie, steal, torture.”
Wenifas sat back and stared at Derris as he floundered once more. “Okay,” she began. “So a giant serpent bit you, and thought some thoughts into your head, and also thought the thoughts of someone else into your head, the thoughts of someone that you know and trust—but because of these thoughts, you now believe this other is a murderer and filth. Is this the tale you tell me?”
“Pretty much,” Derris affirmed. “Though I shan’t say I ever trusted him...” he hedged.
“And who is this man? Is he one of the guard?” Wenifas asked. She leaned in close and whispered. “Is he one of your officers?” Her eyes went wide with the possibility of such a scandal. “Is it Petaerus?”
Derris shook his head. “I do not claim pure righteousness—and I expect it in no other. But this one... I am led to believe he is above reproach. He is so near to the gods.”
Wenifas stared at him with anticipation. The intense look reminded Derris of what he risked. If word of the guard’s suspicions got back to Fedring, it might cost Derris his position and pay. Personal attacks against one of such high office demanded clear evidence—or harsh punishment. Indeed, he might receive lashings for spreading such slander. Derris turned his head. Gently, he pushed away from Wenifas and sat up. “No,” he whispered. “I cast doubts upon my betters. I do not wish to do so,” he hanged his head.
“You mustn’t fear me. Fear is the enemy! As a soldier, you must know this,” Wenifas reminded him. “I swear myself to secrecy. I swear it on the gods, this story shall go no further than this tent.”
Derris looked Wenifas in the eye. “You swear it?”
“By Ooroiyuo,” she nodded. “By Naharahna.”
Derris took in a long breath. With fear in his eyes, he whispered. “It is his grace, the Corpus Majoris himself. It is Fedring.”
Horror lit across the priestess’ face. She quickly hid it. Only Meriona the Jay and the High Commanders matched the rank of Fedring—yet Fedring was the ranking member of the Church, which was her order. Indeed, Wenifas knew him well. She suppressed a shudder as she leaned in close. “What did this creature show you?” She whispered, unable to stop her morbid curiosity.
“The most evil things,” Derris admitted. “I should not think he is capable of such monstrosity. I thought few men are capable of the things I saw, and among them were only our enemies. I thought I did not know such wicked men!”
“What is it you saw?!” she repeated. “You have told me nothing, only vague generalities! Can’t you see you must offer proof!”
“But I have no proof!” Derris snapped. “It is only in my head! And I cannot describe the terrors I saw! Not to a lady like you!” He gasped. “Blood! Abuse! Molestation! Shall I tell of the things he has done to mere children?! Magics of the worst kind, as black as midnight, with demons of the very worst sort!”
“What do you know of dark magic?” Wenifas asked. “What do you know of demons?”
“Too much,” he said as a wildness took light in his eyes. “I know that if one wishes to be treat with the darket of gods, than one must offer up what is most valuable—and what is more valuable than innocence, beauty, and youth?!” Derris took a deep breath. “No! I am cured of it! I am sure this is a trick of the devil! I will entertain these thoughts no more! Fedring is above reproach!”
Wenifas frowned. She cast a critical eye upon the guard, in large part because she also knew Fedring to be an opportunist and a pig. “Now you lie to me. You believe her still, this serpent. You think she shows you true, don’t you?”
Derris stared at Wenifas, his gaze was full of love and terror—and he could see the same a battle in her. He could sense her fear, and somehow knew he’d changed things for both of them. He pulled her close and wrapped her in his arms.
Wenifas was quiet as she rested against Derris. The guard no longer spoke. Indeed, they both knew he’d said too much. For a time, neither said anything. Then after a while, Wenifas felt compelled. “I am glad you tell me these things,” she began.
Derris sighed his relief and offered a smile.
“There is much trouble in what you’ve said,” Wenifas whispered. “You mustn’t tell your friends, the other priestesses, or anyone. Not now. Not ever. Nobody. Do you hear?”
Derris nodded.
Wenifas continued in her serious manner. “You speak to anyone, even a word, and I will deny it all. I will not speak to you again. I will denounce you,” she claimed.
Derris frowned as he gave another nod, and kept his eyes locked on hers.
“I must tell you a thing, and you mustn’t be disturbed by its implication. Now swear you will repeat none of this.”
“Thrice you have asked me to swear, and I have affirmed it each time,” Derris replied. “You are the only one I have told—and it took me most the day to build up the trust and courage to do that!”
Wenifas smiled. “Then you are not a fool,” she said. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Fedring is imperfect—as are we all. I suspect even the Empress has faults, though it is not my position to say so. It is not my position to speak against any of them,” Wenifas sighed. “And yet I do. I see their hypocrisy. I see their lies. The world is not as we are led to believe. These people are above us legally—but morally?” She shook her head. “I cannot believe that. I have too many doubts.”
“It is sacrilege we speak,” Derris whispered. “It is sacrilege.”
Wenifas felt her heart sink.
“But it is truth,” Derris gave a nod. “It strikes me as truth, and that is what worries me the most.”
“What are we to make of such contradictions?” Wenifas asked. “What are we to believe? Are all our leaders evil? Is every part of the priesthood a lie?”
Derris shook his head. “I do not know. How am I to know such things?”
“It cannot all be a lies,” Wenifas smiled. “You see, I have prayed a great deal, because I see the hypocrisy. I have seen it for years—but I do not have the strength to confront it! I have asked the gods for council, but they are silent—or they were—until they gave me someone to trust,” she beamed at the guard.
“Who have they given you?” Derris asked.
Wenifas shot a withering look at the guard and pushed against his chest. “You, you fool! Do you not see?! The gods answer prayers! And if they answer prayers, then they must be gods!”
“Then perhaps the rituals are not wicked,” Derris replied. “Do you know what I thought just now? I thought if it is all wicked, perhaps sex is truly a sin against the gods, and we secretly serve demons.”
Wenifas considered it for a moment. “I do not think so,” she answered. “And this is why: we do not lie. We are honest. We make fair trade. In the rituals we give what is promised.”
Derris thought on it. He liked her answer and smiled.
Wenifas frowned. “But that is not to say that the rituals are not perverted,” she turned away. “There is no confidentiality in these tents. We swear to speak nothing outside them—but the Corpus visits us here, that we might tell him all that we witness. Like the devil, we tell lies of omission.”
Derris stared at her in horror.
“I will say nothing! You must believe that!” Wenifas swore. “And you mustn’t speak to the other priestesses of what you know! They will lie to you, as you lay on them! Many are pawns of the Corpus Majoris, his willing spies! He pays them with favor, coin, and title! He buys them as cheap as he can! I know because he’s offered me the same trinkets to betray my brothers and sisters!”
“And you refuse?”
“I play stupid,” Wenifas shrugged. “I pretend that I do not understand, and that I have nothing to give. I believe he thinks me to be simple.”
“I know it,” Derris admitted. “I have seen his dealings in the serpent’s thoughts. But you are not there. I trust you,” He hung his head in shame. “I mean to trust you,” he continued. “At the moment, I trust nothing...”
“I do not blame you, there is an incredible web of lies all about us,” Wenifas replied.
“It is so much to consider! You shall not have to worry about me telling anyone else! I should never want to speak of this ever again,” Derris said.
“That will not last,” Wenifas assured him. “For now, let us forget it. For now, let us do other things. For now,” she locked eyes with the guard, “let us worship.”
Derris stared at Wenifas. His hand reached for hers. “Is it proper? Is this what the gods want of us? What if other peoples have the truth of it? What if we are meant to be celibate?”
“We have our entire lives to swear off sex. For now, we can be only as we are,” she smiled. “Besides, this will bring us peace. It will bring us hope. Will it not?”
“I believe it will,” Derris agreed. He pulled Wenifas close and kissed her. “I am glad I have you, even if it is only for the night. I know it is sacrilege to say so, but I wish I could afford you now and forever.”
Wenifas smiled. “I think you speak the sweetest things. If it is sacrilege, than I too am a heretic. I would belong to none but you,” she kissed him back. His skin was warm and inviting as she pressed against him. With one hand she felt between his legs. He perked with the touch and she prepared to take him in.
A weak cough and a bit of a whine emanated from another part of the tent. Suddenly, the full bawl of a babe erupted. With a heavy sigh, Wenifas pulled away from Derris. She smiled down at the guard. “Let me see to her,” she said and slowly disentangled herself. “You stay,” she commanded and jabbed Derris in the chest with a rough finger. “Evereste won’t need me for long.”
Derris stared as Wenifas walked out. She wrapped a shawl about her shoulders, turned, and parted the curtain to the other room. She smiled at the guard, then disappeared into the dark.
~@#$%^&*()_+ 10.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
After feeding her babe, Wenifas returned to Derris once more. Meu’s connection to Derris died as he made love to the priestess a second time. She grinned as the ecstasy of his experience slowly faded into nothing. Then, distracted, Meu stumbled upon more of her enemies.
This time it was not an archer. Instead it was bugbear. There were four of them and they turned on her immediately. With spears, axes, clubs, and darts, they gave chase.
Meu was quick and managed to evade them. She would have lost the bugbear quite easily, except that others joined the hunt. Two more came from her right and almost caught her unaware. Then another from her left—though she saw him in plenty of time.
As she fled, more and more joined the pursuit. Suddenly there were too many to count, and they came at her from every direction! With nowhere else to go, Meu climbed a massive pine.
The buggers cheered as they surrounded the tree. More and more of the beasts approached. There were dozens below her—and yet more gathered, curious to see what their brothers had trapped.
Several climbed the tree, and other nearby trees, that they might get close enough to throw and shoot at her. Several chopped at the tree as others cheered on these various efforts and danced all about.
Meu stared down at the beasts in astonishment. There must be close to a hundred of them below her—and still more approached! Meu could not believe her eyes! How many of the little devils were out here!?
With each hack of the axes, the tree began to sway. It is time to escape them proper, she thought, and hoped her wing was up to the task. Meu spread her wings and launched up from the tree. She lifted herself into the air and rose toward the noonday sun. She only hoped she had the strength to get high enough, and far enough, as she glanced down at the gathering mass of vermin below her.
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Kites of Gaurring
Polished 11.1 — 15m28s — 2023/11/25
Polished everything — 58m02s — 2023/12/01
Gred,
Am I to believe our good cousin missed his most excellent reception? Is it true that he slipped from your men?
And you say he chases treasure stolen by some clerk of a low court? I find this unlikely. I suspect he is investigating. Perhaps he got disturbing word of what we are doing in the north—and he is simply using the old story of Lasitus to cover his true motives.
Mind you, it is still early. If he interferes now, it could make our plans difficult. If you should have the luck to find him, do not permit him to leave the north.
- Empress Seviticah Emalloari, First Among Men
~!@#$%^&*()_+11.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
Dandifrod sat over the sleeping form of Toar and rolled several coins in his hand as he prepared to wake his replacement. In the dead of night, the gentle sound of clinking metal woke the Trohl. Toar sat up and wiped the sleep from his eyes. With a smile, Dandifrod gave the coins to his guide: three silver diems. “For your efforts,” Dandifrod stated. “As long as you guide us, this will be your fee from me every day.”
“I am happy to take your coin,” Toar smiled and put the diems in his pocket. “But among the Bouge, it is dangerous to trade metal. We will have to be careful when we get further east.”
This surprised Dandifrod. “What else would we trade?” he asked.
“Chits and chablings—dragon bone—though I suspect most of it is only from cattle,” Toar shrugged as he showed the duke several pieces. The small smooth bone chips were decorated with soft colorful stones. “The gems tell the weight.”
“So these two are worth eight...” Creigal paused.
Toar nodded, “These are chits. Chabling tend to be much larger.”
“Sounds bulky,” Dandiford offered the decorated bits of bone back to Toar, but the young scout refused. “Keep it. Your silver is worth a fair deal more. Besides, we won’t be spending anything until we get to Woodring,” he smiled. “And then on to Hearthstone,” Toar said, a touch giddy at the prospect of visiting Jindleyak lands.
“To Hearthstone!” Dandifrod smiled. “Now, before I get some sleep will you take a look at my wound?” He lifted his shirt.
With a delicate hand, Toar peeled away the bandage. Thin lines of black rot bulged under the skin and formed a slight web perhaps a few fingers wide.
“You will be very delicate as the rot spreads. Do your best not to aggravate it,” Toar said as he dabbed more of Hazle’s ointment over the wound.
“That shall be easy,” Dandifrod replied. “It hurts something fierce to lay on it.”
“Tomorrow, it might be better if you let the three of us split the watch,” Toar began. “You can use the extra sleep.”
“I shall take the first hours and will let you split the remainder,” Dandifrod stated. “For now, I take my leave,” he said and stepped into his tent.
“Good night,” Toar said as the old man disappeared. He turned to the embers of the fire and sat with his back to the camp. He watched the waxing form of Oblarra rise above the horizon and paint the night an angry red as she drifted in front of the arc of Luna’s Tears. Toar searched the sky for the copper hue of Trismegist, but it was somewhere under the horizon. He remembered the old legends and wondered what could have caused the infinities to go to war? Were they so like humans, so full of lust, fear, and hatred, that they should attack and destroy each other?
War amongst the infinities—these were the ancient tales. No one had seen such a thing in a hundred lifetimes. Indeed, some men believed the infinities were nothing more than dirt and stone. Some people believed Oblarra’s arrival was simply a story and said that the night sky was always just as it was. Whatever else the infinities might be, they were certainly ponderous in their ways! Nothing like Oblarra’s attack had happened since, and there seemed little chance of anything so drastic happening in—oh say—the next ten thousand years?!
Toar believed the old stories. He stared up at Luna’s Tears and caught the distant sizzle and crack of a meteor as it shot over the horizon and broke into a half dozen pieces. For a split second, five or six stones burned parallel lines across the night sky. Then, as quick as they came, they were gone—no permanent sign or mark of their passing.
The faint sounds of the night grew louder. Crickets. Frogs. Leaves in the breeze. The sky lightened. Toar spotted a fox among the trees. He rekindled the fire and wandered at the edge of camp to see what he might find. There were plenty of wild vegetables about and Toar was ecstatic to find a patch of strawberries near a stream. Better than that were the spawning trout. It was easy to wrap his hands around the slow, docile, and distracted fish—they squirmed once they came out of the water—but it was far too late by then. They squirted eggs and seed and struggled to get free. Toar held them with a patient hand over the thin stream and hoped their seed might still result in young. There was always want for more fish.
By the time the others woke, half a dozen cleaned trout and a large array of vegetables cooked over the fire. There was a small bowl of strawberries, and the canteens were full of clean water. Even Baet was in good spirits as the drips had cleared.
After breakfast, the party broke camp and continued east. The day was uneventful until Dandifrod heard an approaching caravan. The group pulled off the road and hid the horses far out of the way.
They watched as cavalry marched down the road, dressed in red and black, often sporting a kite.
“I’ll be buggered,” Dandifrod huffed and glared at his captain.
“That’s not—,” Baet glanced between Dandifrod and Carringten. “There must be another house of red and black—some minor house that flies a bird?”
Carringten shook his head. he turned to Dandifrod. “They besmirch your colors. But to what end?”
The cavalry passed by, unaware. They were followed by wagons, foot soldiers, and commoners heading west.
“They go to Minist,” Toar told them. “Pay no attention to the Saot uniforms. They’re fake.”
All three of the foreigners found that amusing as they smirked and nodded at the comment. The fact that the uniforms were fake was the one thing they were all too well aware of...
“What?” Toar questioned their mirth.
Dandifrod shook his head. “We know this house and we know they have no armies this far north. Which begs the question, what are they doing in these fake uniforms? And who are they really?”
“Ministrians,” Toar explained. “And whoever they pretend to be, well, they are painted as slavers.” After the soldiers and merchants, the bulk of the caravan appeared, tethered and collared, mostly women and children, though there were a few men among the Trohls. “They play this part so the Ministrians can paint themselves as our allies. You see, the Bouge are not the Salystians. There were thousands and thousands of Salystians, and so brute force was enough—but there are millions of Bouge. Subtleties are needed. With the help of Kezodel and some of his greasier subordinates, the commoners are led to believe that Minist is helping them defend the west lands against the invading Saot, when really its their own leaders that are selling them out to their new Ministrian allies,” Toar shook his head. “Yet, they pretend. They pretend some far off land is attacking us, some land we’ve never heard of before.”
“Gaurring?” Baet asked.
“Sounds about right,” Toar gave a shrug. “But why should I care to remember when I know it’s a lie?”
None of the Saots could find any argument with that.
Toar continued. “Meanwhile, the Ministrians feign remorse and beg the people forgive them for what happened to Salyst. They even pay chabling in the name of the Salystians—and the Muaha takes their blood money and use it against his own people,” Toar shook his head. “The west lands used to be vital, prosperous, and dotted with towns, villages, and farms. Now there is nothing all the way to Woodring. Ministrian shock troops dressed as these Saots have gathered the rural people and sold them down the river Quick. Kezodel uses the invasion as an excuse to raise taxes. Those that cannot pay are thrown in jail. The jails overflow and Kezodel sells prisoners to his Mininstrian allies in order to fund the ever growing war. It is self perpetuating, and in the end, only the people suffer—as Kezodel and his collaborators swim in gold.”
“How long will it take them to pass?” Baet asked.
Toar shrugged, “Depends on how many slaves they take. I have sat in one place and watched for over an hour.”
The caravan continued for some time before it finally left an open road—though perhaps not an hour.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
There was no other excitement about the day, yet Toar was still bothered. Something was off. Despite his uneasiness, he couldn’t put a finger on it, that is, until the party made camp. As the sun dropped behind the mountains, Toar realized there were so many birds about—there were too many birds. Admittedly, they were in a forest, but the birds were everywhere and quite diverse among the trees. Now that he realized it, Toar wondered how it took him so long to notice.
Toar watched the birds, curious that they should be around in such number. He did not know what it meant. It took him almost an hour before he realized that it wasn’t the party they followed. It was Dandifrod. From time to time, Dandifrod turned to the birds and smiled, and Toar realized that not only were the birds attending the old man, Dandifrod knew it! This was a strange thing indeed!
For several days, the party continued their march east. Again, they were forced off the road, but this time it was not a caravan. A dozen men rode east with all possible haste. Carringten and Baet thought it was luck that they heard the fast approaching riders and managed to get off the road. Toar suspected the birds warned Dandifrod, as he was the one to notice.
Birds continued to follow the old man: wrens, swallows, magpies, crows, hawks, robins, pigeons, finches, falcons, even owls—though they were discreet in their way., disreet enough that the two guards didn’t seem to notice.
As a child, Toar saw many sorcerers and warlocks among Kezodel’s court. Several were beast wranglers of various sorts, though none of them was ever attended by such a crowd, and none of them handled it so surreptitiously. He doubted either of the guards knew the birds were looking after the old man.
The old man wasn’t the only one keeping secrets among his new friends. On the third night, Baet woke Toar for his turn at the watch, but Baet did not go to bed. Instead, he fidgeted on the edge of the fire’s dim light as Toar stared into the night.
Of late, Toar didn’t mind the man-at-arms. Baet was not so irritated and suspicious as he was that first day. It helped that he was healed of the drips. Yet, despite his speedy recovery, Baet now seemed withdrawn and preoccupied.
“What bothers you?” Toar finally asked.
For a long second, Baet said nothing. Then, after looking about to be sure the others were asleep, he whispered, “I beg a favor.”
Toar shrugged and gave a nod. “Well, I certainly agree to hear what you will ask.”
Still reticent, Baet smiled. “You remember that half Trohl lady I spoke of? Seems the drips weren’t the only thing she gave me...” He lifted his shirt and showed his chest to Toar.
Indeed, they were not! Toar studied the scratches that ran down Baet’s chest and stomach. Several were healed and fading, but a few were red and pocked with white and black infected heads.
“And here also,” Baet continued. The round bite mark on his shoulder was also infected in several spots.
“Why did you sleep with such a woman?” Toar asked. “Was she really so pretty?”
“Actually, yeah,” Baet nodded. “But that wasn’t why. At first, I was forced into the situation, and then I just... went with it.” He leaned back and began to wax romantic. “She was blonde with beautiful teeth. Her skin was dotted with a fine patter of freckles down to the very tips of her fingers. Her eyes were like the sea on a bright day, and her tits...” Baet sighed. “To see her naked and to have her beg at my hand. Who wouldn’t take such an opportunity?”
Toar shrugged. “The way you tell it, I should think it is a rare man indeed.”
“I’m weak,” Baet admitted. “But you would swoon to see her.”
“You need be more careful,” Toar chastised. “The most beautiful women are still capable of the ugliest acts.”
“What do you know of women?” Baet challenged. “They are not so easily fathomed,” he said with a frown.
“Agreed. The depths of women are not easily plumbed—though we do like to try,” Toar smiled. “Still, we can set this right.”
Baet sighed his relief, assured he was in good hands. “I thank you.”
Toar stoked a bit of flame from the fire and stuck a long needle in it to burn away any impurities. He wiped the needle clean of soot and used it to cut the pustules on Baet’s chest, stomach, and shoulder, then soaked away the puss with a bit of cloth. Next, Toar dug in his bag and pulled out a jar of a thick dark amber substance and smeared it over Baet’s wounds. Then, he cut small squares from his bandages and stuck them to the amber goo so it would not smear as the man slept.
“What is this?” Baet asked as he stared at the jar of dark, sticky, sweet smelling ambrosia.
“Honey,” Toar grinned and licked his finger. He held the jar out to Baet.
Baet took a dip. “Now what?” he asked as he licked his finger.
Toar gave a shrug. “Now you get better—or we smear more honey on you tomorrow.”
“That’s it?”
“No,” Toar said. “You also have to stop sleeping with whores.”
Baet frowned. “It is my time and metal! If they want it, I should only hope to find them less aggressive!” he pouted. “Speaking of time and metal, how ‘bout we train for a bit? We can practice blade, hand, or both if you prefer.”
Toar was hesitant, “I don’t think so.”
“Show me what you know,” Baet insisted. “You certainly have a fine looking sword.”
“Do you not want sleep?” Toar countered.
“Nowadays, sleep is all I get. Sleep and saddle rash,” Baet rolled his eyes. “Come, now. Practice with me! There is nothing else to do but watch the Tears of the Old Mother Moon as they slowly fall from the sky—but they do not guarantee a show!” he complained.
Toar acquiesced, though his disinterest showed. He took his sword out and began to swing it around. He made awkward slashes at the air.
For a time, Baet watched. Finally, the man-at-arms shook his head. “You have such a nice sword and I bet you couldn’t kill a chicken with it! How’d you get your blade?”
Toar shook his head, “I took it off a guard.”
“You took it from someone?” Baet asked, dubious of the assertion.
“He was drunk and could barely stand,” Toar revealed with a shrug. “Also, I needed a weapon. These forests are full of terrors.”
Baet laughed, “You may have a weapon but someone needs to teach you how to use it!”
Toar frowned. Once again, he didn’t like this man.
Baet clapped Toar on the shoulder. “Come now. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours,” Baet winked. “Now, stand like this.”
Toar stood like Baet.
“No, like this,” Baet said.
“I am,” Toar replied, annoyed.
“No. Your butt is too far back and your head is too far forward. Put your shins forward and your butt under you. Put your chest forward and your head back.”
Baet surveyed Toar’s corrections.
“Much better!” he nodded. “Now engage your muscles like you mean to fight! Draw yourself in with your exhale. You are releasing yourself into the world! You are condensed! Get big with your inhale! You take the world in! You expand!”
Toar followed these orders.
Baet gave a satisfied nod. “Good! Now, when you swing the blade, don’t let it pull you. Think of it as an extension of your arm. You don’t throw your arm out there and let weight pull it down! You put your fist where you want it to be! Like this!” Baet threw a quick punch at Toar’s face. The man’s fist stopped just before he hit the Trohl.
Toar flinched.
Baet tapped his hand. “You put your fist right where you want to put it and not an inch further,” he said. “Same with your sword! Like this!” Baet pulled Haddelton’s short sword and swung the blade about. He danced with the weapon as he poked and slashed imaginary enemies—and the occasional tree.
Toar mimicked the motions.
“Don’t hold your breath. In and out,” Baet coached.
Toar continued to practice, now breathing as he ran about, and tried to do the things Baet showed him.
“Much better! Remember, butt under you, head back, heart forward!”
Toar swung the blade well—but after a time, as Baet encouraged him to continue, his swings slowly devolved into hapless slashing.
Baet frowned and shook his head as he watched. “No wonder you fight with rocks,” he noted.
Toar didn’t like the comment. He began swinging at Baet. Baet hooted, pulled Haddie’s Revenge, and blocked the first strike. He deflected and parried Toar, then let him swing too wide, stepped inside, and caught Toar in an arm lock, a thing that angered the Trohl, especially when he couldn’t escape.
“Don’t be sore,” Baet began with a serious face. “You don’t pretend to know. That’s valuable! I’ll teach you to fight. I’ll turn you into a regular killer if you want! You got my back, brother! You think I won’t teach you how to fight?” Baet smiled, then released the Trohl. “As for my words, don’t let them bother you. War encompasses everything! If your enemy gets under your skin with mere mockery, you’ve already lost. You’ll rush your attack. You’ll make mistakes, and a capable enemy will gut you with your own missteps. Besides, don’t let a guy named Baet taunt you,” he smiled.
Toar smirked.
“Now show me what I showed you,” Baet lifted Haddie’s Revenge.
Their practice continued for some time as Toar acquainted himself with his weapon. They continued until they ‘d both worked up quite a lather. Finally, Toar needed a break, and Baet allowed him to take it.
“Have you ever taken a life?” Toar asked as he sat with his sword.
“Seven,” Baet nodded “Maybe eight.”
“Did you know them?”
“Just the one,” Baet shrugged. “Just the maybe.”
“Was it difficult?” Toar continued.
“In what way? Like, did they fight back?” Baet clarified.
“Does it ever bother you?”
“Just the one—and don’t ask,” Baet continued. “I won’t tell you about it.”
Still wanting to talk about the subject, Toar took a different tack. “Is it easy to take a life, if you’re trained for it?”
“I wouldn’t say it’s easy, but it’s never been difficult,” Baet answered. “Once you realize there’s blood on the line, there’s nothing to do but kill or be killed.”
“I should think it is hard to kill a man,” Toar stated.
“It’s much easier than you think. I bet you’d be shocked by the ease of it, especially if you have something like this,” Baet picked Thunder Maker from its holster and pointed it at the rising half circle of Oblarra.
Toar stared at the fancy weapon. “Might I see it?”
“Do not fire it,” Baet stated. “Dandifrod will hang us both if we practice fire the muskets with Ministrians about.”
“And bugbear,” Toar noted. His hand caressed the smooth handle of Thunder Maker. “Is this a precious stone?”
“The most precious—meteorite,” Baet grinned. “I found it when I was young—or should I say it found me? Indeed, the thing almost landed on me.”
Toar was surprised to hear it. “I’ve seen plenty of meteors,” he admitted. “But I’ve yet to see one hit the ground.”
“This one landed in a farmer’s field while I fished nearby,” Baet explained. “It scared the hell out of me, and killed nearly a dozen cattle. I found it in a crater maybe ten feet deep.”
“You didn’t leave it for the farmer? To recoup the cost of his cattle?”
“I didn’t, and I felt bad about it for several days,” Baet began. “But the farmer wouldn’t have kept it anyway. King Gred duReb sent a company of soldiers to the farm, that he might have the meteor himself. When the farmer couldn’t produce the stone and the soldiers couldn’t find it, they took everything the farmer had, you know, to compensate the king for his loss,” he explained.
Toar was aghast, “and you didn’t feel bad?”
“No. I feel it never belonged to the king—or the farmer for that matter. It might have been the farmer’s field, and the king’s land, but I was the one that was almost killed. I was the one to found it,” he reasoned.
Toar simply stared at him, shocked by the story.
“Oh, I felt bad for the farmer, for a time,” Baet continued. “The King never should have stolen his remaining cattle and the food he grew. Yet, although the king left him destitute, he still survived. The neighbors donated seed and young animals to keep the farm alive and his family fed. Then the duke caught word of what happened. He sent an emissary, a captain of trade, and when the captain saw how the community had rallied around the farmer, he bought up the surplus of our industry: aged mutton and beef, cloth spun from hemp and wool, and some of the finest apple brandy you’ve ever tasted! I imagine he made quite a nice profit selling it all in Gaurring Heart. Indeed, the emissary returned to our little village for several years and did a good deal of buying and selling in our markets. He brought fashions from the city and took our goods back with him. That’s when I knew the duke was very different from the king. He doesn’t bluster and demand tribute that isn’t his. Instead, he sends one of his men to make sure some backwater villager recovers from the king’s interference, and when he saw that the whole town had rallied around a wronged man, he blessed us with commerce.”
“How old were you?” Toar asked.
“Ten,” Baet shrugged. “I saved this for years,” he pointed at the handle. “Then, when I made the Duke’s Irregulars and chose the musket as my primary weapon, I knew what I had to do with it.”
“You served this duke?” Toar asked.
Baet nodded. “For many years.”
“So many colors,” Toar stared at the meteorite handle. “It is a very handsome weapon.”
“I call it Thunder Maker.”
“Is it really that loud?” Toar asked.
“It is.”
“And the other one?”
“This is Cloud Breaker,” Baet said, skinning the weapon.
“Because it breaks the clouds?” Toar asked, confused.
“No,” Baet frowned. “Mostly because Thunder Maker and Cloud Breaker sound good together. I will say, it does put off a good amount of smoke.”
“Then it should be Cloud Maker.”
“Thunder Maker and Cloud Maker?” Baet grimaced. “That sounds terrible.”
“But Cloud Breaker? The name seems spurious.”
Baet frowned as he thought about it for several seconds. “It brings a rain of tears!” He finally announced. “It makes widows and causes a flood of sorrow!” He exclaimed, only too happy to strike on a new line of reasoning.
Toar smirked, unimpressed. “What of your knives? What are their names?”
“This is Gore Tongue, and this is Haddie’s Revenge—though it is not time to name it yet.”
“Who is Haddie?”
“Haddelton. A fallen brother, a good man. One who left us far too soon.”
“And why isn’t it time to name it yet?”
“I haven’t killed with it,” Baet shrugged. “No kill means no name.”
“You’ve killed with both muskets and your knife?” Toar asked.
Baet shrugged as he pulled his muskets. “These saved my life in Rottershelm. Twice. First time, I dropped one dead as he tried to chop me up. Second time, I killed two—which scared off numbers three, four, and five,” he shrugged. “I got lucky the second time. I’d fired both muskets and only had a knife on me after that. They all had swords—but I killed their friends so fast they panicked and missed the fact that both my muskets were spent.”
“That is lucky,” Toar noted. “I fought and killed the first bugbear I ever saw. The beast had a spear, and I had a long knife. He tried to run me through, but I managed to dodge and found myself right on top of him. He bit me, and I stabbed him until I felt him go limp. Then I cried,” Toar admitted. “Mostly because I was scared, but in part for taking a life. It was the first time I killed anything bigger than a fish.”
“This was some time ago?” Baet asked.
“maybe three years ago,” Toar shrugged.
“How old where you?”
“Fourteen at the time.”
“Bugbear are pretty big,” Baet nodded with approval.
“He was a nasty thing with dirty teeth and fowl breath,” Toar shrugged. “A year later, the second bugbear I came across threw a mallet that missed me by inches. I ran from him. He had friends. They chased me the rest of the day and well into the night. I sprang one of their traps as I ran. That’s how I learned all about the rot. Look,” Toar stood and dropped his pants. He pulled the left side of his underwear high, to show his cheek.
“Hey! Put your butt away!” Baet complained.
“No, look. I have a scar from the rot,” Toar said.
With a frown, Baet slowly turned toward the Trohl. He looked at Toar’s cheek and his upper leg. A large web of scar tissue stretched from the back of his knee, up his thigh, over his hip, and along his side. It wrapped all the way around Toar’s leg and on to his stomach and back.
“Balls!” Baet said as he admired the scar. “No wonder you know so much about the disease.”
Carringten stepped from their tent followed by Dandifrod. They stood and saw Baet staring at Toar’s butt. “Are we interrupting?” Dandifrod asked.
“Come see this!” Baet said. ”He has one just like you!”
“Most men do,” Dandifrod noted, unimpressed.
“No!” Baet huffed. “He has a scar! From the rot!”
The scar was quite a bit larger than the webbed infection on Dandifrod’s side. “This is a troubling vision,” The old man noted as he inspected Toar’s butt. “How long did it fester?”
“Two days,” Toar stated. “I stumbled into Hazle’s village and she saved me.”
“Toar was telling me of his first scrapes with bugbear,” Baet explained. “He thinks it is more difficult to kill a man than a beast.”
Carringten shrugged. “Men bleed just as easily.”
“Have you ever killed a man?” Toar asked the captain.
“A few,” Carringten shrugged.
“How many?”
Carringten shook his head. “I never bothered to count.”
“Baet’s killed seven. Is that a lot?” Toar asked the captain.
“Sounds like a lot to me,” Carringten said. “If I remember correctly, he killed a couple in his underwear.”
“Har har,” Baet scoffed.
“And you?” Toar asked Dandifrod. “Have you ever killed a man?”
“With my own hands? Thrice,” Dandifrod noted. “I often wonder how many I’ve killed with my words. It is a fair deal easier in the heat of the moment, when life hangs in the balance. I never regret those. But the death that issues from my mouth has caused me many sleepless nights. It is the death of friends and foes alike. I say a few words and men march out to do violence. These deaths are cheap in action, but expensive in thought.”
Toar stared at the old man. “Who are you?”
“I’m Dandifrod.”
“You pretend to be some trader,” Toar stated. “Who are you really?”
Dandifrod smiled, “I am Creigal berDuvante, Duke of Gaurring, High Protector of the Gaur, Third Chair of the Phoenix Council. Do you know me?”
“I do not,” Toar admitted. “You certainly have a long enough name.”
“I certainly do!” Creigal laughed. “Too long I should think! And that is why I ask you to call me Dandifrod. Dandifrod of the Emberwood Trust if you must be fancy! Will you do this for me?”
Toar nodded and smiled. “I am good at keeping secrets,” he said.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
“And how do you feel, High Protector of the Gaur?” Toar asked as he looked over the duke’s wound once more.
Dandifrod chuckled. “I feel terrible, but I should think it’d be worse if I did not know you.”
Toar frowned. “You’d be dead. Still, we are losing this war. You must feel it. You are fading beyond my abilities.”
“I can feel it,” Dandifrod nodded. “Will we reach your witch? Or should I make my peace with the gods?”
“There is still time. Tomorrow, we turn north and make for Hazle’s cottage. We shall be there by evening. She can heal you. She healed me. But I must warn you, the process is not pleasant.”
Dandifrod nodded. “Whatever it is, it will be worth it to be rid of this ache. You are sure of my recovery?”
“You should be okay so long as there are no complications.,” Toar hedged.
“When are there ever no complications?”
Toar shrugged. “Then let us hope that the complications are not too complicated. I fear you’re also becoming addicted to the fio.”
“Is that too complicated?” Dandifrod asked. “Should I abstain from the drug?”
“No, we will keep you on the medicine until you reach Hazle. It still helps, does it not?”
“Not as much as the first day, I should think, but I feel it is still quite effective,” Dandifrod surmised.
“Then we continue,” Toar said. “I admit, you are becoming something of a mess.”
“I feel it,” Dandifrod gave a weak smile. “To my bones, I feel it. But what else is there?”
Toar did not answer. He only nodded as he finished bandaging the old man’s side.
Baet and Carringten were away, as they looked for any rabbits, ducks, fish, or other small game. Alone with the duke, Toar thought it was a good time to address other concerns. “The birds follow you,” he noted.
Dandifrod straightened but made no reply.
“I’ve never seen such a thing. Not without the use of seed or other enticement,” Toar continued. “Why are they so interested in you?”
“These are the woods,” Dandifrod said as if to dismiss the question. “There are many birds about.”
Toar shook his head. “I have been in these woods for years and I know its inhabitants. There are too many birds about. They flock to you. There is a magic to it. Somehow you attract them.”
Dandifrod studied the Trohl. After a time, he said. “You have a sharp eye.”
Toar didn’t reply. He simply waited for the duke to continue.
“And you are good with secrets,” Dandifrod noted.
“I try to be,” Toar admitted. “Around here, there are few to tell. Few but the birds.”
“Still, it seems all the secrets go one way between us,” Dandifrod said.
“That is not true,” Toar frowned. “I have told you of my dislike of Kezodel.”
“How is that a secret?” Dandifrod asked.
“Kezodel is the Muaha of the Bouge. He is very powerful. He is also capricious and vengeful. It can be very dangerous to speak against him,” Toar explained. “Besides, I have shared my knowledge of herbs and sickness. Between us, secrets abound.”
“You do treat my disease,” Dandifrod smiled. “And you also treated my gunman—despite a disagreeable disposition.”
Toar wondered if Dandifrod knew to what extent he treated Baet—or did the duke speak only of the first night, of the drips? He pushed that aside. “I will continue to keep your secrets, from your friends as well as your enemies, even if you tell me no more of the birds, I will still tell no one.”
“But you already know the biggest part of it, the birds flock to me,” Dandifrod smiled. “Very well! I shall tell you as you know it anyway: the birds speak to me. They’ve always spoken to me. Indeed, they speak to all of us—I just happen to understand them.
“As a child, I told my parents and my servants of such things,” Dandifrod continued. “My parents believed me—though they insisted among the others that it was nothing but a fanciful imagination. Indeed, my parents understood the strangeness of it before I did. I didn’t know it was such an uncommon ability. Still, this skill has been in my family for many generations, though it skips about. I have four cousins that have the skill the same as I. Yet, none of my sons speak with birds. I’m not even sure any of them know. I doubt any have read the journals of my grandfather, of his mother, or of the others that had this skill. They had access to the books, but they were not a studious lot. I thought to teach the oldest, when he was very young, but I could not. I do not properly understand how it works.”
“Then it is truly magic,” Toar answered. “What is it the birds say to you?”
“They speak of food; seed, worms, mice. They speak of their eggs, their young, their mates, their nests, the weather, the wind... They tell me what they see around them. They tell me of other men,” Dandifrod shrugged.
“Do they tell you when the Ministrians approach?”
Dandifrod gave a wry smile and nodded. “They tell me of strange things. Sometimes I do not always understand. Indeed, they told me of the bugbear—but it was of predators they spoke. I thought we might find snakes or rats, wild dogs, or big cats. Indeed, I thought we should see nothing. Many things that birds consider dangerous are quite afraid of men. They do not show themselves to us. But now I know better,” Dandifrod admitted. “Since the ford, the birds have told me of bugbear twice.”
“This happened today,” Toar realized. “You pretended to hear something yourself, but it was really the birds.”
“Now that I understand what the birds are telling me,” Dandifrod smiled. “In Gaurring, I’ve used the birds to track the comings and goings of the men I know. They have revealed a few traitors and soothed an unwarranted suspicion or two. Most recently, an old owl told me of a thief and his accomplice. But they cannot track everyone, and they do not understand many of the things people do.”
“And all your guards, all your various councilors, none of them know of this?”
“I do not tell anyone,” Creigal shrugged. “Yet a few of them notice. My chamberlain, Pei Ternays, he knows. Still, some of the men closest to me do not. Despite decades of service, Carringten does not know. I doubt Baet has discovered it. Indeed, I am impressed you have noticed it in so little time.”
Toar blushed at the compliment. “Which birds are the smartest?” He asked. “Is it the owls? The eagles?”
“All the races are quite capable,” Dandifrod shrugged. “Sometimes, it is a finch that has the most interesting ideas. Sometimes it is a hawk, a dove, a robin... They are all quite like men with their various talents, temperaments, and concerns. Owls are a bit funny. They can be hard to understand. There is much they see that others miss, and their language is specialized to the night. I think most consider them wise because they know the dark and turn their heads so far. Still, you’d be surprised how daft owls can be about some of the simplest things, especially if these things happen in the light of day,” he smiled. “In the end, I must say, it is usually the crows I find most provoking, as they love to tell stories, and tend to keep track of rather wide territories.”
“Have you met others that speak to birds?”
“Not outside my family. I have met several men that speak to dogs, and a lady that speaks to animals of every sort, but none others that speak strictly to birds.”
“How do the birds know you understand?” Toar asked.
“They know by my reactions. One will say something off color or out of the ordinary, and I cannot help but smile or turn toward the culprit. Then, because one of them knows it, they all quickly know it. Birds pay a lot more attention to us than we pay them.”
Baet and Carringten stepped across the field. When they saw Dandifrod and Toar look at them, they held up vegetables and a dead wild turkey.
Toar frowned, “I hope he’s not a friend of yours.”
Dandifrod laughed, “I do not kill birds myself. But I do not condemn others for the sport. Even birds eat other birds,” he shrugged. “I do thank you for not mentioning this in front of my men.”
“You are welcome,” Toar said. “We all have our secrets. Do we not?”
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
The next day, about a mile off the main road, Creigal fell from his saddle. Weak and delirious, the rot made it impossible for him to ride. At least the fall seemed to cause no further damage.
Carringten set to work making a litter, and Baet helped him, while Toar gave Creigal a second dose of fio and wondered if he would have to give him a third before the end of the day. Their work proceeded apace, and before the hour was out, they picked the duke off the grass and set him in the litter behind his horse. Toar wondered if he paid close enough attention, might the birds warn him of any buggers or caravans as they proceeded? He hoped to be extra vigilant today.
As Creigal slept, he suffered a fever dream, vivid and distinct. He dreamed that his teeth were loose. Some fell out, and others he pulled. He admired these pearls that once brought him such pride, despite their current wear and tarnish. He knew he could not keep them, and so he tossed them aside as he walked through his duchy.
As each tooth fell, gardens sprouted at his feet: orchards, vineyards, even people that tended the land. Some of these people followed the duke, and they were always horrified to see the duke lose his teeth. Often, they turned from him and focused their attention on the land instead; keeping the fruits, vegetables, ornaments, birds, stock, and pets of every sort.
The lands continued to grow. Creigal was fascinated by the fecund wilds that sprang up at the edges of these settled lands. He pulled the last of his teeth, his canines. He admired them, and cast them to the earth. Warriors sprang up from these teeth and marched away with menace and fervor in their stride. They wandered the hinterlands between the known and unknown. Although most rose up to protect the people from the unknowns of the wilds, some turning predatory against them.
Creigal continued into the unknown. On the side of a mountain, as he sat next to a pool, he looked out across the lands that rose from his teeth and gazed upon them one last time. Then, he turned to his reflection in the waters of the pool to find that his face was young and fresh. He felt about the gums of his mouth and noted new teeth were beginning to push their way into the world.
As Creigal looked down at his own reflection, a face rose over his shoulder. It belonged to his daughter, Daphne—only she was much older than he. Daphne wrapped Creigal in a hug from behind. Caught off balance, Creigal pitched forward and fell through the reflective surface of the pool, and pulled his daughter with him.
Creigal found himself falling through the sky with the arms of his grown daughter wrapped around his small body. They tumbled through the clouds as the faint lights of the city rushed up to greet them.
As they fell, an impossibly large dragon approached—much larger than dragons were said to be. Upon the back of the magnificent beast was a strange man with a long robe made of exotic feathers. He talked incessantly, as they drifted on the winds, though he spoke an unknown language. He pointed to his elaborate tattoos that told stories of the strange culture that lived below. As Creigal admired the man’s tattoos, and the beast he rode, the holy man invited the impossibly young duke and his full grown daughter to ride upon its back, which was very kind, as the ground was still fast approaching.
Creigal sat upon the dragon’s back and the strange man pulled the fear from the duke, a dark orb of roiling emptiness. The orb of fear was slick, and slipped from the healer’s hand. Creigal’s fear sparked and shot darkness at the duke. He cringed from it. Wave after wave of nausea washed over the duke and threatened to sweep him under. The holy man leapt from the dragon and grabbed at the dark orb that floated nearby. He caught the roiling mass of evil and plummeted into darkness with the orb of fear caught tight in his grasp. As he fell, the holy man began to glow. A war between light and dark took shape. The light of the battle flickered as it grew distant, for the fast flying dragon turned away from the falling healer in his exotic robes.
As Creigal watched the disappearing fear, Daphne whispered in her father’s ear. “I knew you’d find me,” she smiled. Creigal’s heart broke to have his daughter at hand once more. In silence, they rode through the night sky toward the dawning of a new day.
The dragon circled and descended into the foreign land. Lights of every color sparkled from the city as day broke. Though he could not name the place, Creigal recognized it as a land of tragedy and hope, sin and sanctity, want and abundance. He was enthralled as they flew closer and closer, and finally settled on the roof of a great building so much taller than any he had ever seen before, taller than he had ever imagined possible! Everything seemed so big to Creigal as he stepped from the dragon. Then he caught a reflection of himself and realized he was just a young boy, maybe five or six years, while his daughter was a middle aged woman. She held his hand and led him along as they moved away from the dragon—but not even dragons were allowed to transport strangers into the city willy-nilly. Despite their fantastic arrival, they were stopped by a bored officer of the kingdom with strange weapons all about his waist. He had several questions for Daphne. Daphne answered each, slow and deliberate, and the officer was satisfied with her words. The officer turned to Creigal, weighed the young boy’s coin, and exchanged it for decorative papers. Then, the officer showed Creigal and Daphne into a small room with only one door. The door closed and the small room jostled about as Creigal seemed to grow lighter. For a time they stood in this room. There was a number overhead that started at 108 and counted down. Criegal wondered what would happen when it hit 0, but it stopped at 1.
The door opened. Creigal found himself at the level of the street with massive buildings all around and strange wonderful contraptions that grumbled as they passed—carriages without horses. Concerned by the strangeness of the world, Creigal grabbed Daphne’s large hand with his own small fingers. She turned to him, smiled, and gave his hand a squeeze, then led him along as the city came to life, with the day’s light growing overhead.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
As Dandifrod dreamed, the party approached Hazle’s cottage on the edge of the small village of Woodring. Toar became increasingly worried. Nothing stirred on the outskirts of the village, and he feared Kezodel had once again shifted the lines of acceptable settlement. If so, everyone in the village would be gone, either fled east, or lost in Kezodel’s labyrinthine system of prisons.
They made there way through the abandoned village. Toar banged on Hazle’s door. Nobody answered. He was not surprised, though he was disappointed. He continued to knock. He tried to open the door, but it was locked—not that it would do him any good to get inside. Even if he had all of Hazle’s tools and medicines, he did not know the proper use of them. “This isn’t good,” Toar muttered.
“No, it isn’t,” Baet agreed and pointed down the street at several soldiers. More and more men approached from every angle. There were close to twenty men, and although they all wore the colors and emblems of Gaurring, none of the party was fooled. They knew these were Ministrian shock troops.
“We cannot fight them all,” Carringten said as he put up his hands. Baet holstered his muskets and also put his hands in the air. Toar set his sword in the dirt and lifted his palms.
“You cannot be here!” One of the Ministrians said in his own language. “Don’t you know there is a war going on?!”
“So we’ve heard,” Carringten answered. “We were more concerned with our master,” he said and pointed to the litter.
“What happened to him?” The Mininstrian asked as he approached.
“He is infected with rot root,” Carringten answered.
“What is this?” the man asked.
“The rot of the buggers,” Toar said. He lifted Dandifrod’s shirt, enough that the man might see.
“Holy Ooroiyuo! It’s the sweet rot!” the Ministrian covered his mouth and nose.
“We are seeking a witch named Hazle. She lives in this hut,” Toar continued. ”She can heal him.”
“You consort with the enemy,” the Ministrian accused.
“We care only that she can heal our master,” Carringten replied.
The Ministrian shook his head. “There is no one here. Can’t you see? Everyone is at the fort.”
“We must find her. If she is at this fort, we wish to go there,” Carringten said.
“Oh you will,” the Ministrian smiled as his men confiscated their weapons. The Ministrians turned the small party south, back to the main road, as Dandifrod continued to dream.
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The Peculiar Efficiency of Ministrians
Polished — 10m59s — 2023/12/01
Several guards stood strong and imposing at the gate of the large fort. In contrast to these daunting figures were a couple dozen Trohls slouched with rags on their backs. They were all younger men, or mere boys, with their hands atrophied and curled in toward their chests. They huddled at the side of the road; malnourished, defeated, ignored. One of the captors cursed and kicked at a nearby boy. Used to such harsh treatment, the child dodged the attack.
“Why do you assault him?” Toar complained.
“These sinners?” the soldier snorted. “They are punished and set out here, free to die, and spare the earth of their burden,” he smirked.
“What was their crime?” Toar asked.
“They asked too many questions,” the soldier threatened.
As they entered the fort, Baet regarded it with a warrior’s eye. Patrols marched, while various officers moved about with their entourages. To one side of the fort were the buildings of the Ministrians; offices, barracks, warehouses, mess halls—also the tents and shanties of the commoners. The other half was a prison for Trohls. A fence of uneven wooden slats, six to seven feet tall, ran around the prison. The wooden slats looked weathered and easily overcome. Baet suspected he could break the boards with his bare hands. Still, the walls of the fort were a good twenty feet high with multiple towers and a continuous parade of armed guards. The fort was a hive of uniformed activity. All except the slave pen. Behind their fence, the Trohls sat about and did nothing. Most of the slaves were women, children, and the infirm. Just like the caravan that passed, there was a lack of fighting age men. Baet frowned as he considered what this might mean for him and his companions.
“Where are your doctors?” Carringten asked the guard.
“They are summoned,” his captor replied.
Shortly, four men arrived. Carringten was not impressed. They looked disheveled and sleep-deprived. He wondered how they hoped to care for someone on the verge of death when they could not comb their own hair.
“Well, let us see what we have...” Celt the surgeon said as he stepped to the litter. He pulled the blanket from Creigal, cut the duke’s shirt, and lifted it. He coughed as the sickly sweet smell of rot intensified.
Murmurs arose from the other surgeons as they whispered in astonishment at the duke’s infection. Celt dropped the shirt then turned and lifted it again so he might gape at the monstrous infection once more.
“Well, I don’t... I don’t know that I ever...” he began. “This man is all but dead. There is nothing we can do for him,” Celt said as he scratched at the rat’s nest on his head. He let Creigal’s cut shirt drop from his hand.
“What if I said he was a man of great repute?” the captor asked.
The surgeons whispered among themselves for several seconds as they continued to stare at the hideous rot. They poked and prodded Creigal’s side. Creigal moaned in protest and squirmed under their indelicate fingers. Celt came away from the other surgeons. “It is not possible,” he frowned and shook his head. “At any moment he will die.”
“Non, you old fraud,” Toar snapped at the man. He turned to his captor. “There are adepts among my people that can cure this. If I can find one among those others…” he waved at the people in prison.
Celt’s mouth hung open as he stared at the uncivil young Trohl. He sputtered, stammered, and interrupted. “Look here, you backwater savage! If the rot is any bigger than a man’s hand the infected never lives! This infection is five, six hands, easy! We will not throw time, effort, and good medicine after such a lost cause!” Celt turned to his cronies and they all nodded emphatically.
“A man’s hand...” Toar repeated and shook his head, then turned from Celt. “The village where you found us, are the inhabitants among this pitiful lot?”
Their captor shrugged. “Except for some of the smarter men...”
“Hazle lived in that village. She can heal him,” Toar replied.
“What makes you think so?”
“She healed me, and my condition was quite like his.”
“Nonsense!” Celt shouted. “If that were true, you would have a fantastic scar!”
“You wish to see it?”
Celt nodded.
Toar hopped off his horse and mooned the men.
“How is it possible?” One of the surgeons began.
“It is a fraud!” Celt said as poked Toar’s scar with his unkempt nails.
Toar flinched at being touched. He frowned and pulled up his pants.
“If this Hazle is here, she can teach you all to heal the rot,” the lead guard said to the surgeons. He turned to one of his own men. “See the Trohl into the pit and try to find this witch.”
As Toar left, the surgeons continued to admire the spread of rot on Dandifrod’s side. “How long has he suffered this mess?” one of the surgeon’s asked.
“A week,” Carringten answered.
“It is not possible!” another gasped. “Two—three days max! That is all they ever live!”
Carringten shook his head. “There are ways to retard its progress.”
“How? How have you done this?” Celt asked.
Carringten shrugged. “You will have to ask the Trohl when he returns.”
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 12.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
Toar wandered about the prison and asked after Hazle. “She is an apothecary and a midwife. She is a healer of exceptional skill,” he explained to yet another prisoner.
The woman shrugged and wandered away with a bothered expression.
“I know Hazle,” a passing man volunteered. “She delivered my son and my daughters—before these barbarians stole them,” he whispered the last part as he glared at the guards.
“I am Toar. I was in your village many years ago. I was apprenticed to the witch for some months before I left.”
“I remember the look of you. You were younger and skinnier back then,” he smiled. “My name is Brankellus,” he shook the young Trohl’s hand.
“Where can I find her?” Toar asked.
Brankellus shook his head. He leaned in close and whispered so the guard might not hear. “She went east, two days before the Ministrians came for us. She is surely alive and far from this sadness!” Brankellus smiled. He turned to several others. “They can tell you. She is not here.”
Toar frowned.
“Don’t be sad,” Brankellus told him. “She is free! Is that not the best of it?”
“I am in want of a healer and I need one of such high skill,” Toar revealed.
“If you knew her, then you know she had many apprentices,” Brankellus noted. “Some are here. You will see. I will send for them.”
Shortly, a bright-eyed girl appeared. She was quite young, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years. “I hear there is need of a healer,” she said, as she glanced nervously at Toar’s escort. “If I am given medicines, I will do what I can to help.”
“You are so young,” Toar frowned.
“I studied under Hazle over half my life. I may be young, but I assure you, I was the best of her pupils,” the girl stated.
“A man suffers the bugger rot,” Toar replied. “He has suffered seven days. He is quite on the verge.”
“The bugger rot...” The girl blanched. “If there is no one else to heal him, I shall try—but I have little hope,” she shrugged. “I have only assisted the cure of the rot, and I found the treatment confusing. If there is time to go slow and study, I may be able to heal your man.”
“You said there are more apprentices?” Toar asked Brankellus.
Brankellus shook his head. “If Lilyanah cannot cure it, the others will be no help. She is the best among them.”
“There are three of us here,” Lilyanah began. “The others have only apprenticed a few years. We can do many things—but there are advanced techniques that are still beyond us—including the siphoning of the rot,” she shrugged. “I was just her apprentice. Though there are a number of journeymen and masters that learned under Hazle, none of them are here.”
“Give it up,” the guard admonished. “Is it not clear to you that the gods come for your master? Your time is better spent praying for his soul.”
With a heavy heart, Toar gave the villagers a weak nod. “Thank you for your time,” he said as he walked out the gate and returned to his friends. As they approached, Toar found several more men gathered around Creigal’s litter. They counseled among themselves a short distance from their prisoners. “Who are these?” Toar whispered to Carringten.
“They did not announce themselves—though the men sure stood up crisp when that one approached,” Carringten replied.
“Can they heal the rot?” Toar asked.
“Non, but they whisper of some traveling witch doctor with knives and a bag of herbs,” Carringten shook his head. “They say he set a guard’s broken arm and neatly stitched a couple others.”
Toar frowned. “The rot is a long way from setting a bone or stitching a cut. Besides, knives and herbs do not make a healer. For all we know he is a cook, and a bad one at that.”
“They seem convinced,” Carringten shrugged. “Did you find your Hazle?”
Toar shook his head.
“Then what other option is there?”
“Not that we have much say in the matter...” Baet added.
“It is best this high officer is involved. The surgeons would likely kill our master and not even mind it,” Carringten spit. “At this point they only want to study his corpse.”
“This stranger might kill him all the same,” Toar replied.
“Without treatment, he is already dead,” Carringten shrugged. “At least he shall have a chance.”
The high officer turned to the nearest guard and gave a nod. Several men lifted the litter with Creigal on it and started away.
“That settles it,” Carringten said. He turned to their guard. “Sir, if they take our master to this witch doctor, send this man with him. He is a healer and can gauge this stranger’s capacity.”
“He is not needed,” the guard claimed. “Do not fear! If there is something that can be done for your master, it will be done; Gliedian takes a personal interest,” he whistled to his men. “Take these three to the pens and see they each get a cot!”
“Then we are common prisoners?” Carringten asked.
“You are nothing without your lord,” the guard told him. “If you value your life, pray for his.”
“Give me a priestess, and I shall pray and worship into the wee hours,” Baet stated with a smirk.
One of the guards cuffed Baet across the back of his head. “Get moving, you!” he snapped.
The guards herded them into the prison. Once inside, the guards turned away and promptly ignored them.
“So much for getting a cot,” Toar noted. “What now?”
“This wall won’t keep us in,” Baet said in a low voice.
“We may get out of the prison—but we won’t get out of the fort,” Carringten noted.
“Too many guards...” Baet frowned.
“We need to know where they took Dandifrod,” Carringten added. “When it gets dark, I’ll do some reconnoitering.”
“And what about us?” Toar asked.
“Let’s bother your cousins and see what they have to say about this place,” Baet suggested.
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The Faithful Duties of the Corpus Majoris
Polished — 50m46s — 2023/12/01
Most of the elder races tend to stick with their own type: humans among humans, elves among elves, naga among naga, and so forth. There is also great distance and geographical boundaries between many of these people, which is good, considering the suspicion and hostilities that often develop. Dwarves and elves are a classic example. Although its been a dozen years of peace between the Gundurmach dwarves and the elves of Telyet’s Hallow, their most recent conflicts continued for some two hundred years and claimed some three million lives. Considering such devastation, we can only hope that the current peace continues.
But I digress. And now I come to the crux of the problem. If we are all related, how is it that some of us take the form of a wyrm and others take the form of a man? How is there a mixing of such diverse bloods? The answer is simple. There is a magic that exists, the ability to shift into the form of another, or “skin-walk”, as they often say.
Though I cannot accomplish it myself, I have seen it done by a number of different individuals. One let me see the transformation many times as he appeared a normal man of average height, then a great darkness overcame him, and when he reappeared he was an elf of nine feet, and as thin as a sapling!
Some among us that look human were not born human—yet we all share carnal urges. Such couplings often result in viable offspring that always take the form of the mother. If she is the skin-walker, the form of the children is the one in which she produces them, be it her native form or not. Some of these children will never learn the skill. Born away from their mother’s tribe, they must exist among the father’s people.
Occasionally, our children are quite a bit more. From time to time, children are born exhibiting magics and abilities most rare, even if the parents are not of mixed races. These chimera tend to be quite gifted. It is hard to know how many become adept at skin-walking, but I imagine many—if not most of them—acquire this skill and use it to disguise themselves. Chimera tend to have very singular appearances and are quite noticeable when they choose to be. Among the most famous of these was the Ewile queen, Smixsmaxsmia, who famously stood over eight feet tall and had elegant wings—though she could not fly. A known skin-walker, Smixsmaxsmia often appeared in her native form, even in front of the common people of Ewile. Thanks to such famous cases, we know chimera exist, and thanks to chimera, we know that the elder races are in fact kissing cousins, despite our disparate appearances.
- The Elder Races of the World: Considerations, Arguments, and Refutations, by Aogostua Veribos, page 216
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Wenifas met with Fedring, Corpus Majoris of the Empress’ Own inside her tent. After some initial pleasantries, Fedring and Wenifas were quick to get down to business. Fedring had many other priestesses to visit, and Wenifas simply wanted to get it out of the way.
Wenifas allowed the man to check her book of absolution, in which she recorded who petitioned and for what rituals, along with any other notes she cared to make about the men—and the occasional women—that came to worship. Invariably, Fedring seemed most interested in her notes. Yes, the Majoris made a big deal about her accounting, especially where it should be inaccurate. But it seemed to the priestess that the notes provided the Corpus with the most value. She wondered why the high offices of the priesthood should care so much about the men’s thoughts and actions, and could only speculate.
Wenifas worked hard on her notes. She was very deliberate and careful in how she portrayed the various men that came to see her. She wrote long passages about their righteous devotion when she wished to protect them. She only wrote ill of those that mistreated her, of which there weren’t too many. She was not surprised that Fedring was quick to glance over the pages that detailed a man’s piety and worship of the true gods, yet he lingered as he read of ignominy or heresy.
After so many years, she expected this sort of scrutiny. What did Fedring hope to do with such information? Wenifas shuddered to think on it. Although she might elaborate and touch up an account of a man’s religious zeal with some length of exaggeration or poetry, she never fudged a word of controversy.
“My dear, you always keep such a clean book,” Fedring smiled as he tapped a particularly long entry concerned with a rather lewd fixation of one of the men that she did not care for. “I only wish you would choose smaller volumes to keep your notes. Is this book not cumbersome to you?”
She was quite sure he wanted her to use smaller books so he would have them from her that much faster. Yet, she had no interest in separating herself from her own intelligence—especially not for Fedring’s convenience. Why should he get to keep the book when it was filled? But then, there was no point in arguing against the law. At least she was allowed to keep whatever book she liked—so long as she turned it over once it was full. “I beg foregiveness,” Wenifas bowed, “but I fill the small books too fast, and I enjoy the heft of a bigger book. I can use it to hit the men, when they request, or simply if they deserve it,” she justified.
“You hit the men with it?” Fedring set the book aside and wiped his hands on his shirt.
Wenifas nodded. “Most of them beg for it. Some of them deserve it. I have noted both in the book, of course.” She picked it up and began to rifle through its pages in search of such a passage, knowing that the longer they talked of her book, the less they talked of everything else.
“Of course,” Fedring gave her a long-suffering smile as he gently closed the book in her hands. “I wish the others kept such neat records—and always with the numbers at the front! You are very orderly. The gods appreciate such neatness.”
“The gods are too kind, your lordship.”
“Enough of the book! Your coin is in order! Let us see to the babe,” Fedring held his hands out for her child. With a weak smile, Wenifas lifted Evereste from a pile of blankets and handed the infant to the Corpus. Fedring undressed the child and took off her diaper as he examined the babe for any sign of physical disease, malformation, or trauma. “She seems in good health. Has she been any problem?”
“Oh no, your lordship. She has such a sweet temper. I had much more trouble with Claiten.”
“Boys are always more difficult,” Fedring nodded. “Do you ask the others to look after her?”
“Not often, though Delonias has watched her on a couple occasions,” Wenifas smiled. “I think I am quite blessed. So far, Evereste is mild and happy. She crawls. She can almost stand. Soon, she will walk, and then she will start speaking.”
“Yes, yes,” Fedring feigned a smile. “Once again, I am impressed with your capabilities.”
Wenifas bowed.
With his inspection of the babe complete, Fedring handed Evereste back to her mother. Wenifas took Evereste with a smile. She tried not to let her anxiety show as she dressed the child. She hoped to put on a great show of respect. She was good at hiding her true feelings and putting on a smile for her petitioners. The work of a priestess could be difficult and arduous in its own way, and often required a good deal of acting. But Fedring was not a guard. It was his job to discover any deception among the priestesses. Wenifas crossed her fingers. All she wanted was a smooth interview and to get Fedring out of her tent. Then, it would be another month before he returned—unless there was some scandal.
“Speaking of Delonias,” Fedring frowned. “I hear there is dispute between her and Sahna at the three mark well. I am told you were witness to this confrontation?” his brow arched.
“I was,” Wenifas confessed.
“And what would you say of it?”
Wenifas frowned. She preferred not to be involved. Still, he asked—and so she must answer. “I feel Delonias showed the proper respects. I feel Sahna should not have hit Delonias. She is senior—to me as well—but that does not give her the right to abuse us,” Wenifas said.
“Did she abuse you too?” Fedring asked with a raised brow.
Silently, Wenifas cursed herself. Why did she let that slip? Now that it was out, she would not lie about it. Getting caught in a lie always made matters worse. “She has hit me a few times,” Wenifas nodded her head. “But not in some time—and not on this occasion,” she admitted, and hoped it was enough.
It was not. With a tsk, Fedring asked, “What has she done to you?”
“It was a light cuffing and a few harsh words, your lordship. I do not hold it against her,” Wenifas confessed. “Indeed, I do not recall exactly what was said or why she felt she should hit me at all. Might I forget the squabble on purpose? Might it have been my fault to begin with? I do beg forgiveness—and I offer the same to my dear Sahna. May the gods forget this accusation.”
“My oh my,” Fedring frowned. “This is turning into quite a mess.”
Although it was an old and amorphous complaint, the priestess suspected a remedy would be demanded. She crumbled to her knees, and pressed her forehead to Fedring’s feet. “I beg mercy for Delonias, Sahna, and myself,” Wenifas stated as she kowtowed before the Corpus.
“Do you? Well, that is quite noble of you! And tell me, what punishment would you deliver if you were in my shoes?”
With wide eyes, Wenifas began her answer. “If Sahna demands punishment, then Delonias must suffer. I would give her two lashes, one for each insult, and demand she tithe two days of work, one day to the office of the Corpus, and the other to the Great Sisters of Charity. Then, I would demand a public apology from Sahna, and give her warning. She is not to inflict corporal punishment. That is the charge of the office of the Corpus, both Majoris and Minorus,” Wenifas hedged.
“Measured words, and they show your understanding of the law,” Fedring gave an approving smile. “I shall think on it. And for yourself? What of your own accusations? Or do you feel Sahna is in the wrong?”
“I beg my words be forgotten by all concerned. May the wind take them,” she hung her head.
“They weigh little enough I think,” Fedring offered a reassuring smile. “The gods may erase them for a pittance—but a diem should be sufficient.”
“Thank you,” Wenifas bowed deep, her forehead at Fedring’s legs. He was certainly in a good mood!
“I do not see your boy about,” Fedring stated. “How is the lad?”
“Claiten,” Wenifas breathed the name of her son, only too happy to speak of anything else. “Shall I send for him that you might see?”
Fedring shook his head. “Though I should like to take his measure, my questions do not require that the child be present. Is he well?”
“He is strong and happy. He practices with the dagger you gave him. He loves it very much.”
“And his schooling?”
“He has learned his letters and can make them all. Now I teach him spelling. He can count. He can add and subtract. Multiplication evades him still. He does not see the point of it,” Wenifas admitted. “He likes the songs and knows a dozen. His favorite is The Charge of Ooroiyuo.”
“That is always popular among the boys,” Fedring smiled. “I see the boy about camp with the other children. He is full of energy and guile. He is a good size for his age. He will be of great service to the true gods.”
“Do you think so?”
“Very much,” Fedring nodded. With a cough, he cleared his throat. “And now, if I can see after you.”
With a sigh, Wenifas set Evereste among her blankets. She stood and slipped out of her dress. She stepped out of her panties and pulled off her half shirt. She dropped her soft fabrics to her feet and stared at Fedring as if this didn’t bother her at all.
Blinking and squinting, Fedring crouched and stuck his face in her crotch. “Do you have any complaints?”
“No sir. The Gods have blessed me with good health,” Wenifas stated.
“Mmmm...” He said, and stabbed a cold fat finger at her flower. Wenifas bit her tongue and tried not to shiver. “You appear clean,” Fedring noted. “Lay down.”
Wenifas felt her heart sink. Such physical interrogation was not always warranted—but it was never denied. She sat down and gently rested on her back. “Any particular ritual you should like?” she asked, and hoped for something common.
“The Rape of Leticia,” Fedring said.
A shiver ran up her spine and the hairs on her neck stood on end. Wenifas hated the Rape of Leticia. She refused the ritual for most men and would not even sing the songs—but there was no denying Fedring. Slowly, she laid on her side. She closed her eyes and smiled, that it might discourage her from crying, and pretended to slumber. For this ritual, she was not to react until he touched her. Then, she should fight him. She did not think she could fight him off—though she would try. For a normal petitioner the bruising and hostility of the ritual cost four to five times the price of a simple melding.
The Rape of Leticia had certain rules. A man could do nothing but force himself upon her. There’d be little excessive violence. To hit a priestess cost a good deal, and the church was very good about getting its tithe. But the Majoris would pay for none of it. He could do anything with the body of the church. As a priestess, Wenifas was considered his jurisdiction. He could do as he wished, even unto death. He could hit, bite, scratch, even flay a priestess if he deemed it necessary, such was his position.
Fedring loosed his belt and dropped his pants. He rubbed his cock as he stood over Wenifas. Despite the beauty at his feet, he had trouble getting the old soldier to stand.
Wenifas could not handle the silence. She wondered if it was folly to speak—then thought it might be folly to remain silent. “Have you performed many visits today, my lord?”
“This is my fifth,” he spit in his hand and continued to rub at his little man. Having suffered so much work for one day, the old boy refused to stand at attention. With a frown, Fedring slapped it around, as he might punish a petulant guard.
“Five?!” Wenifas frowned. “Even for a man of your potency, that is too many. Will there soon be a new Minorus soon to help you in your office?”
“I should hope!” Fedring huffed. “The church officials seem to think I can handle this camp alone! Although I appreciate their faith in me, it is a daunting task. It does not help that I have been under the weather these last few days. I am just barely recovered!”
“The gods try the best of us. I shall have less complaint the next time I am sick,” Wenifas noted.
“It is draining to see after so many capable and loyal priestesses. Do you have any sanguine stimulata?” Fedring asked.
“I do not,” Wenifas admitted. “I currently have conicle, blue tips, and a bottle of fine Kelmish red at my disposal.”
“No, none of that,” Fedring frowned. “I suppose just the look of you is enough for most men. You are still young and quite comely,” he added.
“I thank you,” she said, though the compliment made her skin crawl. She wanted this man to think her very plain and ordinary.
“I do not flatter you. It is only my honest assessment,” Fedring noted. For a moment, he let his limp dog hang between his legs.
Wenifas wondered if she should volunteer assistance, but was repulsed by the thought. Instead, she kept her eyes closed and pretended to sleep—as Leticia must do. It seemed like an eternity before Fedring finally spoke again.
“My dear, have you taken shade?”
“No, my lord. I am a desert flower,” she informed—though lately she skipped her doses. Indeed, she’d forgotten she was overdue. How long had it been? Still, the flower would dislodge a child up to a month out. She had time before her rebellion became problematic.
Not that it mattered. Even after a month, there were ways to keep from conceiving—though they became increasingly complex and messy the longer a woman carried. She told herself she’d take the flower as soon as the Corpus left. She would not allow Fedring to seed her under any circumstance. Not even for a day. Not even for an hour.
“A desert flower...” Fedring mulled over her words. He flicked and poked at his limp wand once more before he finally thought better of it. “A pity,” he noted, and picked his pants off the ground.
“Am I to take the shade now?” Wenifas asked. Shade was not a substitute for the desert flower. One dose of shade made a lady barren now and forever. Although some among the priesthood longed to join the Order of the Shade, Wenifas was not among them. She thought shade was tragic, especially since the choice was made by the church fathers, and not given to the priestess. A part of her hoped Fedring would order the shade. Her defiant side relished the idea of secretly ignoring such an order.
Would she defy him, she wondered? For how long? She had enough of the desert flower to last another year—maybe two, or even three if she stretched her doses and took risks. After that, would she still refuse to take the shade? Once her supply of desert flower ran out, it’d be difficult to secure any more. A priestess of the shade purchasing desert flower... If she was caught defying the orders of the Corpus Majoris her punishment could be anything including banishment from the empire! Certainly, she would be stripped of her priesthood, and stripped of her children too!
“No, no shade. That day has not yet come,” Fedring smiled. “In fact, I ask you not to take the desert flower for the time being. I ask that you return to the Order of the Red Crescent.”
“Yes my lord,” she smiled. “I thank you.”
“It is not me you should thank, it is the gods,” Fedring said with little real humility. “They would bless you with another child—or at least the possibility of another—they do tease from time to time.”
Excitement overcame the priestess—and with it came a spark of resentment. She was to have another child! Yet, Wenifas felt that she alone should decide if she would take the desert flower, or the shade, or have a thousand more children! She hated that such things were within Fedring’s power to grant. Just to spite him, she considered taking the flower until commanded to do so. And then, she would not!
Or so insisted her rebellious thoughts... Such thoughts were easy. It was action that was forever difficult. Besides, such action would see her without compromise, without employment, without a people. Consistent and open rebellion would see her stripped of everything. Indeed, her inability to submit to authority was why she was out here on the fringe of civilization to begin with!
“Quite right,” Fedring looked about the tent, somewhat distracted. “Now, have any petitioners mentioned a great serpent?”
“A serpent, my lord?” Her mind turned to Derris and his wild tails of Meu. She could feel the hairs stand on the back of her neck. Was he caught? Did he confess? Did he tell another priestess after all?! Blinding rage erupted behind her eyes. Men were so stupid and simply refused to think with the right head! Fedring stared at her. Did he want her to admit it? Was he giving her a chance to confess before he leveled his accusations and final punishment? Wenifas cursed Derris for a fool!
Still, she couldn’t be sure. A stupid look of confusion stretched across her face—the one Wenifas preferred when she wished to deceive. She’d used it often with the Majoris. “My lord, such talk is rampant among the men. Indeed, they all speak of their great serpents,” she blinked.
Fedring frowned. “I make no joke. I’ve heard rumor of a creature about the camp: a beast of great length, with green eyes, and mighty wings.”
“Oh my!” Wenifas stared in shock. “I suspect I would know if I’d seen such a thing,” she hedged.
“Oh yes. I understand it is quite ferocious,” Fedring said as he continued to stare. “Have any petitioners spoke of such a beast? Or perhaps your son?”
Her son?!
Wenifas realized Fedring knew nothing of Derris and his contact with the creature after all! He was simply fishing for information! She realized if the beast had to bite Derris in order to share his thoughts, then it must have bit Fedring in order to share his thoughts too! No wonder he complained of feeling ill! A jolt of elation surged through her: Derris spoke the truth! Meu must be real! The accusations against the Corpus Majoris were accurate after all!
And to have him standing over her as she lay naked in the shape of Leticia—Wenifas wanted to cry! Instead, she kept her emotions from her face and locked eyes with Fedring. “No, my lord,” she lied. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. Shall I ask?”
Fedring stared at the priestess with disappointment and suspicion on his face. Wenifas wondered if she was caught. She kept her stare blank, as if she wanted nothing but his opinion.
Fedring’s face relaxed and the Corpus shook his head. “Don’t bother the men with such fanciful tales. They have important work to do, but if one should mention it...” he finished. “Now, I have but one more question, the strictest of formalities, I assure you. Is there anything you need to confess? Before the gods?”
Wenifas sat up. This was indeed the strictest of formalities. As such, it was not to be taken lightly—though he made it appear just so. To say ‘no’ was a dangerous thing, for any small infraction could come back at her seven fold. That was the law. She knew it well as she had suffered it often.
But there were ways to dodge such formalities. A confession—any confession was all she needed to make. It was always best to confess some small sin, that a light punishment would be the price. “Forgive me, my lord. I am thinking mean thoughts during the rituals. Not always, but during the visits of one man in particular. Yet, he is worthy in all the ways I am asked to measure. I ask that my heart be softened and that I might accept his seed and metal with grace and humility.”
“What man is this?” Fedring asked.
“I should not like to name him, my lord. I feel the fault is all mine and do not want to slander him, even before the gods,” she hedged.
“Ahh, but the gods already know, and so do I,” Fedring stated. “Yet, the confession is yours to make. I would hear the name from your lips, and thus the penalty will be less.”
She meant to complain about one of the prison guards that served in the stone tower—yet, for a split second, she thought to name Derris instead. A flash of blind intuition told her it was the right play. After all, there was no reason to be honest with this vile man. As she paused, she almost said his name—but at the last second she changed her mind and decided to speak the truth. Wasn’t it always best to speak the truth? “It is Cairn, my lord. I do not like him.” She did not tell him why; that he was rough, uncaring, and tended to stink. It would not hurt her feelings if such a thing got back him. If he should stop visiting altogether, that would be even better.
Fedring stared at Wenifas with a critical eye. “Be glad for his patronage,” he said in a chiding tone. “There are many priestesses about the camp. What if he and all the others should stop petitioning?”
“Yes, my lord,” Wenifas hung her head. She realized Fedring must know the man and probably held him in high regard. She should have guessed as much. They were both awful men.
“What more is there to confess?” Fedring asked. There was an edge to the question.
Wenifas realized her confession angered him. Yet, since she had made a confession, Fedring could not say she had defied his call to repentance. So said the law. If anything else should come up, she simply had to say she was distraught over her first revelation, and the seven fold increase could not be applied. Wenifas shook her head. “Nothing comes to mind, my lord.”
“Very well. Your penance is ten percent for a month,” Fedring began. “If Cairn should visit, you shall donate his entire tithe, that you may remember the favor he grants you.”
“Yes, Corpus. I will make note of it,” Wenifas promised. She hid her astonishment. Cairn’s entire tithe—in the unfortunate event that he should petition—and an additional ten percent from everyone else!? It was an inordinate punishment! Indeed, she had never suffered so much! Fedring must be close to the guard. Wenifas cursed her luck. If only she’d named Derris instead, her sin might have cost her two diems max!
Fedring hefted a purse of coin—tithes, taxes, fees, and donations levied against the office of priestess for the previous month—nearly thirty percent of her earnings in all. He stuffed the pouch in his pocket. “All seems in order; your monies, your children, yourself... May the gods continue to smile on you,” Fedring said—though his demeanor was now crusty. He already signed her book acknowledging receipt of the funds, and so their business was finished.
“And you, my lord,” Wenifas said as she stood and pulled on her small clothes. She gathered Evereste in her arms and tried to look contrite.
“Yes... Just so,” Fedring said with a huff as he left her tent.
Wenifas stood and followed Fedring to the entrance of her tent—mostly to be sure he was leaving. He came to her in such a good mood, and only her words about Cairn had upset him. Fedring stepped down the long row of tents and stopped in front of the one belonging to Delonias. He rang the bell as he glared forward. With a frown, Wenifas let her tent fall closed, and hoped her friend had no stimulata on hand.
For a time, Wenifas played with Evereste, but the young girl was tired, and wanted to resume her nap. Wenifas took Evereste into the other room and set her down to sleep. For a time, she sat and watched as her babe gave in to slumber. She might have told Fedring the child caused her no great concern, but that was simply one more lie she told the terrible man. How long had it been since she’d discovered the child with wax all over her fingers? Like most children, she was drawn to fire. Twice, she’d noticed bee’s wax coating her hand, and just last week Evereste had managed to tip over a candle and light one of her blankets on fire. How was it possible that she hadn’t yet burned herself, that she hadn’t yet tempered her fascination with fear?
With her child down for a nap, Wenifas changed her pin to that of the Red Crescent, and wondered if she should take the desert flower—just to spite Fedring’s orders. She unlocked her jewelry box and pulled out a slight jar of the flower. She measured a dose of the weak poison and stared at the orange and red bits of petal. She did not mind the bitter taste. Indeed, after some men, she relished it. Many of the priesthood said the taste of desert flower could wash away the worst of men. Wenifas agreed. It was pungent and overwhelming to the point that it frequently caused vomiting.
But Fedring had not violated her, not in the physical sense, and so she decided against a dose. Her defiance continued, and now none could fault her! She swept the crushed petals back into their vial and returned it to her jewelry box. With that finished, she laid down next to her babe and closed her eyes.
She did not sleep for long. She woke to the screams of Delonias as her friend begged for mercy. Sweet loving gods, have mercy! Wenifas felt she would not get it. Tears came to her eyes. She pulled her covers and pillows over her head that she might not hear any more of it.
Between the screams of Delonias—between Fedring yelling incoherently, and slapping her about—Wenifas heard the light chime of her bell. She huffed. Of all the times to come calling! But she’d take no petitioners. It was her right to refuse. She thought to let them ring to their heart’s content, but after the third ring came in quick succession, Wenifas stood in a rage and stomped through her tent, that she might scold the petitioner.
“I am not...!” Wenifas began as she pulled aside the curtain of her tent. She meant to say she was not seeing anyone, but she was halted in her fury. Confusion overtook her. “Are you okay?” She began, not knowing what else to ask.
Before her stood an older woman, rail thin, with fire red hair, and eyes the color of grass. The woman was completely naked, injured, and looked as if she’d been run ragged the last few days. Strangest of all, she smiled as if the world were her oyster.
“Sweet Naharahna, what happened to your arm?!” Wenifas whispered as she grabbed the woman’s hand and pulled her into the tent. She glanced among the other nearby tents to see if anyone else witnessed this woman’s impropriety. After all, one could not go about the camp in the nude! What if Fedring should hear of this woman, naked in the noon day sun?! And at the very door of her tent!? She shuddered to think of it.
With the tent closed, Wenifas turned to the naked stranger. The woman sat and ran her fingers along the faded pattern of the carpet as she looked about the room, seemingly unconcerned with her nakedness, or the injury to her arm—which, on closer examination, did seem to be healing quite nicely.
“Well?” Wenifas shrugged. “You gonna say anything?”
The older woman shrugged and shook her head as if she didn’t understand.
Wenifas wondered if she was escaped from the prison, but didn’t think she looked like a Trohl. Even if she was, it’d sure be nice to get caught with a little something to wear—or so Wenifas thought. There was nothing better than a little cloth between a woman and the lusting public! She turned to the other room in order to retrieve something for the stranger to wear.
“...and I should have something we can turn into a bandage,” Wenifas said to herself as she stepped away. She glanced among her clothing, though she knew all of her garments would hang off the slight woman. “As good as any...” she said as she pulled one of the worst pinchers from her collection, and grabbed a clean rag.
The stranger took the dress and put it on with a gracious bow. She then allowed Wenifas to wash the wound and dress it.
“That does it,” Wenifas gave a shrug as she stepped away from the woman and her injury. “How’s it feel?”
The lady stepped forward. With bright emerald eyes, she wrapped Wenifas in a hug, then kissed the priestess on the lips.
Wenifas pushed her away. “You are too forward!” she scolded. She was about to demand the proper tithe—or simply refuse the woman outright—when she realized she was poisoned. What was on this stranger’s lips?!
Was this the doing of one of the other priestesses? Did Sahna, or one of her court put her up to this? She had done nothing to upset the woman of late—but she could think of no alternatives.
The venom infected Wenifas. A confusion roiled through the priestess. In a fog, she sat down as fantastic and impossible thoughts inserted themselves in her head.
Several tents away, Delonias began to scream once more. Wenifas frowned as she slumped to the floor and faded further and further away. She wanted to scream—to add her voice to that of her good friend—but was talked down by a sweet calm voice in her mind, things are not as they seem.
The stranger smiled and stared at the priestess knowingly.
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As expected, Scurra’s petition to go west was denied. Not that she would be deterred by a mere formality.
The plan was simple. Scurra and Andrus were going over a wall, through a side garden, then over a another wall. After all that, they’d be in woods, all on their own, with the west stretching out before them.
The property was owned by a high cleric of the wrong faction, so getting caught on his property would be an issue. He also had several guards—but it was a large garden, thick with foliage, so they believed their chances were good. On top of that, it drizzled. Scurra thought the light rain was perfect for their purpose. It allowed them to wear thicker clothing, to obscure some of their more irregular equipment, and it’d also keep the crowds down, giving them a better chance to get over the wall unobserved.
Aim walked with them, just to see them on their path. The mountainous man kept watch as Andrus threw the grappling hook over the high brick wall. Scurra made her way over without any issue—but as soon as she was on the other side, she was accosted by several of the high cleric’s guards, as if they knew she was coming. “Hey!” she huffed, when they started getting handsy.
Andrus was about to go over and give them a piece of his mind, when he heard a scuffle eruping behind him. He turned to see several men jumping on Aim, while another half dozen cornered him. Having nowhere to go, he lifted his arms and surrendered.
Not Aim. He punched, kicked, and quickly found himself free of his attackers. He glanced an apology at Andrus and bolted down an alley. as several men gave chase. Andrus didn’t blame him. They were heavily outnumbered. Fleeing was the wisest course.
Not wanting to get caught himself, Andrus fought. He threw several smart punches and landed a couple good kicks—but there were simply too many. It wasn’t long before they’d knocked him down and then unconscious.
As for Aim, well, he might be a giant and seemingly easy to track—but he was fast, and once he made it to a crowd of pedestrians, he proved to be quite a sneak. So it was that only Scurra and Andrus were caught.
The nest day, Traust came by the jail for a visit. He was well dressed, a man of obvious wealth.
“Hello, cousin. How bad is it?” Scurra asked.
Traust shrugged. “They’re insisting you see a judge, since you had weapons upon you.”
“I was heading out west. It’s supposed to be a war zone! What kind of an idiot would I be if I didn’t take weapons?!” Scurra stated.
“You were on the grounds of a high cleric, a rather suspicious and jittery man, if I do say so myself. He’s afraid you were after him,” Traust explained.
“That’s rubbish,” Scurra frowned. “How’s Andrus? They won’t let me see him.”
“He’s banged and bruised,” Traust noted. “I’d say its his confidence that probably suffered the most.”
“So how long are we stuck in here?”
Traust shook his head. “At least a week.”
“A week!?” Scurra huffed. “And all the time my brother’s rotting in a cell!”
Traust held out his hands. “One cell at a time, cousin. Even greasing a number of palms, I’ll be happy to have you out so quick. These prisons are chalk full, and since most these people are innocent, they’re all trying to see a judge. But you don’t get to see any ol’ judge. Since they think you might have been after a high cleric, they’re making you see the Muaha himself.”
Scurra shook her head. “This is ridiculous.”
“I’m not the one to convince,” Traust stated. “Listen, these people love dishing out punishment. So keep your head down, and button your lips. I know its a whole goddamn week—but it is just a week.”
“If i’s only just a week,” Scurra noted.
Traust shook his head. “I don’t mind your sass. We’ve known each other far too long to be worried about a little bit of attitude between you and me,” he began. “But when it comes time to see Kezodel, just remember he has a bit of a temper himself. I’d dial back the fire if I were you.”
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A Mute and a Cellmate
Polished — 36m16s — 2023/12/02
The door to the cell popped open and Krumpus shielded his eyes from the blinding light of the outside world. Three figures stood in the doorway. There were the two guards, Cairn and Brough, large and imposing; with a limp prisoner between them. The prisoner could not keep his feet, so the guards carried him across the room. Krumpus moved to the floor as the guards glared at him—and since the shaman was now out of the way, the two large men arranged the stranger onto the cot. Cairn simply let the man go, as Brough lowered him with a gentle hand.
The new prisoner was in visible pain and seemingly delirious. He moaned and groaned as the guards set him down, then turned on his left side and curled into a ball.
A sickly sweet smell emanated from the prisoner, vaguely familiar to the shaman. From his seat on the floor, Krumpus frowned at the guards.
Brough shook his head. “Non, old man. This one was sick when we found ‘im.”
Old man?! Krumpus thought as his frown deepened.
“Got another one for you to heal,” Cairn informed. “This one gon’ keep you up all night!” he smirked.
The two guards made their way to the door. “Come get yer stuff when yer ready,” Brough said over his shoulder as he left the door open.
Krumpus stared at the prisoner. He was about to approach when another man stepped into the cell, a strange and small Ministrian that he had not seen before. Unlike the guards, Krumpus did not know this man. He was short, with a mess of hair, and a nervous air about him. “I am told you speak Ministrian,” the stranger began in a quivering voice. “Or at least, that you understand it when others speak?” he amended.
Krumpus gave a nod.
“Good!” he grinned, and stood straighter. “I am Celt, surgeon of the Empress’ Own! This man suffers the sweet rot of the waokie. We cannot heal him. Can you?”
Waokie? Krumpus wondered at the word, especially since these Ministrians kept asking about them. He turned to the sick man on the cot, lifted his shirt, and finally recognized the smell that emanated from his side. It was bugger rot! So that’s what they mean by waokie, Krumpus turned back to Celt with wide eyes. They speak of bugbear!
Celt frowned at the Trohl. “I dare say, you are not inspiring much faith.”
Krumpus signed at the man, but Celt shook his head.
“I do not know the Hand,” the surgeon stated.
Krumpus shrugged. There was bound to be one that didn’t know it. He wrote in the dirt for the man to read in neat Ministrian letters. I will try, he wrote with a nod.
“Try?” Celt frowned. “I only ask for a little certainty.”
Krumpus shook his head and wrote his response. Only fools are certain.
Celt glared at the witch doctor. “Do you call me a fool, for I am certain I cannot do it!”
Krumpus refused the bait. He glanced at the Saot. He could hear fatigue and discomfort in every breath. He resumed his neat letters. I will do what I can.
“Then it is decided!” Celt smiled. “You will treat him, and we will observe! In this way, the surgical corps of the Empress’ Own will learn to fight this insidious infection, and thus we shall overcome the waokie’s greatest weapon against us!”
Krumpus frowned at the man and shook his head. He was not interested in giving away his secrets, especially for nothing in return. Besides, his magic would be stifled by their doubting hearts.
“What do you mean, no?!” Celt snapped. “This man is dying!”
Krumpus scribbled on the floor. I will heal him, then I will go free.
“You will not go free,” Celt huffed. “You will heal him, and we will watch!” he countered.
The shaman continued to draw neat Ministrian letters. If you stay, he dies.
The surgeon’s face turned red as he glared at the shaman. “By refusing, you fail your human brothers!” Celt charged.
My human brothers fail me by locking me in this box, Krumpus replied.
“Behave, or we will put you in a much tighter box,” Celt threatened.
Krumpus shrugged, unintimidated.
“You’d let this man die!?” Celt raged.
Go away and I will heal him, Krumpus wrote, knowing that even if the surgeon left, he might still fail.
“We will watch,” Celt insisted. “You will teach us, for the good of mankind!” He said as he stood as tall as he could, in what he hoped was an intimidating manner.
I am man’s kind, and you refuse to do me good. Krumpus wrote. Stay, and he dies.
Confused and frustrated, Celt took a different tact. “If you allow us to watch, I will personally argue for your freedom,” he bargained.
Krumpus shook his head. If they should stay, he would likely fail—and if he did succeed it would be even worse! Having revealed some part of his magic, not only would they keep him locked up, they’d make a study out of him, and he’d never get any peace!
“You must heal him, and we must attend!” Celt snapped.
Bored with the conversation, Krumpus shrugged and turned away.
“There will be consequences!” Celt continued his threats. “I cannot say what will happen if you do not do as you’re told!”
Krumpus drew lazy circles in the dirt as he ignored the pompous little man.
Celt leaned over and peeked at the shaman’s work. His face grew dark as he realized the prisoner was doodling. For several seconds, the surgeon glared at the shaman’s back.
“Have it your way...” Celt glared. “If this man dies, I cannot guarantee that you will live,” he said in a huff as he turned and stamped from the cell. With a righteous fury, he slammed the door shut. The lock clacked into place.
Krumpus began to wonder what sort of trouble might now be brewing for him—but before his thoughts could spin too out of control, the lock clicked again and the door opened. When no one came in, he realized that he was still expected to gather his implements and attend the dying man—even if he would not allow for an audience.
Krumpus turned to the man on his cot, a true Saot by all appearance. He lifted the foreigner’s shirt and was astonished to see the man’s entire side was webbed with rot. No wonder the surgeons turned the man away! Cairn was right: this would be a long night indeed!
Unless the man should die. Then it would all be over in the space of one long breath.
Krumpus pushed aside his doubts. If this man was meant to die, nothing could stop it. If the shaman himself was meant to die at the hands of these Ministrians, nothing could stop that either. Worry certainly wouldn’t do the trick. He pushed aside his inconvenient thoughts; of being a prisoner, of death threats—even thoughts of wyrms, the distress, and Melmorahn. A man suffered and died before his eyes, and though it served his enemies, he knew it was right to try and save him.
First, Krumpus would need his medicines. He turned to the door and pushed it open. He made his way down the hall and past the other cells. He wondered who occupied these rooms as he heard the occasional cough or groan. His heart went out to these unknown retches, and he wished them comfort. He wondered how many deserved their treatment, and how many had simply run afoul of their Ministrian captors. He assumed it was an even mix.
In the guard’s room, Cairn stood from the table where he played cards with Brough and Leverkusen, the captain that arrested him. Krumpus stared at Leverkusen. For a second, he thought he should confront the man and demand an accounting of Meu—but he could not imagine such an argument going his way, and there was a sick man in his cell, so he let it go. Still, Cairn was hostile and obnoxious as he got in the shaman’s way. “What d’ya want?!” he snapped as a troublesome smirk split his lips.
Krumpus made a scissoring motion with his hand.
Cairn snorted and refused to move, “Non, fool! Use your words!”
Krumpus waited for the guard to step out of his way, but Cairn only glared at him expectantly. He tried to step around the guard, but the guard cut him off.
“Speak, I say!” Cairn roared.
Not wanting to waste any more time, Krumpus obliged. “Sublies,” the word tripped from the shaman’s mouth. “Wahder,” he added, and blushed, embarrassed by his rough tongue.
Cairn harrumphed as a grim smile stretched across his face. He turned to Brough and Leverkusen. “Didn’t I say he weren’t no mute?”
Unimpressed, Brough nodded his head, “Sure did.” He looked at Krumpus and pointed to a closet, “It’s all in there, now be about your business.”
Krumpus turned to the closet and grabbed his pack and cloak.
“Only take what you need!” Cairn yelled and grabbed at the shaman’s pack.
Yet, the shaman didn’t know what he needed. The bugger rot was something he’d rarely encountered—and never treated. “Olofit,” Krumpus said as he hugged his possessions close.
“Let ‘im ‘av it!” Brough said as he stared daggers at Cairn. “I swear, if you keep blockin’ ‘is efforts, I’m callin’ off our bet!”
“Come. Let us play,” Leverkusen petitioned Cairn. “You’ll know in due time if this emissary dies.”
Cairn snorted. Slowly, he sat down and picked up his cards. He eyed the shaman as Krumpus filled a kettle and a pitcher of water. Krumpus set the kettle on the stove as Cairn continued to stare, though the guard did not interfere any further.
With his belongings on his back and a pitcher of fresh cold water in hand, Krumpus returned to his cell—he’d come back for the hot water when it was ready. In his cell, he searched his bag. The majority of his stuff was still there, though they took his long knife and a couple of his medicines. The grave mushrooms were gone, which was a bit worrisome. He used them to escort the fatally wounded from the world—but they’d take a healthy man all the same. He wondered who had them and what they intended. He assumed whoever took them knew what they were. They must, or they were fools.
Before he could treat his patient, Krumpus turned his attention to his own well-being. Sweet conicle, he smiled as he packed a pipe with the pungent herb. Having no fire or flint, he channeled his inner energies and focused them to his fingers. A slight flame popped and danced between the tips of his thumb and forefinger. With this flame, he lit his pipe and flicked the fire from his fingers before it could burn him, then took a long satisfied drag on the pipe.
Krumpus blew the soothing smoke in the injured man’s face. It would alleviate a bit of the man’s pain and could do him no harm. For the patient, there were more potent drugs to come, or so he assumed. He wondered. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so hasty in blowing the smoke…
Krumpus took a few more drags of the flower, and blew the smoke away from the dying man. He set the pipe aside, stood, and stepped out of the cell and prayed that the soothing smoke might obscure the dark history of the room.
Krumpus returned to the guard room and fetched the pot of boiling water and a couple mugs. Leverkusen and Brough paid no attention to the prisoner, while Cairn glanced and glared a time or two. There was a pile of copper, peppered with silver, that languished between the guards. With cards in hand, they concentrated mostly on each other. Let it be a long and absorbing contest, the shaman prayed. Let the cards be fickle this night, that favor may ebb and flow between these men. Let them have no time or interest in interrupting my work.
With hot water and two cups, Krumpus returned to his cell.
Back in his cell, the shaman made himself a cup of peppermint tea. For several minutes he let the tea steep. He hummed songs to his dead kin and called upon them for inspiration. If there was any hope of curing this stranger, he’d need their assistance. He sang until his tea had steeped and chilled enough that he could drink it, then sat and drank the tea, as he listened to the quiet sounds of his cell. For several minutes there was little to hear but the stranger’s ragged breathing—then, a dim voice cut through the quiet.
Well, well, well... his Granana began. You’ve certainly got a stinkfest before you!
For a moment, Krumpus worried. What if Granana didn’t know a cure? What if none if his ancestor’s had ever encountered the bugger rot? Even with the help of his ancestors, the man seemed incredibly weak. It was unlikely that he would last a slow investigation.
You are correct, Granana told him. He’ll not last much longer at all. Indeed, the one that brought him this far is to be commended for taking such great care, she said.
Can we save him? Krumpus asked.
Granana smiled. Among this riot of angels, we have six cures that may do the trick. I’ll give you the one we think most likely to work, though it is long and arduous.
Assured that there was a plan, Krumpus stretched and mentally prepared himself for meticulous and smelly work.
First, we needed to kill the pain, Granana told him. We’ll need something strong that would last for hours, that won’t bother his blood or breathing.
Krumpus rifled through his pack, searching his herbs and potions. He smiled as he settled on dragon’s tongue to numb the man—then added a touch of mogwort, a heavy dose of gypsy leaf, and a dash of phoenix oil—items that would give strength to the suffering man and help purify his blood.
Although you must do the bulk of the work, you cannot do it all alone, Granana said. We will need to call the little doctors.
Krumpus nodded. He opened his small jar of blue honey, then added a heavy dose to the dragon’s tongue. For the stranger, it would make the harsh tea more palatable, and if the blue should take the stranger’s mind further from here and now; all the better. The dragon’s tongue itself would numb the man, and there was no damage of overdoing the blue for the patient. If he should live, let him wonder at the strange dreams that would see him through his sickness. And if he should die, why not let him die far from the ravages of his disease?
Yet, while the blue was a luxury for the patient, it was a necessity for the shaman. He needed it to crack open his third eye, so he could summon the little doctors. He would also need to focus, that he would not be distracted by the ethereal plane, which was likely thick with energies and activities in such a place as this. But unlike the conicle, blue was a thing he might easily overdo. He should not want to do it at all, but he was not the sort that could summon the little doctors without it. He’d met a few that could call the little doctors without the help of blue—but he was not so endowed. Gingerly, he added a small dab to his peppermint tea, then decided it would not be enough, and grudgingly doubled it.
Gently, the shaman lifted his patient’s head. He offered the dragon’s tongue tea, mellowed with cold water. The man was ravenous and took the tea longingly. Krumpus realized he was dehydrated, and after the tea, gave him as much water as he might want.
Having satisfied the other prisoner, Krumpus sipped his own tea while he waited for the dragon’s tongue to numb the stranger. He hummed songs as Granana shared her knowledge of the rot. He knew the blue was taking effect when Granana slowly materialized and came into focus. Her face was easily readable, and her arms and hands almost seemed substantial, but her stomach and hips were poorly defined, and her legs disappeared altogether at about the knee, with her feet being completely invisible. There were also a few other hazy faces that smiled and whispered to Granana as they circled the small room.
Before long, the patient’s eyes grew far away and unfocused. There was an easy smile on the Saot’s face and his breath deepened and slowed. Krumpus grinned. The patient was ready.
Draw your knife, boy. It is time for the cutting, Granana told him.
A deep calm and clarity settled over the shaman. He stared at his patient and wondered at this chance to stick metal in another living man. He was fascinated by the human body and marveled at its inner workings. It was one of the great thrills of surgery to poke about a living man’s tissues—but he swore to remain delicate. There’d be no imprudent cutting, which was the great temptation of every surgeon.
Krumpus pulled the man’s shirt and pants away from the rot. The wound stretched to his chest and back and covered most of the right half of his body. It ran from his underarm all the way to his hip, a knitted webbing of infected blood vessels tied in knots where they crossed and bulged up the skin. He located the initial wound: a large sac of dark rot near the center of the infection. He took up his surgical blade in one hand and a clean cloth in the other, then braced himself against the coming onslaught, and gently lanced the boil.
Thick black puss sprouted from the prick. The stench of the rot multiplied. Krumpus gagged as his Granana laughed. He recoiled from the smell. He begged for a way to neutralize it, and turned to his belongings. He noticed his teacup, took several of the spent leaves of mint, and smashed them above his upper lip. Though it helped take the edge off the stink, the rot still bled through.
Unable to do anything else about the smell, Krumpus turned back to his patient. Under his Granana’s careful eye, the shaman cut the inflamed and jutting vessels. He drew the slight blade ever so lightly along the dark lines of rot and watched as the thick black puss oozed from the cuts. The reek increased. Krumpus breathed through his mouth. He soaked the rot away with a cloth, and gently wiped the wounds, slow and delicate, as his Granana instructed.
The rot concentrated just under the skin, and Krumpus was careful not to cut the man too deeply. It is a novice mistake to try and cut out all the rot—to think it must all be removed, Granana explained. The rot congeals near the surface, but there is little rot deep in the body until after the victim expires—at which point the rot blooms deep. Many believe they must cut deep and get every bit of the rot, but this is not a battle for the knife alone. The blade is simply to remove the bulk that boils close to the surface. We’ll call the little doctors to get the rest.
As the hours passed, Krumpus amassed a small pile of bandages soaked with stink. He set them near the drain and hoped the smell would dissipate sooner rather than later. Finally, he’d traced all the infected vessels and considered the cutting done. He dabbed at the pustules that still oozed and leaked. The stench was bearable only because Krumpus could do nothing more about it.
With the cutting done, it was time to call the little doctors. Krumpus crumbled bits of sugar petal into the drain. It was the second of three essential ingredients needed to summon the little doctors. First was the blue, so the barriers between this world and the other were blurred. Second was the sugar petal, to lure the little doctors into the physical realm. Third was an honest need, which the doctors themselves would judge. Krumpus called out for their help, quite certain the man would not survive without the little doctors to finish the work.
The little doctors did not come. Krumpus repeated the song several times, as Granana sang with him, her voice pure and heavenly. As they sang song after song, Krumpus became increasingly worried. He began to question himself. Did he take enough blue? Did he offer enough sugar petal? Could the doctors hear him since he was buried so deep in this tower? Then he wondered if perhaps the Saot was unworthy. Perhaps he would die as he deserved—though such a development would doom the shaman. Why do they not come? he asked his Granana.
I dunno, she answered.
Krumpus was beginning to think he must fail when the door to the cell popped open. Celt the surgeon stepped through the doorway. He glanced about the room and glared at Krumpus as wilted mint leaves dripped from his nostrils. Thankfully, he could not see the ghost. The shaman sat next to the cot and continued to hum, though he lowered his voice to a mere whisper.
Celt waved an arm in front of his face. “This room stinks!” he critiqued as he marched in. “Are you praying?!” He glared at the shaman. The surgeon wandered about the cell, as he pinched his nose, and tried to decipher what the shaman had done. He glanced about the various implements with questions and confusion on his face.
Krumpus doubted there was any chance Celt could decipher what was done, what with all his medicines and tools scattered about just so. Indeed, the cell was a bit of a mess. Almost all of the shaman’s jars and pouches were set out, including the ones that were not being used. A pile of soaked bandages sat in a lump near the drain and stank to high heavens.
“I won’t interrupt,” Celt said as he stared at Krumpus and stepped between the doctor and his patient. He continued to inspect the scene and sniffed both cups of tea, hoping he might catch some clue of how the operation proceeded. Krumpus smiled as Celt got a good whiff of the dragon’s tongue tea. “Gracious me...” Celt remarked with a wobble. He almost sat—until he remembered where he was and in what company. Woozy, Celt set the cup aside. “I come to see that you have not killed the man yet,” he confessed, as he reestablished his balance, then turned to the patient and checked the Saot’s wound.
Although the flesh no longer bulged with thick knots of rot, the stranger still had a web of dark lines under his skin.
“I should think he is not out of the woods yet,” the surgeon surmised with a smirk. “Keep praying,” he snorted as he turned and walked to the door. With knob in hand, and a deep frown, Celt glared over the shaman’s puzzling mess. “I give you another chance to teach us this cure!” he said. “Let the Empress grant you mercy!”
Krumpus turned away and ignored the man. Disappointed, Celt slammed the door shut.
Alone once more, Krumpus glanced about the room, relieved to see several translucent ants crawling about the lip of the drain. He was always curious to see what form the little doctors might take and was a bit surprised to see these strange, pale ants. He had not seen this form before. Once he’d seen the little doctors as a flock of birds with flame red wings and needle point beaks. Once they appeared as the smallest lizards he’d ever seen, barely the length of his first thumb knuckle. Twice they’d appeared as massive creeping spiders with long thin legs, easily the size of a sol. This was the first time they took the form of translucent ants, and he was curious to see how they might proceed.
More and more ants climbed from the drain. They were slow as they wandered about the floor and did not approach Krumpus until he stretched out his hand. With his invitation, they climbed up his fingers, across his hand, and up his arm in an orderly fashion. The ants tickled as they crawled under his shirt and across his chest and back. Slowly, the large ponderous ants ignored the shaman’s figdeting as they made their way to his far arm, down his hand and fingers, and finally to the patient himself.
Another trail of ants formed from the drain and spread to the nearby lump of rot soaked rags, where the ants drank the rot from the bandages, and turned as dark as night.
Krumpus sat still, although the ants tickled as they marched across him. Some crawled about the healer himself and wandered where they might. Most made directly for the sick man, but a few poked, picked, and bit the shaman himself.
That was the way of the little doctors. When they came, they attended everyone present. They cared nothing for labels of patient and practitioner.
Krumpus tried not to notice as the little doctors picked and pinched at his skin, though it was occasionally painful. They stayed out of his eyes, mouth, and ears—though one crawled over the spent mint and up into his nose. He dislodged it with a snort, though he also blew the mint away.
For some time, the ants crawled over the sick man and picked at his wounds. Twice, Krumpus restrained the patient so he did not wipe the ants away. The man was weak, and it was easy for the shaman to control his displeasure, though a little tricky with all the ants about.
As the ants did their work, they increased in size, became very dark in color, and moved rapidly. They charged back across the shaman—but did not make for the drain. Now fat and riotous, the little doctors made for the far wall instead. They picked at the mortar that held the stones in place. Soon, there were a hundred tiny holes pocked between the stones.
Krumpus wondered at this. He’d never seen the doctors act in such a strange manner. Before, they always took a quick and easy exit instead of burrowing a new path. A secret hope lit in the shaman. Might they know he was held prisoner?
For an hour or so, the little doctors did their work. After such a long time, the line that returned from the patient was no longer tinted black and did not move nearly as fast. These ants returned from the patient a warm brown color, and continued to fade further as they found little work left to do. Now red, then yellow, and finally as translucent and plodding as they were when they first stepped from the drain, the little doctors moved back across the shaman and made their way to the wall, to slowly disappear into the holes created by those that went before.
The last of the ants were leaving. There was no visible rot along the Saot’s skin. The bandages were picked clean, and the reek of the rot was all but gone from the cell. Krumpus smiled. The operation was done and the stranger still breathed.
Krumpus searched among his medicines and found a gentle cream that he applied to the man’s raw skin. As he worked, he studied the map of freckles, moles, and scars about the Saot’s skin. Granana hissed and chided her grandson for taking such liberties. She told him it was not his place to know such things—but Krumpus read his recent history all the same. He could tell that the Saot was haunted by the memory of his daughter. He’d abandoned his responsibilities that he might hunt down a thief for the sake of a memory. This was not a good or bad thing—it was simply the man’s choice—but the choice had far reaching ramifications. In his continued absence, dark and ominous clouds gathered over his home, and threatened to storm it under. Only a few slim paths ever made their way back home—and most of those saw nothing but years of war before the man finally succumbed to the weight of the ongoing world. The man would either complete his quest, find what was lost and die far from home—or he’d abandon his quest and return home to find his house in flames. Neither choice seemed very appealing, and Krumpus wondered why he was given the opportunity to heal the man at all. yet, he knew that the ways of the true god were strange and twisting indeed. Such things were impossible to fathom.
Krumpus pushed the destiny of this stranger from his head as he decided It was time to worry about his own fate. He stretched and flexed his aching body, packed his medicines, and placed the cups and pitchers at the door. The bandages were picked clean by the little doctors, so Krumpus folded them neatly away—all while Granana and the accompanying angels sang soft songs of sleep and weariness to the unnoticing shaman.
Now that everything was orderly, Krumpus turned to the wall with so many ant holes drilled through the mortar. He scratched at the material to see it flake under his thumb.
Yet, the shaman was also exhausted, so much so that he could barely care about his own escape. The operation took many long hours, and no end of concentration. Suddenly, all he wanted was a little shut eye!
Granana and chorus of angels continued to sing lullabies that the shaman could not deny. Krumpus stretched out on the floor and decided to give himself a few moments rest. He closed his eyes and relaxed—if only for a few minutes—or so he told himself. After that, he would escape—if escape were even possible—there was still a stone wall in his way. He stretched out on the floor and listened to the sweet swaying lilt of Granana’s voice.
Then, just as he was losing consciousness, the cell door banged open. Krumpus lifted his droopy head as Cairn walked into the room.
“Did ‘e give up the ghost?” Cairn stared at the Saot.
Krumpus closed his eyes and laid back on the floor, unconcerned by the guard’s question.
“He lives, nah? Well, a bet is a bet, and a bet is sacred—but it’ll please the Lord Commander,” Cairn shrugged. “Either way, you’re done with your potions and poking, and that’s good, because Fedring wants words with you!” Cairn approached and grabbed Krumpus roughly by the arm. “Get up! You have a meeting with ‘is lordship!”
With one meaty hand on the shaman’s arm, Cairn pulled Krumpus roughly from the cell.
The ghost of Granana stepped to the door and watched her grandson as he was dragged down the hall. The next part of his journey was set the moment he insisted he would not teach the surgeons his cure, and although he was right to do so, it broke her heart to see him dragged away. After all, Granana knew he’d now have to face his punishment, and since she could not help, she dared not watch. She only hoped that when they returned him, he would not be broken, as so many before.
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Needle Work
Polished —24m52s — 2023/12/02
Days after he was bit, Fedring was feeling much better. He still felt vulnerable, and his hand and chest was sore where he was bit, yet the wicked winged serpent no longer rifled through his darkest secrets. Despite his anxiety that the beast might return and attack him again, he had not seen or heard any sign of the creature since that first day—and good riddance! Still, Fedring meant to extract revenge, and since he could not find the beast, he decided to heap his vengeance upon the man that brought it into the fort.
Initially, Gliedian protected the shaman. For one, Gliedian did not like the Majoris and therefore was always obstructive. But the native healer had also angered Celt with his refusal to teach a cure for the rot. Fedring insisted the surgeon petition Gliedian and demand the witch doctor be punished. For whatever reason, Gliedian was far more interested in the mysterious Saot, and since the native had finished with his treatment, Fedring had permission to do as he wished—so long as he left the Saot alone. All of this had something to do with the riders out of Wibbeley that arrived two days before. Fedring set several of his priestesses to work, so he might know what these men were about—but for now he cared only about his revenge against the shaman.
Cairn came into the room with Krumpus in tow. it was the same large room where the shaman was first interrogated. The beefy guard placed Krumpus in his seat and stretched the witch doctor’s hands onto the table. This time Cairn used the leather straps on the table to secure the witch doctor’s wrists.
As Cairn worked, Fedring spoke. “Ah, my dear man!” he gushed at the witch doctor. “I am told you are fresh from your work! I fear you need rest after such a long night, so I promise not to keep you,” he said as he sat across the table. He set a heavily padded bag between them, untied the bag, and poured out a stack of long thin needles. “It is quite a thing that you should heal the rot of a stranger, but you may have guessed he is no commoner,” Fedring forced a smile. “My associates are convinced this Saot is a lord of some importance—though I find it hard to tell with their silly titles. He certainly had a fair amount of coin! Now that he recovers, we shall have the opportunity to question him! For that, the Empire thanks you!” Fedring gave a slight bow.
Krumpus did not reply. Instead, he glared at Cairn, as the jailor finished strapping his hands to the table.
“Despite your good works, I must tell you that I am quite disappointed. Why do you not teach our surgeons? You could save the lives of so very many if you’d only share your skills,” Fedring shook his head in feigned disappointment. He reached for a needle and carefully pushed it into the knuckle of the shaman’s thumb.
Krumpus tried to pull away, but his hands were firmly caught in the leather rigging attached to the table. The needle slid deep into his thumb, though it caused no pain.
“It saddens me to do this, but I am asked to teach you a lesson,” Fedring said with an affected air, as he picked up another needle from the pile. “If you will not be our friend, we must treat you as an enemy. If you refuse to give, then the gods demand we take. Though we cannot take your knowledge, we can certainly take your skill,” he said as he continued to place needles in the witch doctor’s hand.
Krumpus frowned. He had no idea what the Fedring was up to, he simply knew it would not be pleasant. He fidgeted and pulled against the straps on his hands. They didn’t budge. Silently, he prayed to the infinite powers. Whatever this punishment, he did not want it!
The shaman flexed and wiggled his fingers as he could. He felt no pain. Indeed, he wondered that his hand felt more alive than ever. He could feel the blood pulse through his fingers like never before! The shaman was intrigued by Fedring’s needle magic and wondered what sort of applications there might be for such work. At the same time, he worried. He did not believe Fedring meant to do him any good.
Fedring smiled. He knew what the shaman was experiencing. “I should like to leave you feeling so good, but alas, I cannot. The gods demand subservience. Yet, through your actions, you maintain that you are above us. If you will not treat with men loyal to the true gods, then the gods will have you punished.” For a long second the Corpus paused. “Still, your hands...” Fedring shook his head as he caressed the witch doctor’s needled fingers. “They manage such magic! If you share even a bit of your skills, I will intercede on your behalf! I will beg for leniency—and the gods will grant it! They will listen to their most humble servant,” Fedring gave a little bow as he feigned humility.
Krumpus simply stared. Did this gluttonous blowhard actually expect such obvious flattery to work on the shaman?
“I am told you speak,” Fedring continued. “I understand your words are rough, but I do not mind it. The gods often play such tricks—to give a man of noble mind a thick and garish tongue is just the sort of abuse we can expect from the gods. But you must speak! You must beg repentance! Beg me, good sir, and I will see that all is forgiven!”
Krumpus said nothing. Although he feared what Fedring might do, he could not betray himself. He owed these criminals nothing, as they continued to take and take, never to give.
For some time, Fedring stared at Krumpus. There were now nine needles in the shaman’s hand; two in each finger and one in the thumb. With a heavy sigh, Fedring shook his head. “Tis a tragedy,” he said and inserted several more needles into the witch doctor’s wrist. With the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth needle in place, Krumpus could not feel his hand at all. He tried to wiggle his fingers, but he could not! There was no sensation, no control whatsoever!
“Now you begin to understand,” Fedring said with a devious grin. “You see, we have magics of our own, and we can bless or curse a man accordingly.” He began to pull the needles from the shaman’s knuckles.
One finger at a time, the shaman’s fingers trying to curl into a fist, unfeeling and unmoving, only the table and the straps that bound him kept his hand flat.
“You have nothing to blame but your own selfishness,” Fedring continued. “It is too late to teach our surgeons to heal the rot. Yet, you have another hand and we might save it, but you must give us something of value!” Fedring leaned in close, his eyes agleam. Excitedly, he whispered, “You must tell us how you brought your staff to life!”
For a half second, Krumpus was puzzled—until he realized this wasn’t about the rot at all! Fedring referred to Meu! She must have come to life on him—and what had happened afterward?! What happened between the two? And where was she now?! What had become of her?!
Fedring pulled the needles from the shaman’s wrist. Pain surged through his hand as Krumpus gasped and pulled heavily against the restraints. With a cruel laugh, Fedring freed the hand. Krumpus pulled his fist to his chest as an astonishing fire surged up his arm and brought tears to his eyes. The very bones of his fingers ached!
As the shaman cringed, and sucked, and tried not to cry; Fedring leaned forward and whispered. “You are a man of potent magics, of that there is no doubt. As such, I should like to think we are equals. But your staff has taken from me. It took a good deal of my secrets. Indeed, I feel quite exposed. So much so, that I fear I am actually at a disadvantage. For that, I take your hand. Now, I consider us to be even.” Fedring stood, and with a smug grin, slowly shook his head. “But I am not one to be even, not with a fool that refuses to treat with me! So I give you another chance! I give you a chance before I reduce you once more! Tell me how you brought that snake to life!” He snarled. “Such knowledge must elevate anyone!”
Krumpus didn’t know what to make of this. Meu must have proved her life to the man. Indeed, she must have attacked him and used her venom to open his mind. That much was obvious. But what became of Meu? Did she escape? Was she killed? Either way, Krumpus had nothing to offer the Corpus, and so he refused to let this man hear his tortured voice. Instead, he simply glared at Fedring through his tears.
“Do you not understand the mercy I offer?!” Fedring snapped. “Justice demands I take and take until you are willing to give! This is the law of the gods! Yet, I beg you, tell me of your magics and I will harm you no more!” Fedring yelled. “If you keep your tongue, I must silence your hands as well!” He grabbed Krumpus by the jaw and squeezed—as if he could force words from the witch doctor’s lips. “To bring a mundane thing to life is a magic I have long sought—and you have done it with such style! Now you must tell me, how have you managed it?!” Fedring raged.
Krumpus would not answer. After a long silence, Fedring placed needles in the witch doctor’s good hand. Again, Krumpus struggled against the restraints—but to no avail. He could do nothing but stare as Fedring proceeded with his twisted needle magic. He tried to stretch out his injured hand—the one that had been freed—but the pain was blinding and he felt that he would faint, so he returned it to his chest.
“Perhaps I give you too much credit,” Fedring suggested. “Who is to say you know anything? Just because you possessed the staff does not mean you crafted it. So tell me that. Tell me it is not yours. Tell me who you stole it from. Tell me who has the answers I seek!”
Fedring slammed his hands on the table. For several seconds he glared at the shaman, then stood and paced back and forth on the far side of the table.
“Ahh, but I do not really think you stole it,” he began again. “You may have a rough appearance, but you managed to heal the Saot, and I think you managed to animate the beast—and that’s what I seek!” He leaned over the table and locked eyes with Krumpus. “In what way did you imbue it with such life force?! How is this done?!” He glared.
Krumpus lifted his head and stared at Fedring in stunned amazement. Why was the Corpus convinced that Meu was a mere construct? Was it something she told him? Indeed, Krumpus had already revealed the truth. He did it when he first met the man and said she was a wyrm. She was born to her life!
But Krumpus knew this type of man. Dark magicians often attempted to imbue life into mundane things. They patched their works together in hopes of automatons, golems, and simulacra. Yes, they might make a thing stand, or walk, or some set of rudimentary tricks—but they could not give such things a proper life. They could not imbue it to make choices.
But then, they were blind. They had eyes, but could not see the life lived by the elements. They did not understand that lesser things already have an essence, a lesser essence. It was not possible to force a greater consciousness on mundane matter just as it is not possible to force a greater consciousness on mundane men. Krumpus knew the truth of it. There was one way for a man to grant life on his own scale, and it took a woman to do it. All other attempts were naïve and futile.
Krumpus stared at Fedring. He knew he could give no satisfactory answer to the Corpus. Instead of replying, instead of trying to save his uninjured hand, he tried once more to extend the digits of his mangled hand, to little avail. He could barely get it away from his chest. His good hand would suffer the same fate. He could not stop it. Instead, he’d work to cure the condition from the very beginning. As he tried to extend his fingers, pain burned through the cursed extremity. It felt as if the bones of his digits might rip through his skin if he should insist that they straighten. Tears poured from his eyes as he persisted in his effort. Thank you for this, he prayed to the Gods, for this is a trial that I shall overcome.
He hoped it was true.
“You do not answer?” Fedring glared.
Krumpus turned to the Corpus Majoris and let his contempt for the man shine through. The man wanted the truth? Well then, he would repeat it. “Wurm,” he said with his garish tongue.
For several seconds Fedring stared at the shaman as he tried to decipher the word. initially, he thought the man was insulting him, then he remembered what Krumpus said days before. “Wyrm,” Fedring repeated as hate and frustration filled his eyes. “I wish to share magics with you, to treat you as an equal, and you defy me with a children’s story?! There is no such creature in the world or I would know it!” Fedring roared. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Somehow, though you be the one in prison, you aim to be above me. You lack respect! Yet, I ask again... No, I beg you! What magics do you use?!”
Krumpus shook his head and gave a shrug. If the man would not believe the truth, what convincing lie might he tell?
Fedring grabbed the shaman’s hand. Krumpus attempted to pull away. He struggled with the restraints and the fat man’s grasp. He struck at the man with his cursed hand, but the light impact sent a blinding pain up the shaman’s arm that almost caused him to black out.
Fedring snorted, then placed the last needles in the shaman’s wrist. The left hand went numb. “You pain me greatly and I return the favor,” the Majoris sneered. He pulled the nine needles from the shaman’s knuckles and each finger curled in turn. Then, Fedring pulled the three needles from the shaman’s wrist.
Krumpus almost passed out. He groaned as an excruciating pain shot through his balled hand, up his arm, and into his chest, only this time from the other side.
“What is that?” Fedring grabbed the shaman’s chin. “Now you wish to speak?”
Krumpus attempted to shake his head from Fedring’s grip. When he couldn’t, he stuck his tongue out at the man and showed the lumpish mass of scars and ancient pains. Did Fedring think this was the only time Krumpus had ever suffered? Did he think this was the worst of the shaman’s torments?
Fedring pulled away from the thick scarred tongue and all it implied. “Perhaps I am not the first to try and silence you,” he smirked. “Do not think this pleases me. Do not think I take comfort in destroying you. You are obviously a man of power, a man of cunning wisdom. There is much we could share with each other,” Fedring lectured. “But if you will not share, if you insist on keeping secrets, well, I must assume you do not care for the proper gods and their elect!”
Fedring undid the restraint on the shaman’s left hand. Krumpus pulled his fist to his chest. It was the only thing he could do to lessen the pain.
“Now I have taken your hands, but there is still your life to consider. Dwell on that,” Fedring snapped. Done with the shaman, Fedring turned to Cairn.
Cairn stood straight. “Shall I put him outside with the others?”
“No,” Fedring shook his head. “Those others have nothing—but this one still possesses his knowledge. Put him back in his cell, until he’s willing to share.”
With a snort, Cairn lifted Krumpus to his feet.
“And Cairn, bring his possessions to my apartment. I want another look at them.”
“Most immediately,” Cairn agreed.
“Oh, and one last thing, my dear man,” Fedring smiled. He pulled a gold medallion from his robes.
“A seal of the disciple?” Cairn leered at the Majoris as he took hold of the shiny medallion. “And which of the priesthood would you like me to discipline, your lordship?”
“You know one named Wenifas?”
“I’ve known her from time to time,” Cairn shrugged. “She is certainly pretty enough—though a bit soft and timid for my taste.”
Fedring leaned forward. “She is off the flower. The Empire needs more soldiers of your stature.”
“I shall like to have her with a seal at the door,” Cairn licked his lips and grinned at Fedring. Cairn was the type that preferred all his women with a seal at the door, which is why Fedring liked him. Fedring smiled at the guard. “You’ll do a right proper job of it, I’m sure.”
“And what am I to tell her?”
“Tell her nothing. She will know what she has done,” Fedring assured.
Cairn hooted as he lifted Krumpus from his chair. “Come you!” He yelled at the Trohl. “I have other matters to attend!”
Krumpus limped through the halls of the tower. He only bothered to walk because he believed Cairn would drag him if given the opportunity.
Cairn opened the door to the cell. The Saot was gone. The guard pushed Krumpus into the cell and the shaman sprawled in the dirt. “So you healed a sick man,” Cairn snorted from the door. “We make ‘em sick everyday! We kill ‘em by the village and barely blink as we do it!” he chortled; and with that, he slammed the door.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 15.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
Fedring was heading back to his apartments when the Trohl, Tehris, caught up to him. “Your lordship! I must have word with you! I must beg you to sell me that staff!” he said.
“You are too late!” Fedring snapped at Tehris. “You have taken too long, and missed your opportunity!”
Tehris took a step sideways. “So fast? But it is not even a week since...”
“Days! It has been days!” Fedring roared, nearly apoplectic. “Do you think I bore myself with frauds and baubles when I offer up such treasures?! It was not some branch with a little metal doodad wrapped about it in a pretty knot! No! It was the construct of some incredible wizard, inspired by the very gods themselves—a most potent machination!” He waved his arms about as he berated Kezodel’s cousin, his face as red as a newborn sun. He glanced about the guards and his eyes turned to slits—as if he said too much and too loudly. “Why?” he turned back to Tehris. “Do others speak of it?”
“No,” Tehris admitted. “I was hoping to take it to the court of my cousin, since we soon leave for Ebertin. Will you at least tell me who bought it so I might entreat them to sell?”
“No,” Fedring cut him off. “There is nothing to do but forget it all together,” he said as he walked away. “Indeed, that is exactly what I aim to do,” he grumbled.
If you are enjoying this, consider donating, because donating is love.
Dandifrod of the Emberwood Trust
Polished — 36m13s — 2023/12/02
Creigal woke with a start. He found himself in a plush room, as the bright light of day washed through the a large window. The bed was soft and comfortable. A pitcher of water and a fashionable mug sat on a small table to one side. He cringed as he sat up. His side was tight and protested the movement—but it no longer throbbed as before!
Despite his soreness, Creigal was astounded to note the aggressive burn of the rot was no longer there. He peeled up his ruined shirt and stared at his abdomen. Indeed, the black lines of rot were all but gone! His flesh was pink and tender and there was a neat spider webbing of fresh scar tissue where the rot once festered. So much for a painful and arduous treatment! The duke remembered nothing but a confusion of dreams most vivid.
Creigal took a long drink of water and considered his surroundings. He thought Hazle had quite a nice cottage. The window looked out over a small garden with a decorative fence. Beyond that, he noticed the high wall of a fort. Creigal frowned as he noticed the guards upon the tower. A good number of them wore the stylized uniforms of Ministrian shock troops. His thoughts turned to his bodyguards. Where was Carringten? Where were Baet and Toar? What had happened? He was on a litter, bounced by the roughness of the road, as they made their way to Hazle’s village—and then what? He could remember a bit of that, and then—nothing. Just the sweet repose of the dream world, punctuated by incredible stabs of pain, and the faint whisper of unknown voices.
There was only one door to the room. Creigal stepped out of bed and steeled himself for anything. He twisted the latch on the door. It creaked as he pushed it open.
“Come in!” called a sweet timbre—it was the voice of his daughter, Daphne.
As he pushed the door open, Creigal wondered if he was still dreaming. The door swung wide and he half expected to see his daughter waiting for him. Instead, there were four women in a large room of ease and luxury. None was his daughter. Two set aside books and pens. One turned from the work of a mortar and pestle. The last sat and played a lyre as she smiled at Creigal. She alone continued with her task.
“You must be tired. Come. Sit,” the eldest woman waved Creigal to the large table. She had the sharp features of a Ministrian and also their dark hair. The other lady at the table was quite young. She was blonde, and had the large, pale, wide eyes of a Trohl. The woman that worked the mortar and pestle was a Saot with tawny hair and a mischievous smile. She was also quite young, though she lacked the wide-eyed innocence of the Trohl. The one that played the lyre was also a Ministrian, and quite young.
Creigal noted the luxury in which they lived and realized this was a house of Jays, servants of the Empress Seviticah; trained to seduce, manipulate, and kill. He’d known many Jays of the Black Throne. Indeed, he’d often entertained them. They were employed wherever the Black Throne invested, which included all of the Saot Kingdom. Still, he was in no immediate danger. If his captors meant to intimidate or threaten him, a prison cell and a handful of guards would be far more effective. Jays were better at getting information from those that were agreeable or unassuming. It was the velvet glove instead of the iron fist, a fact that gave Creigal hope. If they meant to treat him so kindly, they must not know his true identity.
“How are you?” The eldest Jay asked.
Creigal smiled. “I have been hunted, poisoned, and suffered strange dreams,” he began in a grand manner. “Now, I find that the bugger rot is gone, and there are beautiful women all about! I must say, I am beginning to enjoy myself once more,” he grinned.
With a smile, the dark haired woman offered her hand. “My name is Meriona,” she began. “This is Celesi,” she said of the Trohl. Next, she pointed to the Saot. “That is Alise, and Karamina entertains us with the lyre. Are you hungry?”
“Famished,” Creigal realized.
Meriona clapped twice. An attendant stepped into the room. “Inform Gliedian and Fedring that our guest is awake. Prepare something appropriately festive, yes?”
The attendant bowed and stepped out of the room.
“The Lord Commander, and the Corpus Majoris are quite interested in making your acquaintance,” Meriona smiled.
Military, ecclesiastic, and since one of these Jays was the top civil authority—likely the old one—Creigal realized he had managed to garner the attention of all three branches of the Ministrian government. Then again, he held a good deal of money on his person and the papers of a major Saot company. It was almost to be expected.
“And might we ask who you are?” Meriona continued.
“Goodness me! I forget myself!” Creigal said with a flourish. “I am Dandifrod, Emissary of the Emberwood Trust! I am commissioned to make a survey of northern lands, and consider Wibbeley, Ebertin, Hearthstone, Land’s End, and Hyber Pass for my purpose! Although I have finished with the first town, I must admit, the last few days, I’ve had a terrible time of it!” he continued with a sheepish grin. “And might I ask where we are?”
“This is Camp Calderhal, a fort on the outskirts of Bouge territory. We are a week west of Ebertin, and just as far from Wibbeley, give or take,” Meriona said.
“And what of you? Have you been here long?” Dandifrod asked.
“Some six months—though I’ve split the time between here and Ebertin,” Meriona revealed. “Alise has been here a year and Karamina three months. They are charged with learning all there is to know of Trohls and their culture. Celesi has been here all her life. Her exposure to the culture is perhaps a bit too rich.”
“Here at the camp?” Dandifrod asked.
“Heavens no!” Meriona replied. “Here in Bouge lands. She will travel soon enough. The time is nigh at hand.”
“West?”
Meriona nodded.
“Is she bound for the capital?” Dandifrod continued.
Meriona shook her head. “Tikatis for now. Would you like a drink?”
“Very much so,” Dandifrod gave a nod and a smile.
Meriona turned to Celesi. “Be a dear and pour something suitable.”
Celesi turned, collected several glasses, and a decanter of wine. She poured for Creigal first, then Meriona and her sisters, and finally a glass for herself, in a manner befitting Ministrians, as she was taught to do.
“Thank you,” Dandifrod smiled at Celesi as she set the glass before him. “Are you excited to travel?”
“I am nervous,” Celesi admitted. “Have you ever been to the holy land?”
“Yes, my dear,” he smiled. “I have traveled all along the coast and seen much of Umsuppa. But I have not had occasion to travel inland, not as far as Tikatis. I do hope you find it to your liking.”
“Celesi goes to the City of the Lake because she is unblooded. Do you know the custom?” Meriona asked.
“I do,” Dandifrod said with a nod. He turned to Celesi and raised his glass. “May you get your worth,” he offered with a bittersweet smile.
Meriona sized him up. “You seem a man of the world. Tell me, what price do you think she might get?”
Through his glass of wine, Dandifrod glanced at Celesi and shook his head. “She will not get the proper price,” he said. “Only coin.”
This answer caused a stir among the younger Jays. Alise asked the obvious question, “Pray tell, what is the proper price?”
Dandifrod turned to the young Saot. “Why, the affection of an honest lover, no less and no more,” he said.
“Affection!” Karamina laughed. “Such a trite concept: to find affection between lovers!” Dandifrod turned a critical eye on the young Ministrian as he realized a most unusual thing about her: her voice was a mimic of Daphne’s.
Celesi gave Karamina a short look. “I think it is romantic,” she defended.
“Oh?” Karamina cut in. “Shall affection buy you clothes, jewelry, and a house to shelter you?!” The young Ministrian mocked.
Although Karamina had the voice of Daphne, the sentiments were certainly not the same. Dandifrod turned to Celesi, “And that, my darling, is the difference between the Empire and the Kingdom. In the Empire, everything is for sale; but in my land only love buys love.”
Karamina laughed. “The lies of a Saot!” she charged. “In your land, women sell their bodies, and when the men are not buying, they spit and call them whore! In the Empire, they are kept by the Empress and given the title of priestess! Yet, you would mock us because we do not pretend there are things above money?! We know money is equal to anything!” She waved a finger at Dandifrod. “Your sanctimonious air betrays you! I wager a lune you are from the east!”
Dandifrod smiled. “You have guessed correctly. I am from the land of Ewile. I would gladly pay the bet, but I have misplaced my purse—among other things.” Dandifrod turned to Meriona. “By chance can you tell me what has become of my men?”
Before the eldest Jay could answer, Karamina cut in once more. “Your men are alive and looked after,” she stated. “And you are too hasty in changing the subject! Tell me, how is it in your lands? For these women—for these whores—as they are called?”
Dandifrod frowned, uninterested in a discussion of the oldest profession. Still, the others waited for a response, and so he acquiesced. “I will not defend the actions of so many of my brothers. Treatment of prostitutes is sadly wanting in most parts of the world. Yet, I do not set policy anywhere outside my house. I cannot do anything for most women,” Dandifrod said with a shrug.
“What are the laws in Ewile?” Karamina asked, unwilling to drop the subject.
Dandifrod turned an eye to Meriona, but the eldest Jay did not intercede. Instead, she gazed into her glass as she took a long pull from her wine. She seemed to be enjoying his uneasiness.
Still, it was better than an investigation into his own person—and so Dandifrod answered. “I mustn’t claim to be an authority on the subject, but if memory serves, the laws are sad and contradictory. They are not so bad as one finds in Rottershelm, or among the Dans and Kelmish, where fines, jailing, and corporal punishment are common. Of all the Saot peoples, I think the Breck have the best approach when it comes to the regulation of whoring.”
“The Breck!” Meriona scoffed. “The Breck has almost no law regarding women of pleasure! And there is no tax at all! Next you shall say the Gaur do right by ending so many of their restrictions!”
“No taxes?” Karamina gaped.
“No taxes, for sure, but the Breck has laws; three pertaining to prostitution,” Dandifrod noted. “All sellers must disclose if they suffer any of the nine plagues, there is to be no unsolicited violence, and all parties must be of adequate age,” he noted.
“What are these nine plagues?” Karamina asked.
“Now ladies,” Meriona cut in with a tsk. “This discussion becomes too grim! And we veer far from the original topic.”
“Please remind us,” Alise began. “Of what were we originally speaking, your grace?”
Meriona turned on Dandifrod and pointed her glass at him. “I ask again, what price do you think Celesi can expect in the markets of Tikatis? For her blooding?”
Dandifrod turned to Celesi. “I was privileged to see a class of priestesses auctioned in Umsuppa, though I did not participate,” he explained. “It was quite an enchanting spectacle to see the ladies dressed and primped, I assure you,” Dandifrod eyed Celesi critically, which made the young Trohl uncomfortable. “Might I ask your age?”
Celesi answered with her head bowed, “I am nineteen, your honor.”
“Indeed, that she is nineteen and unblooded is rare for a Ministrian, is it not?” Dandifrod asked.
“It is not so rare for those of foreign blood,” Meriona noted.
“Among Ministrians, I suspect she is quite exotic,” Dandifrod continued. “There are few blondes in the Empire. She is going to be a Jay, I presume, and not a mere priestess?”
“That is her path,” Meriona nodded. “We shall see how far she takes it.”
“Well, then. Enough of my stalling. I’d say she can expect a minimum of three sovereign. If she smiles at the right time, if she has a flattering outfit, and if the sun shines upon her just so, I think she may get as much as a gold sol,” Dandifrod concluded.
Karamina gaped and Alise shot a look of envy at the young Trohl. Celesi blushed. She’d heard many estimates, and where three sovereign was a flattering offer, a sol was almost unheard of. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, despite her uneasiness.
“Whatever the price, the man that gets you is lucky indeed,” Dandifrod lifted his cup. “I only hope you feel the same.”
“A sol!” Karamina laughed. “Now there is no need to take her west at all! Promise a sol and we will deliver her here and now!”
Dandifrod turned on the young Ministrian. She sounded so much like his own daughter, but her words were so haughty and counter to Daphne’s attitudes. It was a shock to his system each time she spoke. With a pained smile, he answered her charge. “I think I should be quite a bad match for the lady,” he said.
To hear that he was uninterested made Celesi like him all the more. He was certainly better than the Baradha she’d met, with their eager hands and vulgar words. Suddenly, she thought bleeding on him might be better then going all the way to Tikatis, only to be bedded by some stranger. “You are not so old, and you say such nice things,” she noted. She looked to Meriona, “I must say I am not contrary to such an arrangement.”
“The Gods bless your soul!” Dandifrod laughed. “But you are younger than my own children! Indeed, you are younger than their children!”
“That would not stop many. In fact, that would entice most!” Karamina noted.
Alise snorted. “Saots are so very strange! I should be thankful I know so little of my own people!”
“Come now! Remember your manners,” Meriona chided the young Jays.
“They are simply being frank,” Dandifrod shrugged. “Besides, she is wrong about her own countrymen. Many among my nation would indeed be enticed by such a beautiful youth. I fear that I am an outlier in this, no matter the land.”
“The north grows cold when the sun sets,” Karamina smiled at Dandifrod. “If you do not like Celesi, we have many priestesses of every age. I’m sure there are at least a few that might teach you the rituals of the true gods—if only for a few nights.” Karamina turned toward Meriona. “Surely one of his station deserves nothing less, and since he has misplaced his purse, let us provide the fee, so long as he stays with us?”
Celesi and Alise turned to Meriona, curious how she might answer.
Karamina continued. “In fact, if he doesn’t want the Trohl or some random priestess, let me share his bed,” she stated. “I know as much of the ritual as most, and I will not charge at all,” she winked.
“Too kind!” Dandifrod bellowed with a raucous laugh and wide nervous eyes. “You are too kind in spades, I assure you! But I fear I shall be of little sport for some time! I have been quite under the weather, and I imagine tonight will be my first opportunity to sleep a deep and sound sleep. Honestly, I am all too happy that I no longer knock at death’s door,” Dandifrod raised his glass. “That such questions are even open to me proves that your healer has done an exquisite job! Indeed, I wish to thank the good doctor that has restored me! I do hope I can meet her,” He continued, determined to escape the topic of sex altogether.
Meriona gave a cold smile. “Unfortunately, it was none of our masters that managed such a feat. I fear our own surgeons are at a loss concerning the rot—especially a case as advanced as your own. We thought it best to leave you in the hands of a local, one more experienced in dealing with the dangers of this land. We do apologize for taking such a risk with your very person.”
“Considering the outcome, you are quite all right,” Dandifrod smiled. “It looks as if Lady Fate has use for me yet.”
“For years and years to come, I hope,” Meriona smiled. “To life,” she lifted her cup, and the room drank.
“Now, about my men,” Dandifrod began again.
Just then the door opened and cut him off. Several attendants filed into the room. They held platters of food and set them about the table. The first of the attendants turned to Meriona and said, “apologies, your grace, but Fedring is unable to attend.”
“Is he still unwell?” Meriona asked with mock concern. “And I thought our dear Corpus was all better...”
“I do not know the cause for his cancellation,” the attendant noted. “If you like, I will forward your worry to his grace.”
“Do give him our blessing,” Meriona said with a feigned smile. “Well, I fear it is just the lot of us until Gliedian makes his way. Dandifrod, will you invoke the gods, that they may bless this meal?”
Dandifrod gave a slight bow and began immediately. “Twin gods of the sacred song, grant us strength, and curse our enemies,” he said. “Amen.”
Alise and Karamina glanced at each other, surprised that the prayer was begun and finished before they bowed their heads. “Succinct,” Alise noted with a nod of approval.
Dandifrod beamed at the various foods on the table. “I cannot remember the last time I was offered such a marvelous spread,” he admitted. His stomach rumbled with anticipation. The food smelled fantastic! He piled various morsels onto his plate.
“Is it common for a Saot to serve Ooroiyuo and Naharahna?” Celesi asked as she forked food onto her own plate.
“Honestly, I am not much of one for religion at all,” Dandifrod answered. “I esteem the Twin Gods in my own way—as much as any other gods of peace and truth—though I suspect most would call my views heretical. What of you? Is it common among the Trohl?”
“There are many gods among the Trohl, though the highest of all is the one true god, and his saint messenger, the Tallian bodi, Jeiju,” Celesi began.
“Yes, the Lord of Nine Fingers! A soft and passive god indeed!” Karamina cut in with a laugh. “Oh, how your god shall save you, if you just suffer a little bit longer!”
“Ugh!” Alise complained. “My appetite shall be severely disturbed if we must talk religion the entire time,” she rolled her eyes.
“Come now. Dandifrod is a sophisticated man. He only entertains these common superstitions for our amusement! But if we must talk of other things, there are still nine plagues to discuss,” Karamina licked her fingers.
“Now now,” Meriona cut in. “We are eating.”
The conversation turned to mundane matters. Dandifrod asked after many of the dishes and the Jays answered his questions. Some of the foods he knew quite well, though the preparations were strange. Some he’d never seen before. Most he loved. A few he avoided.
As the dinner proceeded, the door opened. Two formidable guards flanked a man of truly average build. The guards had an array of weapons about their persons and seemed quite formidable. They wore heavily decorated pins, ribbons, and medals; while the third man had only a simple medallion around his neck: a pair of fangs, one done in gold and one done in platinum. Dandifrod knew the symbol immediately. This man was a Baradha, one of the true leaders of Minist. He would be dangerous.
“Gliedian, I presume,” Dandifrod said as he stood. He gave a bow and offered a hand.
“And you would be Dandifrod of the Emberwood Trust,” the Ministrian said with a strained smile. He took the hand, and gave it a weak shake. “A pleasure perhaps.” He turned to Meriona. “I apologize for my tardiness. I fear without my continued vigilance, this camp would dissolve back into the wilds in a matter of days. It is truly an impossible task the Empress sets before me—and with so little coin!” Gliedian took up a plate and half-heartedly gathered food with a frown. “But enough of business! What has transpired in my absence?”
“We discuss this bounty, my lord. And before that, we spoke of the gods!” Karamina said with mirth in her eyes. “Would you care to instruct us on the true religion?”
“I would not,” Gliedian waved her off. “If you should like to talk of the gods, bother Fedring. Instead, I would like to hear what brings our good cousin so far north. Do you believe Trohl lands are the best place to invest your Saot monies?”
“My opinion is of little consequence,” Dandifrod admitted. “I am merely here to evaluate possible investments for a consortium of nobles. It is they who will make the final decision.”
“Might I ask whom?” Gliedian continued.
“The Emberwood Trust,” Dandifrod smiled. “I take it you have had much of this from my men?”
“And I would have it from you as well,” Gliedian admitted. “This trust of yours, who is in it?”
“Several Ewile lords, a prince of Gaurring, an Earl and a Viscount of Danya,” Dandifrod shrugged. “If it is names you seek, I apologize, It is not my place to reveal my employers so specifically. I can give you little more than the name of our trust. But I can also tell you that we have offices in Gaetilly, Danyan, Balliwex, and Crimsith Peak that are more than willing to answer all inquiries. You see, for reasons of security, I am sworn to keep certain secrets.”
“Yes. for you are only an envoy,” Gliedian noted. “And what is it you hope to find in Trohl lands? Are your interests agricultural? Do you seek manufactures? Medicines? Conquest?”
“We seek all manner of investment,” Dandifrod answered. “Money is our interest and all manners of making it—especially if it furthers the spread of the one true religion.”
“Indeed,” Gliedian noted. “And which god is this?”
“The god of coin,” Dandifrod smiled. “And may he bless us all!”
“Then you seek to improve my position, for the making of monies?” Gliedian smirked. “But I have the Black Throne behind me and all the coin of the Empress herself. If you wish to add something to my campaign, I implore you, seek to do so within proper channels. Take your requests to Umsuppa and petition the Empress herself.”
“Oh, to see Empress Seviticah!” Dandifrod exclaimed. “I should certainly like such a thing! I hear her beauty is unrivaled!”
“Yes, her beauty,” Gliedian waved him off. “But I can say what she will do. She will ask you deliver your coin to her. Otherwise, she will instruct you to invest closer to home, to change the culture of the Saot. Do you think the true religion has no interests that need attending among your own people?”
“There would be many,” Dandifrod agreed. “But an intrepid man such as yourself could certainly use better funding and achieve better ends. You have admitted the throne provides only the barest of necessity.”
“I shall work within my mandate,” Gliedian answered. “I have no interest in extracurricular activities. For your sake, I say return home and engage in local affairs.”
“To your point,” Dandifrod began. “Some men are worthless at home, and yet, find themselves oddly effective on the road, conducting the world’s trade, which seems to be the curse of your own people,” he smiled. “I had not expected to find Ministrians so far north and east, but I do not mind. Ministrian investment creates a great many opportunities. Our efforts need not be in competition or counter to the goals of your Empress. Indeed, we could do much work that is difficult or simply not of interest to you and yours. We need only know what you’d have us do. If you prefer not to engage with us, that is also fine. I shall look for other opportunities, as I will also honor my mandate.
“Besides, there are other envoys of this consortium, including those that petition my King and your Empress,” Dandifrod continued. “Perhaps it is folly to travel north into Trohl lands—I have certainly suffered dangers. But I will do as I am charged and bring my lords the intelligence they seek. Perhaps my report will convince them of what you say, that their monies are better invested closer to home. Or perhaps they will decide on some other point of the compass. Truthfully, it does not matter to me. I am here simply to be well informed. I have given my word, I am bound, and this is what I will do. To do anything else is a dereliction of duty.”
“Informed? So information is what you seek?” Gliedian clapped. An attendant entered the room and turned to the Baradha. “Clear my plate,” he said as he stood.
As Gliedian stood, the Jays did the same. “My lord?” Meriona asked, somewhat shocked at the impropriety of Gliedian’s actions.
“No. I am tired of this deception, and my appetite suffers. Let us give this man his information, that I might return to my duties,” Gliedian snapped. “We take this land for the Black Throne because we can. It does not matter why the Duke of Gaurring sneaks into my camp. It does not matter what you think you do here. Our plans will proceed uninterrupted.”
Hearing his true title, Creigal frowned. He turned to see that the two heavyset guards now stood over him.
“Yes, I know who you are, Creigal berDuvante,” Gliedian charged. “If you choose to use false names, I will entertain you for a time. But know this: the Bouge are currently at war with the Gaurring. And we, the Empire, are here to save them!”
“To save them?” Creigal began. But it is simply Ministrians dressed as if they were Gaur.”
“Because we must present the enemy, and since you offer no men of your own, we must pretend,” Gliedian smiled. “But you are the genuine article, a true noble of the Saot, here to destroy everything the Bouge hold sacred!”
Creigal frowned. “We both know this is not my purpose.”
“And who is to say otherwise? You? A man of false appearance?” Gliedian smirked.
“Why do you confuse me? I am Dandifrod of the Emberwood Trust, Esquire of the Ewile Court, Friend of the Black Throne. What do I care of your conquest?”
Gliedian leaned forward on the table and looked Creigal in the eye. “I have letter from Count Drefford of Wibbeley. It says that the Duke of Gaurring, Creigal berDuvante, may attempt the road to Ebertin. This Creigal brings two distinct men with him: the first carries two stone throwers of delicate and accurate crafting,” Gliedian opened his thin coat and produced Thunder Maker from its holster. “The other man is a master of multiple weapons, with skin as black as night. Both of these men arrived with you.
“But that is not all Count Drefford wrote,” Gliedian continued. “He asked that if I find you, I arrest you and your men. He asked that I make sure you never leave these lands,” he revealed. “Unlike you, Count Drefford already invests heavily in our endeavors, and I consider him a good friend. We often treat each other with small favors,” Gliedian stated. “But it is never wise to simply throw away a man of your stature—so I have thought of a use for you. If you insist on playing a part, let me describe a new bit of theater! You will be the enemy, and your execution will be a public affair, to lighten the hearts of the Bouge and draw them closer to us! With your death, the Bouge will kowtow at our protecting feet and forget themselves all the more!”
“Then I shall be executed for the sake of your conquest?” Creigal asked.
“This land already belongs to the Black Throne—only the Trohls do not see it.”
“I see it,” Celesi intoned as her blank stare stretched across the table.
Gliedian frowned at the young Trohl. “No, not you. Not all. But you are among the elect, the chosen of the gods. Even among the Trohl, there are chosen,” he said. “But most are oblivious. Most are always blind to the true condition of the world. Is that not the way of it?”
Creigal shook his head. “You are mistaken. In so very many ways, you are mistaken.”
“Am I?” Gliedian smiled. “You are a smart man, but in your plotting, you should be more careful not to bring along someone as novel as a Borz. His kind are too rare this far north. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have real work to attend.” The Lord Commander stood and approached the door. With the knob in hand, he turned back to Creigal once more. “You are a royal person, and so the conditions of your capture will be of a suitable fashion. Play along and the road will be one of leisure in a carriage with these fine ladies for company. As for your execution—it will be prompt and professional. However,” Gliedian glared at the old Saot. “If you test my patience, we will drag you through the streets to suffer the scorn and mockery of the commoners. You will linger in the darkest, dampest hole we can secure, and when we finally get around to carrying out your execution—a thing you will view as a great kindness when the time finally comes—know that it will be a botched and messy affair, despite the high skill of my best man. Cross me and you will wish the sweet rot killed you! The choice is yours. I leave you in genteel company, with fine food, rest, and leisure. But if you think to escape, you will walk the long miles to Ebertin barefoot, with the lash of a taskmaster at your back. Are we in agreement?” Gliedian asked.
“And if I play along, what becomes of my men?” Creigal replied.
“They are military men. If they are agreeable, they can join our army in Hof Hebrin, or one of our other operations. If they fight well, they will earn food, coin, and women...” Gliedian shrugged. “If they are troublesome, we will disembowel them and hang their corpses as examples to the other slaves.”
With that, Gliedian turned to Meriona. “If you’ll excuse me, we depart for Ebertin before the setting of the sun, and I have several matters to attend before we go.” The Baradha pulled a letter from his pocket and set it on the table in front of the senior Jay. Meriona set her hand on the letter and pulled it to herself. “With your permission, we take Alise and Karamina with us.”
“Me?!” Alise huffed. “I don’t want to go back to Ebertin! Take Celesi instead!”
“Celesi goes west. You know this,” Meriona told her. “Go pack!”
For a long second, Alise glared at Meriona. “Fine,” she hissed and slapped her fork against her plate.
Gliedian snorted. “I see the ladies prosper under your tutelage,” he chided, then stepped out the door.
As the Baradha left, Creigal turned and caught a glimpse of three familiar men. Banifourd, Garf, and Bence turned toward the duke. Garf flourished a mocking bow. Banifourd stared at Creigal with a scowl and fading bruises. Bence turned away, unwilling to look at his former master.
The door closed. Creigal felt sick. His head throbbed anew and suddenly he realized why. “Ladies,” he began, “I know it is frowned upon in the lands of the Empire, but since we are far from native Minist, might I ask a small favor?”
Meriona tilted her head, curious to hear what he might request.
“Might any of you possess fio?” Creigal asked. “Mind you, not the white sort used in Minist, but the green of the Trohls?”
The Jays instinctively turned to Celesi. The young Trohl blushed, though she knew not why. Before this moment, she’d never heard of the drug.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 16.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
“We got him!” the Saot hollered as he swaggered about with a half empty bottle of courage hanging from his hand. “We got him and now his hoity-toity highness is gonna swing by the neck!”
Despite his obnoxious behavior, the Saot was left to his own devices as he staggered about the Invader’s Fort. Word among the guards was to leave him be unless he caused any real trouble, which a few thought was possible, considering his increasing degree of inebriation. How uncivilized to get drunk without the proper oversight of the priesthood!
“I’ll be rich!” the Saot roared. “I’ll buy women like you by the dozen!” he leered at a passing priestess. “By the dozen!” he hollered as she hurried away, concerned and confused by his foreign tongue.
“He gon’ swing in the breeze,” the Saot muttered as he took a long swig from the bottle and staggered between storehouses. For several seconds he stared after the pretty Ministrian as she fled. “I’d like to swing in your breeze,” he thrust his hips at the priestess as she turned a corner and disappeared.
Once more, the man found himself alone in the growing darkness. For several seconds, he stared off at nothing in particular. Caught in his little thoughts, something struck the man in the back; a painful blow, just off his right shoulder.
“What the devil?!” The Saot winced. He glanced down as a small rock settled in the dirt. Something shifted above him and he looked up just in time to see another rock falling from the sky. The Saot dodged as the rock dropped into the dirt and rolled to a stop. For half a second he stared up into the heavens, until he caught another stone arching out of the shadows. Annoyed, he stepped aside. “You gonna put out my damn eye!” He roared as he pulled his sword from his belt. He had violence on his mind as he stepped toward the dark. He expected errant children that taunted their betters from the shadows. Once he got a hand on them, they’d be sorry for it! “Come on out!” He roared.
There was no reply from the shadows, and no more rocks dropped out of the sky. Slowly the Saot made his way forward. There was nothing there but the dark. There was nothing—until a shadow flashed forward! Big! Much bigger than a mere child!
Panic washed over the Saot as he realized he was in serious danger. He swung his sword in a swift arch at the unseen attacker. The shadow dodged back, reversed, and was within the Saot’s guard before he could swing his sword back around. A fist struck the Saot in the throat, and he gagged. He dropped his sword as an arm wrapped about his neck and cut off his air. The Saot crashed to the ground and landed heavily as he tried to swing his bottle at the attacker—but could do no harm. The arm about his neck continued to squeeze and the world faded to black as a familiar voice whispered in the Saot’s ear. “Goodbye, Bence.”
Bence knew the voice, and thought to call out in alarm—but Carringten continued to choke his former colleague. Slowly, Bence ceased his struggle as pain and panic dissolved into nothing.
Carringten held him tight for some time more, until he was sure there was no pulse. He stood, picked the dead guard’s sword off the ground, and pulled Bence’s lifeless body further into the shadows, leaving only the half empty bottle as witness to what had happened.
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Seal of the Disciple
Polished — 40m04s — 2023/12/03
Cairn held an inside straight as he sat across the table from Leverkusen. He stared at the caravan captain’s shrinking stack of coin, and knew his chance of drawing a seven was faint at best, but Leverkusen hadn’t pushed the wager all that much, considering that Cairn was leaning on most of their coin. Fortune favors the bold, he thought as he pushed a ten-stack of bots and two additional diems into the pot.
“That’s the spirit!” Leverkusen smiled. “And you?” He turned to Brough.
Brough frowned at the stack of copper, topped with a silver edge, and threw his cards into the middle. “Too rich for my blood,” the guard shrugged as he tossed his cards.
“Your blood is copper if a touch of silver is too rich,” Leverkusen smirked. He slid the two of books and the jay of knives across the table and held his hand out for two new cards.
Brough glared at Leverkusen, peeled the top card off the remaining deck, and slid it face down to the caravan captain. “My blood is iron, friend. Care to test it?”
“Non,” Leverkusen began as he took the cards. “With a hand like this, I’m in search of gold!” he beamed.
Cairn dropped the three of books. He pushed it across the table and took the replacement from Brough. He peeked at the new card, sure that he’d fold as soon as the bet came around to him—then his breath caught ever so slightly as he glimpsed the seven of coin! An omen! he thought as he tried to keep his excitement from showing.
After several seconds of careful consideration, Leverkusen lobbed a massive sliver lune into the pot. It was just about all he had left.
Cairn slowly matched the bet, which made it the biggest pot of the night. He glanced at Leverkusen’s remaining coin and said, “Whatchu got left?”
Leverkusen counted the few coins before him. “Three diems, two bots, fifteen bits…”
Cairn counted out the coin and pushed them into the center.
Leverkusen stared at the man for several long seconds. A slow grin spread across his face. “Whatchu got left?” he asked with mischief on his face.
Cairn shrugged as he did some quick math, “almost six lunes,” he shrugged.
“That’s it?” Leverkusen replied—though it as a kingly amount for a working class man.
“Sure beats having nothing,” Cairn grinned.
“I don’t have nothing,” Leverkusen said, and pulled a small pouch from around his neck. He opened it and picked out a gold sovereign. “Too bad you can’t match that,” he shrugged, and began to put it away.
Indeed, Cairn couldn’t match it. Most of his coin was on the table. But he did have something rather nice. He put his hand in his shirt and pulled the seal of the disciple out of his pocket. He held it up and smirked.
“Where’d you get that?!” Leverkusen pointed an accusatory finger.
“Don’t concern yourself,” Cairn gloated. “That’s just me dessert.”
“Why is it you that always get ‘em?!” Leverkusen complained. “The Corpus don’t give the rest of us much of a chance at all!”
“Me thinks you go too light on the pretty things,” Cairn mocked. “Perhaps its because you think they like you. Now let me see your cards.”
“Well, my sovereign says that little trinket belongs to me!” Leverkusen huffed. He pulled the small gold coin out of its pouch and pushed it toward the center of the table.
Cairn snorted. “That little thing! I can almost match it with the coin on the table, and I’m not giving you my dessert for such a light touch. You want this, you pay me proper!”
“Proper, huh?” Leverkusen smirked. He reached in the pouch and took out a much larger and heavier gold coin—a sol— and placed it on the table. “Get out that seal,” he instructed. “I want dessert.”
Cairn glared at Leverkusen. A sol was a full ounce of gold, where a sovereign was a mere tenth. “What are you up to?” he half accused the guard.
“Ain’t it obvious?” Leverkusen shrugged. “I got a better hand!”
Cairn frowned. “It’s off the table.”
“Too bad,” Leverkusen shrugged as he picked the heavy gold round from the pot.
“Wait,” Cairn said as he stared at his cards. He’d drawn an inside straight and completed it with the seven of coin! It was an auspicious draw—indeed, it was a sign from the gods! He licked his lips. “Okay, let’s do this,” he said as he pulled the seal of the disciple from his pocket.
Still, he hesitated. Although he knew he was going to win, he felt it was an affront to the gods to wager the seal.
But then, the gods favored bold action. “Winner takes the rest of the night off,” Cairn continued. First, he would take this caravan captain’s gold, then he intended to do his duty by the gods.
“I ain’t working!” Leverkusen snorted. “I leave whenever I want!”
“Fine,” Cairn shrugged and began to put the seal away.
“Wait, wait, wait!” Leverkusen nodded his head. “If you win, I’ll finish your shift so you can go have dessert,” he agreed.
“You ain’t too good to look after this lot of criminals?” Cairn teased.
“This ain’t no real work,” Leverkusen frowned. “You guard the prison to keep close to Fedring. Wouldn’t be surprised if you do it just to get the seals.”
“You caravaners may make the money—but its hard to win favor when you’re never in the same place for more than a week,” Cairn replied. He dropped his cards on the table.
“A straight!” Leverkusen stared. “The gods indeed gave you a high hand!”
“Yup,” Cairn clucked.
“Shoulda given you a better one,” Leverkusen said as he dropped four watchmen. “Looks like I still have the day off,” he smirked.
Cairn rose from his chair and glared at the caravan captain as Leverkusen shoveled coin into his purse. “You first rate shit lord,” he glared.
Leverkusen grinned and held out the seal of the disciple. “Who’s it for?” he queried.
“Go to hell,” Cairn snapped.
The captain frowned. “Now, you and I both know it can’t be used for just anyone...”
Cairn shrugged.
“Hey, my brother! I love you still, so let me prove it!” Leverkusen dug in his bag of coin. “I can’t take so much that I might leave a man destitute, not when you have given so much!” he lifted the slight gold sovereign and slid it toward Cairn. “Now, if you still can’t tell me who it is I mean to see, that’s fine! Really it is! But you keep that! It don’t belong to me. If you still can’t tell me who’s the seal for, that’s fine too! It’s a nice trophy nonetheless, and I’ll see one of the priesthood all the same—just gentle like!” he stated. “Or maybe I’ll just go ask the Corpus…”
Cairn took the sovereign and rolled it between his fingers. He knew he didn’t deserve the coin. Indeed, it was more than he brought to the table. Silently, he watched Leverkusen pack up and head for the door.
The caravan captain talked the whole time as he slowly made his way out. “I don’t know how much coin has passed between us, brother, but its more than this slim bag of pickin’s. I hate to see you sore over a bit of discipline—but it ain’t fair that you’re the one always selected to teach the ladies their lessons,” he shrugged. “Well, some days the gods give, and some days the gods take. Can’t say I’m sorry it was a day they took from you, because that means it was a day they gave to me,” he finished as he pulled the door closed behind him.
As the door swung closed, Cairn called out to the caravan captain.
Leverkusen opened the door and poked his head back into the room. “What was that?” he asked.
“Wenifas,” Cairn said the name. “You know the one?”
Leverkusen smiled. “I’ll find her. What am I to tell her?”
Cairn shook his head, “I was told to say nothing.”
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 17.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
Leverkusen stood at the front of Wenifas’ tent as a wicked grin cracked his lips. He couldn’t believe his good luck! Only two more days until the next caravan of slaves and he just happened to win a seal of the disciple?! He rang the slight bell with one hand as he fondled himself with the other.
Wenifas pulled the thick canvas aside and stared at Leverkusen. “I’m sorry, fine sir,” she began with an apologetic smile, “I’m not seeing anyone today...”
Leverkusen lifted the seal and hung it on the bell in one smooth motion.
Wenifas glanced at the medallion. She had not seen one at her own door in years. “Is that...?” Horror caught in her eyes, for of course she recognized it. Under the seal, this stranger had the full authority of the Corpus and could do as he wished with her. These sorts of visits were never pleasant. “No!” she snapped at the captain. Although it was against the law, she attempted to close her tent to him.
Leverkusen put his hand on her face and pushed her roughly back into the tent. Wenifas caught her heel on the rug and sprawled out on the floor. With fear in her eyes, she stared up at the caravan captain as she crawled away. “What have I done?!” She begged.
Leverkusen peeled off his shirt and undid his belt. “It is only you that suffers when you ignore the proper respects,” he leered at her.
Anger and frustration lit across the priestess’s face. “Get away from me!” she hissed and struck out at the man.
Leverkusen caught her hand, then slapped her. Wenifas crumbled, stunned by the blow. “That’s proper respect!” he said as he pinned her to the floor. He grabbed a fistful of her dress and yanked. The garment ripped. He yanked again and the tear increased. After a third pull, the dress was almost completely off. Wenifas screamed and kicked and struggled—but to no avail.
A boy of nine years appeared from the other room. He glared at the caravan captain, pulled his dagger, and ran at the man with rage on his face. Leverkusen turned on the boy, shocked to see the slight form as it charged him. Still, Leverkusen was a trained soldier, and knew how to deflect a blow. He knocked the dagger from the child’s hand, and smashed the boy in the chest.
The child lost his knife and crumbled like a rag doll.
“Claiten!’ Wenifas screamed, as she reached for her stunned child. She turned back on her attacker and clawed at his arms and face.
Leverkusen dodged her nails as well as he could, grabbed her hands, and pinned her to the floor once more. “Interfere again, and you’ll get worse!” he scolded the boy. “Now, watch how it is between a man and a woman!” Leverkusen said as he licked the side of his mother’s face. He climbed over her and jammed his knees under her thighs. She continued to fight him, until he put an elbow in her neck. “Keep it up, and I’ll really hurt you,” he told her.
“Ow!” she cried as she went limp.
Leverkusen was getting his clothes out of the way when the old redhead jumped on his back. Before he could do anything about it, she sunk her teeth into his neck.
Leverkusen screamed. He reached over his shoulder and grabbed a knot of red hair. In a rage, he spun her around and sent her crashing into the boy. Slowly, the lanky redhead stood as a vicious smirk crept across her face.
The look only angered the caravan captain. He picked up the boy’s dagger. “It’s death to interfere with discipline!” He roared at the strange old lady. He took a step forward. He meant to stick this old hag in the heart and have her bleed out as he took the priestess—but he couldn’t move as the old woman stared him down.
Now, now... A voice whispered in his head. Leverkusen relaxed his grip and dropped the knife.
Wenifas dove for the weapon. She grabbed it up and held it toward the man as she gathered her boy and retreated to the far corner of the tent.
Leverkusen ignored the priestess as she cowered away. His mind was utter confusion as he stared at the redhead. “What are you?” he asked.
“Now you’ve done it!” Wenifas snarled at the caravan captain. “For the gods have given me friends!”
A darkness surrounded the old woman. For a second, she was impossible to see. Then, the darkness faded and the woman was gone. The dress slipped to the ground as a magnificent serpent with wide wings and fangs like knives lifted out the dress.
“A skin walker,” Leverkusen whispered, astounded. Fear raged through him. He wished to fight this beast, but he could not. He was petrified.
The wyrm continued to speak in his head. The priestess may know of the things you speak, but you must tell me of this proper respect—of this discipline.
Though he wanted to run screaming through the camp, his muscles refused to budge. Instead, Leverkusen simply spilled his thoughts to Meu, as if she were his confessor.
Having the whole story, Meu grinned at Leverkusen. With the blessing of Fedring, you have upset my friend, she said. So now I shall send you back, and with my blessing, you shall upset his eminence.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 17.3+_)(*&^%$#@!~
Leverkusen approached the apartments of the Holy Order of the Twin Gods, and saluted the guard. “Good eve,” he said, his manner calm, though his nerves were on fire. “Is Fedring in?”
The guard frowned. “What business do you have?”
Leverkusen pulled the seal of the disciple from his pocket and held it up. “I have finished his good work and mean to report.”
Upon seeing the seal, the guards cleared a path.
The guards at the door were just as accommodating as soon as they saw the seal. “Corpus Fedring! Captain Leverkusen is here to report, your eminence!”
Fedring answered and glared at the caravan captain. “What is it?!” he snapped.
Leverkusen lifted the seal so Fedring might see it. “I have met with Wenifas. I wish to report what was said and done,” he stated.
Fedring snatched the seal from Leverkusen and held it toward the man in an accusatory manner. “I did not give this to you!” he roared. “Where is Cairn?!”
“He lost the seal to me, but I have done his holy duty, as required,” Leverkusen reported.
“You have done his holy duty, have you?!” Fedring glared at the man. “Tell me, did you use his weasel to do it?!”
“I don’t understand,” Leverkusen replied.
“Of course you don’t!” Fedring snorted. “The messenger was the message, you dolt!” After a long second, he sighed and continued in a calmer voice. “Let me guess, the fool lost it in some game of chance?”
Leverkusen nodded. “Cards, your holiness. Five watchmen over a straight,” he grinned, proud of his winning hand.
Fedring spit. “Fools! You’re a bunch of damned fools, I say!” With a sigh, he pushed open the door to his room. “Very well. Come in and tell me what has happened. What did the priestess say and do?”
Leverkusen stepped into the room and Fedring shut the heavy door behind them.
“Well?” Fedring prompted the man as he began to walk past.
Leverkusen took a step toward the Majoris with his hands up and open. “She was quite surprised by my appearance,” he began. “I held her down and ripped off her dress.”
“Yes, yes, I know what you did,” Fedring huffed. “I wish to know what she did!”
“She was defiant from the beginning, so I subdued her—much like this,” Leverkusen said as he took a cheap shot at the Majoris. The swing caught Fedring off guard, and the captain’s fist smashed into the large man’s temple.
The blow stunned the Majoris and he crumbled to the ground. Leverkusen grabbed the man before he could stand from the floor and wrapped him in a choke hold. Unable to fight back, unable to scream, unable to breathe, the Majoris went limp.
Leverkusen lowered the large unconscious man to the floor. He gagged the Majoris and tied his arms and legs behind his back with a slender rope he brought for just that purpose. Fedring woke. He lifted his head as he struggled with his bonds. Leverkusen pulled his sword and placed the tip on Fedring’s shoulder. The Majoris held still.
“Unfortunately, all that I have said until now is largely inaccurate. It was mere subterfuge in order to get into your office,” he confessed. “Indeed, I was unable to discipline the priestess at all. I meant to, but as I proceeded, I was met by a most unusual creature,” Leverkusen admitted. He leaned down to the Majoris and whispered into his ear, “The wind serpent has me, the basilisk, the wyrm. You remember the power of her kiss?”
Fedring blanched and his eyes grew wide.
“She thought you’d remember her,” Leverkusen noted. “She is pleased. She certainly remembers you,” he added with a wicked grin. “She means to leave you alive, but if you make a noise, I will be forced to kill you,” the caravan captain confided. “I do not want to,” he shrugged. “But you know how it is: she’s impossible to deny.”
Leverkusen dragged the Majoris across the room and close to the bed. He pulled the blankets off the bed and draped them over Fedring one after another, then leaned heavily against the blankets. “Not a sound now,” he whispered, then proceeded to rifle through Fedring’s apartment.
Thanks to Meu’s memory, Leverkusen knew exactly where to look. He gathered three heavy purses of coin from their hiding places. He opened the closet and took the plain half of the shaman’s staff. He was surprised to see that Fedring also had the shaman’s cloak and bag. Meu wondered what this meant for the shaman as she ordered Leverkusen to take these too.
Leverkusen peeked under the blankets. “Where is he?” Leverkusen asked the Majoris. “Is he still under the stone tower?”
Fedring nodded.
“He better be. If I return, it’ll be for your blood,” Leverkusen said as he dropped the edge of the blankets.
The shaman’s belongings were not the only interesting things in Fedring’s closet. There was also a musket of fine crafting, a valuable weapon, especially among the Gaur. Leverkusen slung it over his shoulder. With so much treasure in hand, he opened the window and climbed onto the windowsill. He took one final look at Fedring, under a small mountain of blankets, and leaped to the ground.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 17.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
Leverkusen set the shaman’s belongings on the rug before Wenifas and Meu, then produced the massive purses of coin, and also the musket.
“What is this?” Wenifas asked as she lifted the pistol.
“Be careful with it,” Leverkusen told her. “It is more dangerous than it looks.”
“Shall I call it dangerous then?” Wenifas stared at the contraption. “What a strange name for any object.”
“It is a pistol musket—if it is true,” the captain stated.
“What does it do?” she asked.
“Point it at your enemy, and pull this lever,” he showed her.
“And?”
“And it kills,” Leverkusen shrugged.
“Like magic?” Wenifas asked.
“There is a bit of metal in it that flies like an arrow,” Leverkusen began, then shook his head. “I do not really know the specifics. Do not fire it. They are extremely loud, and we will have all the wrong sorts of company if it goes off.”
Wenifas pushed it into its holster. “You say, if it is true?”
“The Gaur have created no end of false muskets so they might keep the technology for their own. Often a false musket will kill the man that fires it, instead of the man he aims to kill,” Leverkusen explained.
“How can I tell the difference?” the priestess asked.
“The only way I know is to fire it,” Leverkusen shrugged. “For this very reason, few I know care to adopt them, especially when a bow is just as dangerous and so much easier to reload.”
Wenifas turned to Meu. “So now what?”
Leverkusen spoke for her. “Derris is in the other fort, playing the part of a Gaur, and watching the prison. He is on shift until the early hours. I have left a message for him. He will attend us as soon as he can. For now, I have another task. Then, once we are all here, we devise a way to escape this place.”
Wenifas turned to Meu, “And he comes with us?” she pointed at Leverkusen.
“For a time. Until she cannot control me any longer,” Leverkusen smiled. “Then I go free.”
“What do you mean, you go free?!” She turned on Meu, “He can’t go free! We’ve robbed the Corpus! If you let him go, he’ll turn us in! They’ll strip me of everything I have and banish me! Sure enough, they’ll kill you!” She pointed at Meu.
“Would you have her kill me?” Leverkusen asked.
Wenifas stepped forward and slapped the man. “You are nothing to me!” She roared in his face.
Leverkusen stood and stepped out of the tent. “I go to free the shaman.”
“The what?!” Wenifas turned to Meu. “You can’t let him go!”
Meu licked her lips and kissed the priestess once more, that they might commune directly. Once I am done with him, I can and I will let him go.
“And when is that?!” Wenifas huffed.
When it is safe to do so, she stared.
“How long can you control him?”
For a day or two—that is, if I’m not using my venom on you, Meu winked. Be calm. There are bigger concerns than Fedring ahead of us.
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A Crush of Blades and Malice
Polished 18.1 to 18.4 — 28m02s — 2023/12/03
Polished 18.5 to 18.10 — 52m15s — 2023/12/04
Polished 18.11 — 9m41s — 2023/12/07
It is not proper to consider ourselves the pinnacle of god’s merciful creation. Though we possess a unique and wonderful rung on the great ladder of existence, there are many above us, as there are many below. Ants parade about the ground, dwarfed by our toes, and yet they must appear as monsters to some. Likewise, we find ourselves mere insects when approached by certain beasts. From time to time, leviathan harass our cities with seeming impunity. Indeed, it is a marvel we sometimes chase them off. Over the centuries, how many of these beasts have we encountered, and how few have we managed to kill?
Yet, these leviathan are not the end of it. There are other great beasts that occasionally strip the land and dwarf us with their massive forms. Still, these beasts are nothing when compared to the infinities themselves. Oblarra, Tristmegist, Sram, Jupi, Nevus, Suntar... So slow are the infinities that some argue they are not alive at all, they are just rock and water, swimming about the void, a mere accident of creation. Some say they are nothing more than the terrain we call home. We alone are granted a fullness of consciousness, and so we alone must be the pinnacle of all creation.
I find this argument to be folly. Indeed, some great beasts find themselves victims of humanity—yet we must recognize that many lesser creatures offer us no end of trouble. How many men have been killed by warring bugbear, lions, bulls in the field, and even the slightest of insects: scorpions, widow makers, mantikeens? A great count of men have died by these clever beasts, though we rightly consider them less than us. We do not pretend that vipers are the true inheritors of god’s great creation just because they manage to kill a handful of men each year.
At times we are better than those creatures greater than us, just as we are occasionally overcome by lesser beasts. Sure, there is probability and expectation when men find themselves in conflict, just as there are exceptions and surprises. Men have killed a great number of behemoths, krakens, and leviathans over the centuries, but these creatures have claimed the lives of men by a thousand fold. If we are simply another meal to these creatures—and I assume we are to many of them—what does that say of our divinity? I answer you this: it is a divinity shared with scorpion, leviathan, and all the beasts in between; for god has created us all.
– The Elder Races of the World: Considerations, Arguments, and Refutations, by Aogostua Veribos, page 882
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Krumpus stirred on the edge of sleep as a burning pain washed from his hands and up his arms. He groaned and clenched his teeth as this fire rolled like waves, even receding, only to crash upon his nerves once more. Twice he stretched his hands in his sleep. Each time he woke with a gasp. It felt like the skin around his fingers would rip and expose the tips of the bones. The second time he whimpered and moaned before he settled back down.
After what seemed an eternity of torment and grief, he gave up on sleep altogether. He felt terrible as he sat up. He looked about his cell in hopes that the guards left his bag. He thought to give himself something for the pain: conicle, silver leaf, a touch of dragon’s tongue. But the bag was gone. Instead, he wept. He cried into his hands, curled like claws, and watered his nails.
Huddled against the wall, Krumpus heard the lock click and the door open. He hid his head, his shame and pain, and ignored the garish light of a torch as something scraped the floor. The door closed, and the lock clicked back into place once more. After several seconds of silence, Krumpus looked up to see that dinner was served. He knew it was dinner because he was given the same two meals each day. Breakfast was weak cheese, moldy bread, and perhaps a withered apple. Dinner was a thin broth, a few limp vegetables, and yet more bread, only now it was dry and stale. If he was lucky, there’d be a bit of salted ham or preserved beef—but not tonight.
Krumpus kneeled over his food and sucked at the warm broth so he would not have to use his hands. The heat was just on the edge of drinkable and gave him strength. He held his face over the slight steam and reveled in it. These days, little comforts were all he had.
Krumpus rested on his elbows and studied his hands. They were balled in loose fists. Thanks to Fedring’s needle magic, the fingers were as fat as sausages with an inordinate amount of swelling in each of his digits. It hurt just as much to tighten up his grip as it did to relax it—yet he gently coaxed his hands to move. He breathed into the pain as his eyes teared up.
Slowly, his fingers responded.
Despite the incredible pain, he fanned his fingers ever so slightly. He told himself this was not the worst pain he’d ever known—though he wasn’t sure. He sucked his breath and glanced about the room as yet another wave of fiery torment washed up his arms. With a sigh, he allowed his fingers to curl into fists, and leaned over his soup once more.
As he picked at his plate, Krumpus stared across his cell. In the dim light he saw a thousand tiny eyes stare back at him from the far wall. Intrigued, he leaned closer and realized they were not eyes at all, but the tunnels dug by the little doctors. A flicker of hope caught in his chest as he hobbled to the wall and inspected the tiny holes once more. He pushed a knuckle into the mortar. It gave easily, like the delicate crust of a perfect pie. Indeed, with barely any pressure, a thick chunk fell from the wall and crumbled to dust.
Krumpus took several deep breaths. He forced his fingers into the mortar. The burning in his hands increased—but not as much as his excitement—as his hand sunk into the brittle mortar of the wall. Did the little doctors dig him an escape route?! He knew miracles were only as big as one was willing to accept—yet he had a wide view of the world and a great want of profound miracles. The idea that a couple thousand ants dug him a tunnel was not beyond the pale. To him it seemed to be quite a logical conclusion. After all, the little doctors always came to help.
Krumpus pushed his fingers through the fragile mortar around a smooth rock. Despite the pain, he gave the stone a solid yank and pulled it loose from the wall. He dropped it with a gasp. Pain raged through his hands and arms as he stared at a lacework of ant tunnels that continued into the dirt. He poked his right hand at the dirt and it flaked away as fragile as the mortar about the stones.
Krumpus gripped another stone as fire raged from his fingertips, up his arms, and into his back and chest. He ripped the stone from the wall, all too happy to do battle, and dropped this stone next to the first. Tears stained his eyes and a wide grin stretched his lips. He laid on his back for several seconds and allowed his hands a rest. Slowly, the pain diminished to a dull throb. He wiggled his fingers ever so slightly. Though the effort pained him, his excitement served as an analgesic.
Krumpus sat up and attacked the next stone in the wall. It gave with little effort. He pried away a fourth and a fifth stone. He smashed aside a six, a seventh, and an eighth before he took another break. This time, he took only a few breaths before he continued his work. He pushed his sore and throbbing hands into the brittle dirt beyond the stones, and the dirt fell away with ease.
Soon, there was a hole big enough to fit the shaman.
Despite the fire in his hands, Krumpus raked at the dirt. He realized the tunnels of the little doctors did not extend everywhere. Indeed, they took a specific course. A solid floor, walls, and ceiling emerged as he pushed forward. He followed the ant burrows deeper into the earth as the tunnels shifted gently to the right. Now he was six feet in. He took another break and rested his hands yet again. The incredible pain of his hands mixed with the bright hope of escape and made the shaman manic. He snorted and cursed under his breath as he attacked the brittle dirt again and again. His head was loud with excitement, though his efforts produced little sound.
Some ten feet in, Krumpus took a long break. He turned to the remainder of his dinner and soaked the crust of bread in the last bit of broth—which was now cool. He ate the limp carrots and sad leaves of cabbage. He thought few meals ever tasted so good!
As he ate, Krumpus admired the gaping hole in his cell. He realized there was no hiding what he’d done. The floor before the hole was covered in mounding dirt and stone. On top of that, the air was filled with a fine haze of dust. He wondered how long he had before the guards checked on him. How long until the tunnel must be complete?
With a renewed sense of purpose, and a sharp sliver of fear to prod him on, Krumpus returned to his work. He ignored the pain in his hands as best he could, but the fire made his arms and shoulders sore. By turns, he used his feet to kick and scrape at the brittle dirt, but eventually returned to his aching weak hands.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
Leverkusen entered the stone tower and proceeded to the prison beneath.
Since it’d only been a few hours since the captain took his winnings and left, Cairn glared as Leverkusen entered the guard room. “Come back to brag?!” he stood, a formidable man, and rolled his head left and right as he prepared to fight.
Leverkusen held up a hand. “Peace friend. I’ve been sent to look in on the shaman. Fedring wishes to know how the man fares,” he lied.
“How ‘e fares?” Cairn snorted. “He got claws for hands! The man won’t get a wink of decent sleep for days!”
“I don’t doubt your evaluation,” Leverkusen shrugged. “I guess Fedring thinks this one is different.”
With a snort, Cairn acquiesced. “Well, come along, and have yourself a look-see,” he said as he gathered his keys. He opened the door to the cell block and proceeded down the hall, followed by Leverkusen and Brough.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
Krumpus wiggled his way back into the cell with another load of dirt. Anticipation of his escape fueled him as his hands raged with pain. Wanting to work faster, he gripped the wooden soup bowl and used it to scoop dirt. The edge of the bowl put the pressure of digging into the creases of his palms, instead of his digits, and managed to reduce some of the pain. After a couple feet of digging with the bowl, he caught a patch of solid earth at the edge of the soft tunnel, and snapped the bowl in half. This pained his hands greatly and caused him to huff and fume. For several minutes he was forced to pause his work—but the breaking of the bowl was fortuitous as he now had a scoop for each hand!
The tunnel continued and the cell filled with more and more dirt. An incredible amount of it hovered in the air and created a thick, choking cloud. Krumpus coughed and snorted as he labored to breathe. He didn’t mind as he spit dirt-clogged mucus. The tunnel was now some twenty feet deep. Without such soft, brittle dirt, the tunnel would have taken weeks of constant work. With the condition of his hands, it would have taken months! But with the help of the little doctors, it took only a few hours.
Sweat and dirt stained the shaman’s face and clothes as he wiggled in and out of the thinning tunnel. His hands felt like they were on fire! They felt like they bled from every pore. He wondered if he compounded the damage of Fedring’s needle magic—but also refused to give up on his work. If his hands were permanently damaged, well, at least he’d be free.
As the tunnel continued, Krumpus wondered how far the ants traveled before they surfaced—indeed, he wondered if they surfaced at all! Perhaps the ants never meant to free him but only return to the earth where they belonged. The tunnel seemed too long, and it was getting thinner and thinner. Soon, he wouldn’t be able to scrabble through without scraping at the hard earth all around—which would slow him dramatically. He wondered if he shouldn’t have been more calculating in his efforts. Maybe he shouldn’t have attempted the tunnel all at once. He shuddered to think what the guards might do if they returned to the cell to find the tunnel half finished.
And if he should get free? At best, he’d be free with no supplies and hands bent into rude claws. He’d be without his bag or his cloak. He’d be without water, or even a blade.
Still he had a life worth preserving and feet to carry him away! Things could be much worse. With grim determination, Krumpus attacked the dirt and bit back the pain in his hands. He scraped, and huffed, and scooped, and cussed.
Suddenly, the dirt did a strange thing: it gave way to air. There was nothing beyond! Escape was finally assured! With a surge of effort, Krumpus pushed out the opening and hung halfway out the side of a slope. He was free!
Outside, the air was fresh and cool as Krumpus hung half out of his tunnel. He turned, glanced about, and noticed the termination was just outside the wall of the camp.
So that is why the ants dug so far, he thought as he stared at the looming wall. He turned to the forest as it rose before him, maybe a dozen feet away.
The world beyond was quiet. Indeed, the woods were too quiet. He could tell that all was not well. He sunk back into the tunnel so only his head was exposed. There was an electricity in the air, an expectation of trouble. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stood on end. There was something ominous about the trees. None of the usual night sounds came from the woods. There was no scamper of nocturnal feet, none of the buzz and hiss of insects. There was only silence, as if something stalked in the woods: dangerous, lurking, watching. The only sounds of night came from the camp, as distant unseen guards chattered and laughed with one another—as torches crackled and feet scuffed. With a deep seeded suspicion, Krumpus eyed the trees. He was so intent on what was before him, he missed the sound of the cell door as it opened behind him.
“What the devil?!” Cairn roared as he tried to see through the murk and haze of all the fine dust in the air. A jolt of panic struck Krumpus as threats and curses carried from the cell. Sounds of exertion followed as Cairn pushed his way into the tunnel. He was much larger than the shaman and struggled to get through the earthwork as it thinned.
Fright prodded the shaman onward. Krumpus pulled himself free of the earth and scampered into the brush at the edge of the trees. He threw himself under the protection of a scrub oak and froze in place. The sudden crunch of dead leaves and twigs seemed entirely too loud. A sense of dread filled the shaman. He felt pinched between something bad and something worse. Behind him was the torment of his captors, ahead was the terror of an unknown threat.
A brute form emerged from the tunnel. Cairn appeared much larger than Krumpus remembered, and far too close for the shaman’s comfort—though he refused to move or make any sound.
“Shit tits!” Cairn kicked at the dirt as he stomped about the entrance of the tunnel. “Piss, puke, pussy, poop, fart, phlegm, and fornication!” he yelled as Brough pulled himself from the tunnel and scratched dirt from his hair.
Krumpus was not in a good spot. It was a straight line from the tunnel to the scrub oak that hid him. The guards were bound to find him, and quite quickly, just as soon as they began to search.
Yet he felt something worse than these two men haunted the woods beyond. Despite his nervousness, Krumpus refused to move. Until he was discovered, they might still overlook him.
A third man emerged from the tunnel. Unlike Brough and Cairn, this man began to search the woods immediately. It was only luck that he chose to search under a pine to the left of the shaman, and that he should move the other direction as he went.
Somewhere behind and to the right of the shaman a twig snapped. Leaves rustled. Something huffed.
Brough reached up and pulled a long, thin dart from his neck. “What in hell...” he croaked as he glanced at the wooden dart, now stained with a drop of his blood. A wave of nausea washed over the man. He crumbled to his hands and knees as a violent impulse overtook him. He spewed vomit with gusto.
After several wracking heaves, Brough could no longer stand on his feet. He dropped to his hands and knees and began to convulse. His eyes rolled back in his head and a thick foam exuded from his mouth, as he rolled onto his back. For several seconds, he kicked and thrashed about the dirt—then stopped moving altogether. His head lulled to the side and blank eyes leveled an empty gaze at the sky as gross dripped from his open mouth.
“Brough?!” Cairn leaned over his associate. As he leaned down, he heard a dart wing over his head. The guard lurched back and stared at the trees in horror. Without a second thought, he dove into the tunnel. He screamed and raged as he clawed his way back through the tight earthwork.
Leverkusen pulled his sword and dagger as shadows shifted and formed from out of the dark woods. They were a fair deal shorter than he was, but they outnumbered him a dozen to one. They growled as they approached, long snapping snouts, like dogs, and weapons in hand. He knew them at once: waokie! He backed away only to find several behind him, cutting him off from the tunnel.
The shadowy beasts danced about him. They dodged back as he spun this way and that, only to approach as he turned to confront other elements of the tightening circle. The beasts stayed out of the reach of his sword as more and more gathered about. Leverkusen lunged forward and cut down one of the beasts. In response, the circle of enemies collapsed. The creatures cut him down in a flurry of stone axes and rusted swords—then flung themselves into the tunnel after Cairn.
Krumpus lay under a clump of scrub oak and stared at a steady stream of bugbear. As small as they were, they had an easy time getting into the tunnel with all their various weapons: swords, knives, axes, mallets, spears, blowguns... Unable to enter the tunnel all at once, the bugbear jammed about the entrance and pushed close to its mouth, an excited crush of blades and malice, as they continued to pile into the tunnel.
It took some time, but soon there were faint screams that came out of the earthwork, and eventually carried over the wall, as more and more of the creatures pushed into the tunnel. The peel of the great bell at the top of the stone tower announced the invasion was known, as Krumpus could hear Cairn yelling down at his brothers. The alarm was joined by guards stationed all about the walls.
In response to the bell, a call went up from the woods, a guttural command that was repeated several times. There was a large popping sound. With a rumble, a section of the outer wall of the fort lurched and dropped several feet. Timbers snapped and broke as the section of wall groaned, then slowly fell into the camp. A wooden watchtower tore from the wall and crashed to the ground in a ruin, as screams of astonishment and pain echoed the calamity. Howling at their successful breach of the wall, a thick throng of bugbear darted out of the woods and pushed into the fort.
With the fall of the wall, Krumpus realized this wasn’t just some bugbear hunting party out late at night—it was a full blown bugger war! Accomplished diggers, the buggers must have spent days sapping the wall! But they would not attack uncontested. Archers in the other towers clanged their alarms and fired arrow after arrow into the swarm of attackers. The sounds of skirmish rose from just inside the fort as more and more bugbear pushed inside.
Fire appeared in the woods. Several balls of flame arched up into the night sky and exploded against the wooden towers that stood nearest the breach.
Although several beasts still mulled about the entrance to the tunnel, their attention was firmly fixed on the fort. Excited, the creatures clapped each other and danced with glee. Several charged for the breach in the wall, while others waited their turn to get into the tunnel, to see where this strange entrance might lead.
The bell atop the great stone tower continued to ring and echo off nearby hills. The incredible quiet of the night was now a cacophonous riot. With so much noise in the air, Krumpus felt it was safe to move. Slowly, he crawled from under the clump of scrub oak and darted further into the trees. He angled away from the creatures and moved along the curve of the wall to the east as he avoided the ebb and flow of several thousand bugbear. The further Krumpus got from the tunnel, and the nearby breach, the faster he was able to move. It only took him an hour or so before he found himself on the east side of the fort with nothing more than the clothes on his back and half a wooden bowl in each hand. He stepped onto the road going east. He glanced back to see the tips of flames lick above the north wall of Camp Calderhal. The remainder of the fort was now between himself and the warring bugbear. The sounds of battle faded as the shaman continued on his way.
Ecstatic to have his freedom, Krumpus skipped and danced along the road. He clacked the two halves of the bowl together in time to his song. He did not relish the death and misery of those in the camp—though he recognized a certain justice in it. Either way, the matter was beyond his control, and far beyond his responsibility!
The Children of Luna arched overhead and gave their septic light to the land. As Krumpus contemplated the hard justice of the great creator, his eyes caught on something at the side of the road. In the ditch was a long, wide spread of delicate yellow blossoms. His heart jumped as he realized he stared at a massive colony of foxbane!
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
Wenifas turned as Meu pulled back the curtain that separated the rooms. The skin-walker woman had a determined look on her face. The priestess sat up as concern flooded through her. “What is it?” she whispered, and feared the worst. Had Fedring escaped his bonds and captured Leverkusen? Did the caravan captain admit everything? Was the Majoris now on his way with too many guards in tow?
It is the waokie, Meu said as she picked up the staff, cloak, and bag. The shaman has escaped, but in his efforts, he’s let them in, she explained.
“Waokie?” Wenifas shook her head. “But we are near the center of the fort. Surely they cannot reach us here!”
Meu shook her head. There are thousands of the beasts flooding into the camp as we speak.
“What do they want with us?!” Wenifas asked.
To kill and plunder, Meu stated. If they do not destroy the camp, they will certainly make a mess of it. As they battle, we escape.
For a long second Wenifas stared at Meu, “You knew!?” she accused. “You knew of these beasts and you didn’t tell me?! What of my friends?!”
Meu gazed back at the priestess. I am here for the shaman and I am here for Derris. By extension, I am here for you—but what do I know of the rest of them? she continued. From where I stand this is little more than a camp of slavers and pirates!
“Is that what you think of us?!” Wenifas glared.
Yes, Meu admitted. Though I am sure there are others among your people worthy of rescue, I also know that I am not the one to do it. Now tend your children, so at least we might yet live.
Wenifas swore and spit as she shook her boy awake. “Claiten, baby! Wake up! I need you to wake!”
Claiten sat up and rubbed at his heavy eyes. He looked at his mother and then at Meu. With a groan of protest, he threw himself down on his pillow and closed his eyes once more.
Wenifas cursed under her breath and shook him yet again. Still, her difficult boy might have slept—except the bell of the great stone tower clanged to life and affirmed his mother’s worry. With the first peel, a bolt of fear shot through Claiten, and the young boy jumped to his feet and blanched. With a squeak, he pulled on his clothes and attached his knife to his belt.
Wenifas took up the musket Leverkusen gave her, and pulled on the pack that held her jewelry and coin, a couple changes of clothes, her stash of desert flower, her book of absolution, and a large sack of coin stolen from Fedring. The second bag of coin dwarfed her own reserves and was dominated by gold. Gold! On top of this were thin rations for several days, a large canteen of water, and cloth diapers for her daughter. Claiten had his own bag of clothes, food, and another of Fedring’s coin purses, all packed by his mother and the red-haired skinwalker. Meu had the last of Fedring’s purses, another dress, and stuff for the babe, all jammed into the shaman’s bag, with his mix of herbs and bandages.
“Where to?” Wenifas asked.
Where will we find Derris? Meu replied as they stepped from the large, comfortable tent.
“We have to go to the Invader’s Fort,” Wenifas gulped.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
In the Invader’s Fort, a knot of Ministrian guards stared toward Camp Calderhal as they listened to the sound of the great bell. Without orders to the contrary, they would not abandon their current work, which was to guard the Bouge prisoners. Still, the bell continued to ring, and a nervousness built among the men.
Minutes after the bell began, a runner appeared in the uniform of a shock trooper, a rare thing in the Invader’s Fort and only allowed in extreme emergencies. He ran toward the guards and saluted as he came to a stop.
Petaerus gave a hasty salute back to the runner. “Well, man? What’s going on?!”
“We’re under attack! Copal Hizenwellar orders all available men to the stone tower!” the messenger said.
Petaerus turned on his fellow guards. “Well, you heard him!” he called as he waved his men forward. “To the tunnel! Everyone to the tunnel!”
Derris ran with the others. As he passed Petaerus, the high guard pushed him aside.
“Not you!” Petaerus snapped at Derris.
Surprised to be singled out, Derris swatted at the two feathers that dangled from Petaerus’s helmet. “But, he said all available men...” he pointed toward the incessant tone of the bell.
“You are not available!” Petaerus glared at the man. “You will stay here and make sure none of the prisoners take advantage!”
Derris balked. “But the alarm...”
“Do as you’re told!” Petaerus snapped.
The other guards laughed as they ran passed the pariah. Embarrassed and humiliated, Derris watched as the other guards rushed away without him.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.7 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
Wenifas led Meu to a wide road that ran east and west through the heart of the camp. A stream of guards surged from the barracks toward the old stone tower. “Derris!” She shouted over the heads of the men. “Derris!”
“Out of the way!” A guard shouted as he shouldered past her, uninterested in a hysteric priestess.
Someone grabbed Wenifas by the elbow. She turned on the man as she tried to pull away. She expected to see Fedring, or one of his underlings. She expected that everything was found out.
The man recoiled and threw up his hands. He was not a guard at all, merely a laborer, an old man about the camp. Wenifas knew the man in passing. Despite his rough appearance, she knew him to be a kindly gent. He often let her cut in line at the Three Mark Well and even helped her draw water several times. He joshed with Claiten and the other children. She gave him a weak smile, as if to reassure him—but he frowned to see her affected face.
“Pardon, my lady,” he said. “What happens to us? What is this alarm?”
“We are under attack,” she said before she considered her words. “We cannot survive.”
“But surely, all these guards...”
Infected by Meu’s certainty, Wenifas shook her head, “There are too many!”
“Who attacks us? Are we found out by the Trohls?” he whispered with wide eyes. He was not supposed to knw such things, much more, speak them out loud.
“It is demons,” Wenifas replied. “It is the waokie.”
“The trap-setters?” he asked in horror. Although he’d never seen a waokie, their reputation was large among the commoners. “What shall we do?!”
“Flee. If we wish to live, we must flee,” Wenifas said.
“Where will we go?!”
“Anywhere!” Wenifas shrugged.
We don’t have time for this, Meu spoke in the priestess’s mind as she tugged at her hand.
I can’t simply leave him! Wenifas replied. The priestess turned back to the old man. “Gather what you can! Meet us at the three mark well—ten minutes!” She yelled as she allowed Meu to pull her away. The old laborer stared after the priestess as she disappeared behind a rush of guards, then turned and ran the other direction.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.8 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
The bell of the tower and various alarms continued to ring as Toar shook Baet awake.
“What is it?” Baet asked as he sat up in alarm. “Is there a battle?”
Toar shrugged. “Maybe just a drill?”
“There’s only one way to know for sure,” Baet said as he grabbed his shirt—though he didn’t bother to put it on.
The other Trohls stirred and whispered about the alarm, but couldn’t bother to investigate. As Baet and Toar approached the door, one of the Bouge blocked the way. “Don’t go out,” he said. “The guards will flog you for it! They’ll flog us all!”
“A fig for the guards!” Baet snapped and muscled past the old man. Still, he opened the door slowly and was cautious as he peeked out.
There were no guards in view. Except for the distant bells, the prison was quiet. The Saot gaurd and the young Trohl stepped out. They kept close to the side of the building and approached the fence.
“Who could be attacking?” Baet whispered. “There’s no one out there but other Ministrians...”
“Can’t you smell it?!” Toar’s eyes were wide. “The funk of bugbear is thick in the air! There must be a full blown war out there!”
“Hold!” A voice called from the other side of the fence. “Identify yourself!”
Baet and Toar pressed themselves against the building and stared about the darkness. It took them a moment to realize the guard did not address them at all.
“Criminal!” The guard called. Metal clanged against metal as the guard continued to call. “To arms! To arms! A prisoner has escaped!”
Baet dashed from the fence and peered over. “It’s Carringten!” He called back to Toar.
On the other side of the fence, Carringten was hard pressed as he fended off a guard with Bence’s short sword. The guard had a proper weapon, a bastard sword, and he used the greater heft and reach to his advantage. Indeed, he’d already scored a hit as Carringten bled from his shoulder.
Baet grabbed the top of a plank and pulled it back. The weak board gave with an audible snap. He grabbed the next plank and broke it too, then slipped through the fence with Toar hot on his heels. Toar peeled a chunk of wood off the fencing to use as a cudgel.
Despite his disadvantage, Carringten held the guard at bay. His defense was superb and consumed the guard’s focus.
“To arms! To arms!” the guard called again, though his alarm went unheeded. With his attention locked on the dark man, he didn’t notice Baet. The sneaky Saot grabbed him from behind, pulled the guard’s dagger, and stabbed him in the chest. With wide eyes, the shock trooper gaped and crumbled to the ground.
“DERRIS!”
Baet turned to see two women standing at the end of the street. The old redhead held the hand of a small boy while the the dark-haired beauty cradled a babe. They stared, wide-eyed at the dead guard and his killer.
“What a fine young priestess,” Baet breathed as he blinked at the weeping mother.
With her free hand, the priestess pulled a musket from her belt. She pointed it at the three prisoners, and grit her teeth.
Baet hissed as he saw the weapon. He flung himself at Toar and knocked the Trohl to the ground. Carringten dove the other way. The weapon in the woman’s hand roared to life and threw fire. The musket jerked her arm back and bellowed a deafing roar.
Evereste screamed and squirmed as Wenifas gaped at the incredible noise and violence of the weapon. The smoke of the blast drifted away, and she stared through the lifting fog to see what she had accomplished.
Baet stood, dusted himself off, and faced the strange woman. He didn’t know how she came to possess Cloud Breaker, nor did he care. “I’ll have that back!” he yelled at her and took several steps toward her.
Wenifas aimed the musket a second time, braced herself, and pulled the trigger again. Nothing happened. Why does it fail now? She wondered, not knowing that it needed reloading. What did she know of muskets?
We must go! Meu said as she pulled her away.
Wenifas wiped her eyes and ran back the way she came as so many tears corrupted her vision.
Baet took several steps toward the woman. He turned back to Carringten and Toar. “Let’s go!” He called and waved his friends forward.
“Patience, my friend,” Carringten called to Baet. “We are not interested in chasing women.”
“She has Cloud Breaker!” Baet insisted.
“And you have your freedom and your life,” Carringten noted. “If we manage to live, I’ll buy you ten identical.”
Baet swore under his breath. He didn’t want ten identical weapons, he wanted Cloud Breaker! Still, he wouldn’t disobey his captain, so he simply pouted instead.
Toar ripped cloth from the dead guard. He approached Carringten, wiped the blood from his arm, then proceeded to wrap the wound. “You are lucky. It is not too deep.”
“It’s always hard to tell when one is on the receiving end,” Carringten replied.
“Did you find Dandifrod?” Toar asked.
“No, but I found someone else.”
“Who?”
Carringten locked eyes with Baet. “I found Bence,” he said.
Baet hissed. “If Bence is here, they know who we are.”
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.9 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
Meu and Wenifas rushed back through the tunnel, then the priestess pulled Meu to the square of the three mark well in a state approaching hysterics. As they came into the square, they were both astonished by the volume of people they found waiting. The old laborer breathed a sigh of relief as he saw them approach. “I thought you’d left us,” he called to her.
There were hundreds of people in the square, many of them with hastily packed provisions and goods. They were commoners one and all: laborers, cooks, urchins, clerks—none of them had more rank than priestess—though there were a couple dozen of those. Several of the people recognized Wenifas and the pain in her eyes. They moved forward to comfort her—which only made things worse. The priestess began to crumble.
Wenifas wanted to mourn and thought it proper to wail and gnash—but Meu interfered in her thoughts. She reminded the priestess that if she wished to live—if she wanted her children to live—she needed to be calm, dispassionate, and calculating.
The crowd pressed a flood of questions at Wenifas. “What is happening? Why the bell? Where do all the soldiers go?”
Wenifas bolstered herself against the horror of losing Derris, and wiped her face. “We are attacked,” she began. “We are invaded, and we will not win.”
This caused a great deal of murmuring among the gathered crowd. Some were already convinced. Many openly scoffed. To Wenifas, it seemed obvious. Did they not see the expanding fires? Could they not hear the approaching screams of the dying?! “You do not have to believe!” Wenifas snapped at doubters in the crowd. “You can stay here if you wish! Only remember that you were warned!”
“And if we wanted to, how should we escape?!” Someone asked. “We will not be allowed to leave!”
“You must trust me,” Wenifas stated. “Trust me,” she repeated as murmurs and shouts of derision carried over the crowd. Wenifas pushed her thoughts at Meu. You ask them to trust me, but how shall we escape? She repeated the question.
The thoughts of the wyrm were not reassuring. You must trust me, Meu insisted.
Wenifas stood up. If they failed, if they did not escape, then all the better. She’d join Derris and dance in the halls of Ooroiyuo and Naharahna with her dead lover. If death came upon her this night, there was nothing to mourn—nothing but the future of her children. For them and them alone she’d try. If she failed, she’d find joy in it. She preferred to see herself with Derris anyway. “It is time!” Wenifas called. “For all that wish to follow, we go east!”
Many chose to stay , and they laughed and carried on just so. “To follow the fool priestess to the far end of camp!” they taunted—though they promised to send along anyone else that wished to leave. They knew the guards at the gate would stop them from going any further. Instead, they drank and turned the war into a festive occasion to dance and flirt.
Still, a couple hundred wanted to be anywhere else. They followed Wenifas to the east gate of Camp Calderhal, despite the dirt and tears that spotted her face. As the gate loomed over them, many of the civilians murmured that the guards would not let them out. But their only other option was to turn back into the camp and face the waokie with kitchen knives, pans, candles, and the few actual weapons they were not supposed to possess. Instead, they huddled together and hoped that divine intervention might see them freed.
The gate was guarded by a fair number of men. The captain of the guard stepped in front of the thick knot of peasants, “Turn ‘round! Go back to your quarters!” He shouted at the crowd. He was unconcerned as he had three dozen guards under his command, all armed and trained. He could cut through this rabble in a matter of minutes.
Wenifas shook her head and wiped her red face. “We cannot,” she began. “A war of waokie has breached the walls and will soon overcome the defenders. If you do not let us out, we will perish!”
The guards began to murmur. The captain did not believe it. “How could you know such a thing? Who has told you this lie?”
“We have seen it with our own eyes,” Wenifas said. She turned to Meu, “If you allow it, she will show you. She is sent of the gods. Let her kiss you and you too will know the truth of it!”
The captain gave Meu a puzzled look. “What magic is this?” he asked.
“Let her show you,” Wenifas repeated.
“Do not trust it, Ayrik,” one of the guards whispered to his captain. “Foul magics are upon us this night!”
Captain Ayrik considered these words as he stared at the approaching form of Meu. Despite her advancing age, she was quite pretty, and she did not seem dangerous in the least. She held a staff, but not in a threatening manner, and in such a slight dress it was unlikely she hid any other weapons.
Yet, Ayrik knew appearances were deceiving. Might this woman plan some treachery? It wouldn’t get her anywhere. Even if she managed to overcome the captain, his men would kill her—and all the fools that followed.
And if the priestess told the truth, these people were dead anyway. If the soldiers of the camp failed to turn back a war of waokie, was there any chance these commoners could defeat them with pots, pans, and kitchen knives? Perhaps this strange woman, pale and smiling, would give Ayrik a reason to release these peasants. Perhaps she truly was sent of the gods, and the priestess could be trusted after all. The two were certainly pretty enough, and everyone knew the gods favor beauty.
Ayrik waved at Meu to approach. “It is but a kiss,” he said to his second.
With a pleasant smile, Meu stepped forward. She put her hands on Ayrik’s cheeks as she kissed him slow and sure. He was a handsome man and she did not mind it.
The venom on her lips opened the captain’s thoughts to the skin-walker wyrm. Shocked to have her thoughts in his head, Ayrik pulled away from Meu. Dismayed, the other guards drew their swords and stepped forward, but Ayrik raised his hand and waved them off. For several seconds, his eyes were far away as he conversed with Meu. Finally, his gaze returned, “What are you?” he asked her out loud.
Meu kissed the captain once more, a gentle peck on the cheek. I will show you all that I am if you only let us go, she promised.
Ayrik could not simply let them go—after all, there was a war to prosecute, and commoners were not to leave the camp without military escort. But a military escort was something Ayrik could provide. The gate captain turned to his men. “Form up!” he yelled. “Prepare to march!” Indeed, he was saving his men at the same time.
The other guards looked at Ayrik with confusion on their faces. “Sir?” one of the men began.
“They speak the truth! A sea of waokie pours upon us! We cannot hope to push them back! But all is not lost! The gods have sent us a messenger, so the faithful might live! Now form up, and open the gate!” Ayrik commanded.
“This is higly unusual,” one of the guards noted. “What of our charge to keep the gate?”
“I remember and maintain our charge!” Ayrik snapped at the man. “But the gods have chosen a new duty for the rest of you! You will serve as escort, and the priestess shall lead you! She holds command! Now do as you’re told, and thank the twin gods for sparing your miserable lives!”
The guards turned to each other and whispered among themselves. Discipline gave way to confusion. The gate rose halfway, jerked to a stop, then began to close.
“Sir...” one of the men whispered as he stared daggers at Meu. “What has she done to you?!”
Ayrik smiled a wan and defeated smile at his colleague. “She has shown me the truth of it. The Camp is lost, and the Fort will follow. The enemy is too many. They will swarm us under.”
‘We cannot give up so easily.”
“Nor will we,” Ayrik agreed. “We will fight, and we will lose,” he said. “But not you. You will go east and guard these people. Protect them. This is my order, that you and they shall live. Now, raise the gate!” Ayrik roared. “And pray the waokie don’t follow!”
This time, the gate did not pause as it lifted. The parade of paupers passed under, and many of the guards paired off and began to escort them east, as they were ordered. Still, several stayed behind. “We will watch with you,” they told their captain. “If you perish, we will die with you! It is a warrior’s death and we do not lament it! Let us join Ooriyuo and Naharahna in the halls of Haven!”
“You will do no such thing!” Ayrik snapped at these men. “I’ve given my order and my order stands!” He pulled his sword. “Stay and I will kill you for traitors!”
Chagrined, the remaining guards gave in and backed through the gate. Slowly, they turned and walked after the peasants, as their captain stepped into the wheel house and shut them out.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.10 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
“This is it?” Baet stared at the unremarkable building.
“I was here when the tolling began,” Carringten replied. “All the guards went into that building and only a couple ever came out.”
“You think the tunnel everyone keeps mentioning must be in there?” Toar shrugged. “How far is it to the other fort?”
“Can’t be far,” Carringten stated. “That bell sounds like its right on top of us. It must be massive.”
“Let us hope no one is waiting in there,” Baet said as they approached the building.
“And why would they?” Carringten asked. He pulled open the door and slid inside. Baet and Toar followed close behind.
The interior of the building was lit, but empty of people. There was nothing but several benches with racks of uniforms on both sides. One side was all Ministrian uniforms while the other was all Gaur counterfeits. Baet stared critically at the fakes. “I find it funny that we should wear them, after all we’ve done to conceal our identities,” Baet stated.
“I don’t like the idea of finding Creigal while wearing such counterfeits,” Carringten frowned.
“Why would we wear those?” Toar wondered. “Saots are the enemy, remember? Let’s take the real uniforms,” he said, and selected one of the shock trooper outfits.
Once they’d switched into Ministrian garb, the three men searched for another exit. It did not take them long. “Here it is,” Baet called as he discovered the door to the tunnel.
Carringten and Toar clapped Baet on the shoulder, then took the stairs down into the tunnel. Baet went first. There was no one else in the tunnel, and there were plenty of sconces to light the way. Shortly, they arrived at the far end, marched through the empty barracks, and opened the front door.
Camp Calderhal spread out before them, smaller than the Invader’s Fort. They could see fires raging about the north part of the camp and hear fighting in the distance. There was no end of confusion and conflict in that direction.
“Where do you think they hid Creigal?” Baet asked.
Toar shrugged as he looked about for birds, but there were none to be seen. Carringten pointed toward the massive stone tower, which seemed to be the center of all the mayhem. “That looks like a good place to keep any high profile prisoners.”
“Figures,” Baet huffed. “We’ve been blessed with a distraction, only to find that all the fighting occurs right where we aim to go.”
A crash sounded as another section of wall collapsed. Sparks and smoke billowed from the wreckage. The cheers and triumph of bugbear rose to a dramatic crescendo along with the shouts and dismay of the Ministrian troops. Grim faced, Carringten took a step toward the tower.
“How do we hope to get in?” Toar asked.
“Fight,” Baet answered between tight lips. Out of the corner of his eye, movement caught his attention. With a hiss, Baet tackled Toar and pushed him out of the street.
Carringten turned and saw the rush of horses for himself. He jumped back and just avoided getting trampled as half a dozen riders careened past at a wild gallop.
Despite their charge, the riders didn’t get far. After several buildings, the two lead horses buckled and threw their riders to the ground. The following horses pulled up short as figures rose out of the shadows and swarmed the group. Metal clanged against chipped rock. A woman screamed.
Immediately, Baet ran toward the riders.
“Wait!” Carringten called, then followed with a curse as Baet proceeded.
As he approached the fight, Baet recognized the short, compact, furry attackers. They were indeed bugbear! A hot anger rose in his chest. This time, he had the element of surprise!
The buggers struck at men and horses alike. One of the creatures stuck a rusted sword into a fallen horse again and again as the beast tried to stand. Baet smashed into the bugbear and sent the creature reeling into the dirt. He turned and faced another beast. The creature leveled its spear and drove forward. Baet knocked the spear aside with the bastard sword he took from Derris, then stuck it in the bugger.
Carringten struck a bugbear with his own short sword, and the creature screamed something horrible as blood sailed through the air. He killed a second and struck at a third before the buggers were able to turn and mount a proper defense against his onslaught.
One of the bugbear pulled a hapless rider by a fistful of blonde hair. She screamed as Toar smashed the creature between its neck and shoulder with his bit of wooden fencing. The beast let go and fled from the onslaught of blows.
Knives flicked through the air. They curved from the hand of the last rider and caught in the neck and chest of a bugbear. The beast dropped, writhed, and kicked in the dirt as life left its body.
Although the bugbear still outnumbered the humans, Baet, Carringten, and Toar had surprised them and inflicted heavy damage. The ambush was broken. The buggers broke and ran—but they did not go far. At the end of an alley, they rallied and turned on the small group of humans once more. Slow and steady, they began to advance.
Something sang through the air. Instinctively, Baet raised his sword in front of his face. A dart clinked against the metal of the blade and dropped to the ground. Toar glanced at the feathered needle, then stared at Baet with a shocked look on his face. “What luck,” Baet shrugged and grinned at his Trohl friend.
“This way!” The last rider called and pushed her horse to the east. Toar grabbed the blonde woman by the hand and pulled her to her feet. They ran after the rider as Baet and Carringten followed. The bugbear ran after them, but were quickly outpaced by the long legged humans. With squat muscular legs, bugbear were built for endurance, not sprints.
The small group of survivors ran through the twist of buildings and tents. Men and women of the camp huddled in doorways and peeked out from their hiding places, only to disappear back into their dwellings.
“Get out!” Baet roared at them. “The devil comes for you!”
Despite the warning, these people all too often dodged back inside their tents.
The lone rider pulled up her horse and waited for her rescuers to catch up. Toar and the blonde woman huffed and puffed, then stared at each other, shocked to see that the other was also a Trohl and equally young. Baet and Carringten caught their breath and quickly sized up the rider and the blonde they’d rescued. Baet realized they were very pretty, and Carringten noted they were very privileged.
“Well met, brave men,” the rider saluted. “The gate is this way,” she said and pointed to the east.
Baet stared at the hard face of the rider. Despite her glaring features, she was beautiful! Baet started to move the way she said.
“Non,” Carringten shook his head. “We seek our master.”
“And who is this?” The rider asked.
“Dandifrod of the Emberwood Trust,” Carringten told her.
A smirk crept across the rider’s lips. “Ah yes, the dark warrior...” She glanced between Baet and Toar before she finally settled on Baet. “And I can only assume you were the one with the muskets?”
“She knows us,” Baet realized, his heart all a patter.
“I do,” the rider smiled. “More importantly, I know your master. He is gray haired and just recovered from the sweet rot of the waokie. But he is not here. He’s gone east to Ebertin,” she said and pointed to the far gate.
“The lies of a Jezebel!” Toar spit. “She will see us guide her from the camp! She will leave Dandifrod here and let him die! She only cares for her own skin!”
“I am not the one telling lies!” The rider hissed at Toar. “Your duke Creigal is gone, and we would be wise to follow!”
“You must believe her,” the blonde girl urged Toar. “Your master is taken east, to Ebertin.”
“Why do they take him east?” Carringten asked.
“They mean to execute him,” the rider revealed. “I am Meriona, and I am indeed a Jay of the Black Throne,” she continued. “This is my apprentice, Celesi. We do not lie to you. We thank you for saving us, but we will not stay here and die! Come with us, and perhaps you can save your master. Stay here, and when I see him, I will tell him how you saved us. Now state your intention, that at least two of us might live!”
“He is to be executed?” Baet replied as he followed.
“It will be quite a spectacle—for the commoners of course,” Meriona shrugged her indifference. “It is little more than political expedience on the part of Gliedian and Kezodel—mere theater for the masses.”
Carringten paused and considered her words. “He is not in the tower?”
“There is nothing in the tower except death,” Meriona told him. “Indeed, we knew you when you first arrived. His false men came with word from Wibbeley two days ago.”
“And where are these false men?” Baet asked.
“Two have gone with my Lord Commander. The third is around here somewhere—most likely drunk—most likely in the arms of some priestess,” Meriona sneered. “Gliedian felt that last one was something of a liability and did not want him in court.”
“Will you see us past the gate?” Carringten asked.
“I owe you no less,” Meriona said as she stepped her horse past the man. “We must go, unless you wish to encounter more of those beasts.” With that, she began to walk her horse toward the gate.
The gate appeared. Carringten and Baet exchanged uneasy looks as they continued to advance. Both expected a few dozen guards to hold the gate, even as the battle raged to the west. They half expected the Jay to break her word and turn them over to the guard as prisoners, but there was only one man at the gate. He stood in the door to the gatehouse. “Hold!” he roared as he stepped forward with his sword in hand.
“Gather your men!” Meriona called to the captain as she looked about, baffled to see only him. “I shall pick among them for an escort!”
Recognizing the Jay, Ayrik bowed low. “Apologies, mistress, but I have sent them away.”
“Away?!” Meriona repeated. “And who watches the gate?!”
“I maintain the gate,” Ayrik assured as he stood straight and tall.
“And where did you send them?” Meriona snipped.
“With the people,” Ayrik said, as if that cleared up anything.
With a huff, Meriona looked at Carringten, Baet, and Toar. It seemed that she’d have no more men for an escort.
The prospect bothered her. She did not know these men, and although they saved her, who was to say what they’d do when there was nothing but open road before them? Could she trust them to be men of character? She had little choice. If there were other troubles on the road, she’d be wise to have a few dangerous men with her. Besides, she had weapons and knew how to fight. If they were dishonorable, she swore to seduce, manipulate, and gut them one by one. If they caused her harm, she swore to return the favor seven fold.
Meriona turned back to the captain. “Let us through.”
The captain looked at Carringten, Baet, and Toar with reservations. Despite their Ministrian uniforms, he could tell they were not shock troops. With a frown, he looked back at Meriona.
“They are none of your concern,” Meriona barked at the captain. “Now let us through!”
The captain lowered his blade. He turned to the gatehouse and set himself against the wheel. Slowly, the gate rose. Baet held his breath as he passed out of the camp. He looked back at the raging fires and listened to the cacophony of war. There was certainly a chaos about the place! Men and women of the camp fought the proceeding blazes. Others fought the advancing shadows. A few simply panicked, and ran this way and that.
The gate closed. Celesi continued to hold Toar’s hand, as Baet and Carringten followed. Meriona turned and eyed her motley escort, then addressed the men as one. “See us to safety and I will shower you with riches. See us to safety and I will introduce you to women of intimate talent,” she smiled. “But if you think to force yourselves upon us, our people will hunt you to the ends of the earth.”
Toar regarded her with a derisive frown. Such thoughts were all but foreign to him.
Baet stared at the woman with horror in his eyes. He’d never forced himself upon anyone—not without first paying for such a service!
“We are not base or malicious men,” Carringten replied. “If you see us to Creigal, we will guard you the whole way, and if you wish to repay us for such service, then you will argue for his life.”
Satisfied, Meriona gave a nod. With a smile, she turned her attention back to the road.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.11 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
Robbed! I am robbed! Fedring sobbed as he continued to struggle against his bonds. Leverkusen left the window wide open, so Fedring could hear all too much of the chaos about the camp. He assumed it had everything to do with Leverkusen and the accursed serpent—and at first he was quite jubilant since he thought they must quickly be captured—but the ruckus only continued, then grew, and he was forced to wonder where they found enough allies to muster such an attack.
Several guards banged at his door and pleaded with Fedring to answer. “Your worship! We are under attack! We must move you to safety!” But they did not enter. Without his permission, they would not enter.
Fedring tried to spit out his gag, but it was tied too tight, and he could not. He huffed and slobbered and choked as he tried to call out. He cursed the guards for cowards as they refused to open the door and drag him out of his quarters.
A fight broke out in the hallway before the guards realized the extremity of their circumstances and could do the right thing. The Majoris cringed as the last of his guards squealed, sobbed, and slowly died.
After that, nothing happened for long seconds. Fedring hoped the attackers had simply moved on. Then the pounding began, and before long, the door smashed in.
Ears perked, Fedring listened as feet padded about his room. He held still and hoped the lump of blankets might simply be ignored. Voices spoke in a foreign tongue—guttural and raspy. Feet scampered about. Something fragile and valuable crashed to the floor.
The investigation continued, and for a time Fedring thought he might go unnoticed. Then the edge of his blanket lifted and he came face to face with a dog—only the dog was on two feet and carried a long, wicked dagger in its front paws.
Surprised to see the Majoris, the beast jumped away and dropped the edge of the blanket. Fedring’s world went dark once more. Something poked Fedring in the side, something sharp that split the skin. He screamed into his gag, squirmed, and struggled against his bonds.
The blankets pulled from Fedring and he found himself surrounded by several wide-eyed dog-faced beasts. It took him several seconds to realize these were the dreaded waokie of which he’d heard so much! There were nearly a dozen in the room, and they were quite amused to find him trussed up like a pig, ready for the roast.
One appeared older than the rest. This one dug about a pouch as the others deferred to him. The beast raised a paw filled with black filth and lifted a needle. It dipped the needle in the black filth, then slowly and carefully poked Fedring between the eyes. Fedring squealed and surged against his bonds—to the delight of the gathered beasts. The rope about his hands and feet held fast, as the old waokie dipped his needle, then pricked the Majoris again and again, this time only an inch or two from the last.
The beast pricked Fedring’s face, neck, arms, legs, and back. Fedring sobbed as he realized the beast infected him with sweet rot. He cried and confessed the sins of his heart. If the gods should simply save him, he promised to do better! He promised to be of service—if only he should be spared!
Then the waokie rolled Fedring over and the old beast pricked his chest and stomach. The process took far too long. By the time the creature was finished, Fedring was exhausted and barely flinched each time the needle broke his skin.
As time passed—as Fedring realized his prayers went unanswered—he scorned the world and cursed it for his troubles. He sneered and snarled and savaged the land with his thoughts. He swore if he met god, he’d roust the ineffectual old lout from his throne and disembowel him!
Day approached. Fedring felt lightheaded and nauseous. His condition deteriorated as the light of day grew, then blazed through his window, only to wane once more. As night approached, Fedring slept, though it was a troubled and uncomfortable sleep. In his sleep, he dreamed that the waking world was simply a nightmare he could not escape. He thought he should eventually wake safe in his bed, before another day of collecting metal, sex, and apologies from his priestesses.
As he slept, the gag finally loosened and fell from his mouth. Groggy and irritable, Fedring woke, then sobbed and snorted against the pain. His hands and feet throbbed—and no matter how he rolled, the pressure was always on some sore part of his body. Though he didn’t want to look, he saw the rot developing on his chest and arms whenever he glanced down. For a time, he whined and wheezed as he drifted at the edge of consciousness. For a time, he simply drooled and begged death to take him. In this way, Fedring suffered for the better part of two days before he finally gave up the ghost. The waokie gave the rot another day to bloom deep inside the corpse before they cut his meat from his bones and dried it in the noonday sun. After all, they were in no hurry to leave. The Camp was theirs, and the Fort was soon to follow.
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Mixed Company
Polished — 55m59s — 2023/12/07
“Mistress, there’re strangers on the road,” the guard warned.
The sun peeked over the mountains. The parade of paupers was bedding down for a much needed rest after a long night of travel. With a nod, Wenifas opened her eyes and slowly stood. Ignoring her fatigue, she stepped out to the road, turned, and stared west. The guard and Claiten accompanied her to the road.
Smoke drifted on the wind as a horse and rider stepped down the road with four figures behind it. The horse passed among the commoners. Those that were still up waved and bowed to the rider. Wenifas bit her lip. “Who are they?” she asked.
“The way they pass, must be someone important,” the guard shrugged.
Wenifas ran a hand through Claiten’s hair. “Go to your sister,” she said to the boy. Annoyed, Claiten returned back to the pine where Evereste rested with Meu and the dirt covered Trohl they found cavorting in a bed of flowers the night before.
The knot of strangers approached. The rider turned to the guard and said, “I am looking for the one that leads this rabble.”
Wenifas recognized the rider immediately. It was Meriona, the Jay. She blanched as the guard turned to her. Although a smile stretched across the Jay’s face, her eyes suggested she was not at all pleased to be referred to a simple priestess.
“You have saved a great many of my people,” Meriona gestured at the long train of commoners. “For that, I thank you.”
Wenifas gave a low bow, “You are welcome, mistress.”
“I am told you command these men? Have you taken an oath to the armies of the Empress?” Meriona asked.
“The men follow my lead as they were ordered,” Wenifas replied. “It is not a thing of my doing.”
“And who gave such an order?”
“It was the copal, Ayrik,” Wenifas answered.
Meriona turned and gave a puzzled look to the guard.
“It is a lawful order,” the man nodded. “Under special circumstance, members of the clergy and civility are known to lead troops,” the guard answered. As he said civility, he gave a nod to Meriona, in recognition of her own position. Yet, he made it clear that at this time he took his orders from the clergy, even such a minor member as Wenifas.
Meriona turned to the priestess and assumed an authoritative pose. “You have done a good job, though you are not trained in these matters. I ask that you immediately turn these men over to me.”
Wenifas looked about the various people as they relaxed along the road. Despite the large number of people around her—including over thirty armed and dangerous guards—Wenifas felt very much alone. Her one desire was to leave them all and be truly and utterly alone, that she might have a chance to grieve for Derris. This was the thing she cared to do, to cry and bluster and mourn!
Yet, she had her children to consider, and she did not trust the Jay with their safety. She thought it best that she retained command, as she figured Meriona would take the guards and make for Ebertin with all possible haste. Then, her children would be left with nothing but the rabble to protect them. Wenifas wanted to tell Meriona to take her own guards and go ahead all the same. They’d have the long train of paupers and soldiers to serve as their vanguard. Why demand the other capable men? Then, as she thought of the Jay’s guards, Wenifas glanced at Meriona’s entourage. Her heart dropped into her stomach. She knew these men. Their faces were etched on her soul as she remembered them killing Derris. Anger rose from the pit of her stomach. For a split second, Wenifas thought to say something about them, to attack them with nails and teeth.
Yet the priestess was rather good at denying her first impulse, and although she recognized them, these men did not seem to recognize her. But then, they must possess cold hearts. For them to have a cold dead stare was no stretch. They were murderers, after all.
Well?” Meriona pressed for an answer.
“I’m sorry,” Wenifas said, her head bowed deep as she pointed at the guard that stood next to her. “These men have not fulfilled their current orders. I cannot release them.”
Meriona stared daggers at the priestess. “And what orders are these?” she asked between clenched teeth.
“We are ordered to see these people to safety,” the guard volunteered.
“We are away from the camp. There are no waokie here to harm them,” Meriona pressed. “If these people are not safe, when might they be?”
For a moment Wenifas thought to say that these people would never be safe so long as the corruption and hypocrisy of the Baradha ruled! But she kept a calm face and simply replied, “They will be safe among the Trohls, when we have reached a settlement of significant size.”
“Then, you will turn these men to my command?” Meriona pressed.
This time Wenifas didn’t flinch. A cold rage caught hold of the priestess. She locked eyes with Meriona and simply said, “We shall see,” in a flat tone.
A bothered air came over the Jay though she calmed herself quickly. She sighed and offered a long suffering smile. “Then I ask that we be permitted to join your caravan, that we might be safe among your numbers.”
Wenifas realized the Jay didn’t trust her own guards. She felt a pang of sympathy for the woman, then answered with a gracious bow. “You have a right to the road. It is your prerogative to keep any company you like,” she said with no hint of irony.
“Then it is settled, we will join you,” Meriona grinned. “When might we proceed?”
“It has been a long night. We marched until the sun came up. We shall return to our travels soon,” Wenifas said.
“Then we shall find a place to rest until it is time to go,” Meriona replied, then turned from the priestess. With her guard in tow, she passed out of earshot.
Wenifas turned to her own guard. “Does it surprise you that she wishes to tarry with us instead of riding ahead?”
His curiosity piqued, the guard turned to her. “What are you insinuating?”
“The men with her—I do not trust them—and I suspect Meriona does not trust them either,” she answered.
The guard stared after the three strangers. “We shall keep an eye on them.”
“Thank you,” Wenifas gave a nod, then stepped away. She returned to the pine and nestled her nose in Claiten’s hair. There were still a few hours before they continued, and she longed for a deep dreamless sleep.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 19.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
As the camp rested, Baet walked among the brush and scrub at the side of the road.
“Where are you going?” Toar asked.
“I feel a return of the drips,” Baet replied with a sniff. “I’m lookin’ for your weed so I might make some tea.”
“Do you remember it? Shall I help you look?”
“Do as you like,” Baet shrugged.
“Do you think that’s her?” Toar asked, as he joined his friend.
“Who?”
“The woman in command. Do you think she’s the one with your musket?”
Baet turned back to Toar. “She’s a priestess, right? Twin gods and what not?”
“She’s not a Jay. They don’t bow and scrape to each other.”
“That’s good, right? That she’s not a Jay?”
“I don’t know,” Toar frowned.
Baet sniffed. “Well, it’s nice to know Cloud Breaker might be close. Do you think one of these fools might have Thunder Maker?”
Toar shrugged.
“Well, somebody has it,” Baet frowned. “Where do we go next? What do you know of this Ebertin?”
“It’s a shit city. I’d rather chance it out here with the bugbear,” Toar answered, then turned back to the subject of the musket. “Do you think she’s figured out how to reload it?”
“What are the chances any of them have shot and powder?” Baet shook his head. “Other people aren’t so interested in muskets—they don’t trust ‘em.”
“Why’s that?” Toar asked.
“There were issues, when muskets first came out,” Baet stated. “Some were made cheaply. Some were intentionally sabotaged. Either way, several defective muskets ended up in prominent hands. People died in terrible accidents. After that, the public wasn’t so impressed. Loud? Dangerous? Yes. But there’s only one shot before a long reload process, and you just might kill yourself using it? Why bother?! Why not just use a bow?!”
“You still use one,” Toar noted.
“In Gaurring the musket thrives,” Baet smiled. “In Guarring, the technology only improves.”
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 19.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
When noon approached, the long train of survivors slowly broke camp and began their ponderous march along the road. Celesi made a point of walking with Toar as the train stumbled west. She had not encountered so many commoners among the Ministrian and so she used him as a shield from their strangeness. Some approached her in a groveling manner, and she was not comfortable with it. Foremost, she had nothing to give them, and most left her looking resentful and put out that she would not even give them bits of copper. Did they not know that she was little more than a slave? Pampered and privileged, yes, but given little of her own. She did not like these people. She was much more comfortable with Toar, the only other Trohl among the whole lot.
And he was handsome too.
Not only was Toar amicable to Celesi’s company, but Meriona asked her apprentice to keep a close eye on him, that she might have another eye on their three strange guards. Celesi didn’t care about the senior Jay’s encouragement—but she was glad to have it!
As they traveled, Meriona left Celesi to the company of the Trohl—and the Saot with the wandering eye—as the senior Jay seemed to prefer the company of the midnight man. Celesi turned and looked back at the two of them. He was obviously the leader of the three, though the markings of their uniform claimed they were equals, all nobodies among the common troop. Yet, they seemed anything but common. They certainly had nothing to say to the guards of the priestess.
Meriona stared at her. Celesi waved, then turned and frowned at the ground, until she could think of something new to say to Toar.
“Our Trohl friends seem rather chummy, don’t you think?” Meriona said to Carringten as she lifted a brow. “Perhaps a bit too much?”
“Does their proximity concern you?” The Borz replied.
“Your master knew the significance of her condition. His appraisal was a sol for her blooding,” Meriona looked at Carringten with a critical eye, and hoped he wasn’t so daft not to know what she meant. It could be so taxing talking to those beneath her. “Your associate is rather friendly for my liking. If anything should transpire between the two, I may be forced to hold you accountable.”
“Threats, m’lady? To what end?”
Meriona leaned down. “A gold sol is the cost of such things,” she repeated.
“It is not our custom to pay for that which is freely given,” Carringten replied, unperturbed.
“I remind you, this is a matter of interest to the Throne,” Meriona chastised.
“The Throne has so very many interests,” Carringten noted. “How does she keep track of them all?”
“With the assistance of her servants, of course,” Meriona gave a slight bow. “When in Minist, do as the Ministrians do. Have you not heard this?”
“Everyone has heard it,” Carringten nodded. “Ministrians make a habit of saying it so very frequently. Yet, they often say it lands not their own.”
“Look around you,” Meriona replied. “What makes you think we are not in Minist?”
“I admit that I see myself among Ministrians, mostly their lowest, these defeated plebs,” Carringten began. “Yet, I’d be curious to hear how the Trohls might argue such an assertion.”
Meriona was about to fire back, when Carringten held up a hand, and switched directions.
“I will talk to him all the same,” the captain said. “To keep the peace.”
She huffed her victory. “Stern words, I hope.”
“The sternest,” he replied in a flat tone.
“That is all I ask,” Meriona said with a honeyed smile.
For several seconds, neither spoke. Carringten eyed the Jay. he thought it funny that although there were several hundred of her people about, Meriona sought him out and walked her horse nearby. He did not mind it, though he wondered why she did this. He assumed she was uneasy among the commoners. Perhaps she felt it better to walk with a man that she might openly antagonize instead of with people she pretended to serve.
After a short time, Meriona turned to Carringten again. “I should hope you did not kill for that uniform,” she baited the captain.
“I got this uniform from a rack of such uniforms,” Carringten answered, though he remembered the dead soldier they fought just outside the prison. He certainly didn’t want to bring that up with this Jay, and decided his best course of action was simply to change the subject. “How is this war with the Trohl?” he replied. “Why do you implicate the Saot?”
Meriona shrugged. “What way do you think it is?”
“I think Kezodel holds the militias in Ebertin, while he assists you in the enslavement of his own people, and I think he does it at a great profit. I think my king knows full well that you implicate one of his duchies in this affront, and I wonder if Kezodel, the King, and the Black Throne all have designs on Gaurring,” Carringten replied.
“I am not privy to what our military does, but I can tell you where we take all these civilians,” Meriona said. “With the waokie in the north and the west, we settle our people in the south, near Rynth Falls. Soon, the area with be dotted with Ministrian settlements, and as they become established, we will take the empty space between Wibbeley and Rynth Falls for our own.”
“I hear Ebertin is a large city,” Carringten noted. Is it the usual campaign of fear and doubt that keeps the local militias in check?”
“That and coin,” Meriona shrugged. “At this point, the city is all but ours, and so our methods are direct,” she noted. “In the beginning, it is always disinformation, distraction, and subversion.”
“And beyond Ebertin?”
“Beyond Ebertin is the Pulbouge, and they are no good,” Meriona scrunched her face. “They do not like us and refuse our trade. It would be much better for us if they were on this side of Ebertin, so we might clear them out too. As it stands, we must take the city first. Then we shall deal with the Pulbouge more directly.”
“How long before we reach Ebertin?”
“Among this squalid mass? Eight or nine days. But we are almost to Falderfallen’s Hovey, and then I think we can be rid of the rabble. Once there, we can get horses for you and your men. Then we shall move much quicker,” she answered.
“And my master? Where is he?” Carringten asked.
“A day or two ahead us,” Meriona shrugged.
“You say the execution will be quick. I should like to get there with a bit more haste,” Carringten stated.
Meriona shook her head. “In the lives of governments, a day or a week is a blink of an eye. Your master is an important man. A trial is necessary. It will be several days before Kezodel and Gliedian have scripted their interactions before the court. After that, there will be a time to petition against the decision of the court—not out of any true concern for the accused, of course—merely to maintain an illusion of impartiality. I promise that we will arrive in time—even as we limp along in this train of miscreants. We shall arrive before your master ever sees court. Besides, why do you wish to be there? They will know you as one of his lieutenants. What will you do? Will you fight Kezodel and all his men? If you try, it will be a quick and nasty death for you.”
“I will do what I must,” Carringten replied. “Do you think your argument will be without weight?”
“I think there is a reason our military implicates your duchy in the conquering of these lands,” Meriona replied. “And why is that? What has your master done that my Empress and your King should plot against him?” she asked. “And now that we should find him in our hands, do you think the rescue of a simple Jay will see him released?” she shook her head. “I think this endeavor is pointless. But I also think you must be a good man to see it through, and I should hate to see you destroyed along side your duke, so I will argue for you to be one of my new guard, if you should like such an honored position.”
“From insults to compliments,” Carringten eyed the Jay. “You do surprise me.”
“Live by the sword, die by the sword,” Meriona shrugged. She eyed the dark man to see if her words caused him any discomfort.
“True warriors do not beg for a quiet death,” Carringten replied. “Only a cause worth dying for.”
“And your master? He is such a cause?”
Carringten nodded.
Meriona frowned and shook her head. “There are no such causes. It is a grave mistake to value the life of some one else above your own.”
“And what of your Empress? Does she not demand your allegiance?”
“In her case, undying allegiance is the alternative to most immediate death. In Minist, there is no other bargain,” Meriona answered.
“Then it is a nation of slaves,” Carringten said.
Meriona smirked. “Half the world is in our thrall—yet all our slaves are not the same. You shall see the luxury and privilege I am afforded!”
“So you do not disagree?” Carringten asked.
“I do not,” Meriona admitted. “I’ve kissed the ring of Empress Seviticah—and I wonder if she has secretly kissed other rings herself. But I am not concerned with who stands at the tippy top of the world’s pyramid. I stand close enough. I see a great deal, and I am blessed in many ways.”
“But you would not die for your Empress?”
“Why should I want to die at all?” Meriona scowled. “Should I not want to live forever? But that is the great pain of our existence. Surely, it must be very few that manage immortality...”
“Few?” Carringten turned to Meriona with wide eyes. “You think there are those that manage it at all?”
“Certainly.”
“And who are these people? Where are they? Might we see them? Might we study with them?” Carringten asked.
“Of course you can! But time continues, and some are always skeptical! They say, ‘you are not dead yet, but that is not proof you will live forever!’ They do not see what some have accomplished,” Meriona replied.
“Indeed, I have met a few of the old masters of Minist,” Carringten noted. “Although some are very old indeed, none are immortal.”
“See? You are proving my point!” Meriona stated. “If they are not dead, how can you say they are not immortal?”
“Because even the greatest die. To live for three, four, even five hundred years is a far cry from living forever. How long did Hischeidah live? Six hundred years? Yet, he is dead. And is it true he took many of his secrets with him?”
“He may have taken a few tricks, but we shall discover them soon enough,” Meriona replied. “Besides, his six hundred years in not the record. Addivus is approaching eight hundred years.”
“And are they not both said to be chimera?”
Meriona shrugged. “That is always the rumor when one has lived for so long.”
Carringten shook his head. “Still, to be immortal is to watch the infinities pass as if they were nothing but this season’s flies…”
“The gods have promised it,” Meriona snapped. “But you do not know the true gods. We are the elect! We have the keys! We unlock the doors!”
“I may not know your gods,” Carringten agreed. “But I certainly know of them. For one, I know you speak not of Ooroiyuo and Naharahna.”
Meriona flinched.
“Yes, Jay. I know they are the gods of children. They are for the unwashed masses, a source of song and story to control the conquered peoples. The Baradha do not speak the names of their true gods. Not among the profane. Yet I know their names all the same,” Carringten continued. “Hef, Master of Waters; Gairfitz the Shimmering Light; Rauthmaug the All-Consuming... I know much of your secret gods and the dark powers they offer—but they are nothing compared to nature herself. Hers is the kingdom of heaven. Hers and hers alone. For all belongs to her, both heaven and hell. She offers eternal truth to any and every man. All they must do is open their eyes. You see, we all die, mistress! But first, we must live, and in our lives, we must serve. If we serve the dark, we will die only to be born into darkness once more. And so I serve the light, that at least my eyes are open.”
“And I suppose those that serve the light are immortal?” Meriona suggested.
“Not at all,” Carringten replied. “We are all immortal, light and dark alike—which is what makes their quest for immortality all the more tragic.”
Meriona glowered at the man.
“To live a life of meaning requires death,” Carringten continued. “In order to remember, you must forget.” He stared at the lady, curious to see if his words impacted her at all. “These are not contradictions, they are only paradox.”
“And what proof do you offer?” the Jay asked.
“Doubt says it is one. Faith says it is the other,” Carringten shrugged.
“Then you admit it, you do not know it all,” Meriona smirked.
“The aim is not to know it all. That is the mistake your people make. We only need know enough,” Carringten replied. “And that, my dear, is a simple thing, affordable to all.”
Meriona turned from the dark guard and his hopeful words. She looked about the others and silently judged them—as was her profession. With a snort, she pushed her horse forward and said, “I prefer my shoes, and the shoes of my horse, to any of these others.”
Carringten shook his head and hid a troublesome smile. He knew she’d return soon enough. Who else could she talk to?
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 19.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
That night, on the far side of Falderfallen’s Hovey, Creigal was given a posh room with two of Gliedian’s guards posted outside the only door, and two more outside the only window. He pulled the shades.
There were fifty four men riding with the Lord Commander and another twenty or so emissaries and civilians that traveled in their company. Creigal was the only prisoner among them, but his rank was known, and Gliedian was good to his word. Creigal was treated well. Indeed, all the people around him were very polite—so long as he did as he was told.
His immediate handlers, Karamina and Alise, were too polite. No matter if he rode on horse, wagon, or carriage, the girls were his immediate companions and interacted with him almost exclusively. Alise was coy with her company, always trying to trick information out of him. While Karamina—the one that sounded so very much like his daughter—was simply forward. He was bothered by the fact that she sounded so much like Daphne, especially since she was always taking passes. Too weird! he thought and shuddered.
The other one, the Saot girl, Alise, only pretended to know nothing of her homeland. Creigal was beginning to think she was the daughter of some family of wealth and title, and therefore steeped in politics. Her questions against him proved that she knew not only some of his own personal history, but history of his fathers and his people. Her commentary was often biting. Indeed, between the two it was the old salt and sugar routine, and it made for long days on the road.
Creigal wondered what sorts of tricks and interrogations he could expect from his enemies next. He wondered how long before they turned from the mind games and began with the physical abuses. Then, not wanting to think of his problems, Creigal turned his mind to his people. He wondered how they fared without their duke and imagined they were doing quite well. He’d set up his own succession years ago, after it was proved his sons had murdered his daughter. Indeed, most the people would not notice he was even missing. No matter what happens to me, he thought, my people will thrive for a thousand generations! With this thought in his head, he fell asleep with a smile on his face.
Late in the night, Creigal woke with a start. He wasn’t sure what he heard, but he was convinced someone else was in his room. He wondered if Gliedian had gone back on his word and turned him over to an assassin. Now I will die, he thought, an ignominious death, far from home.
At least he would not be tortured.
He noticed a shadow shift. Someone approached the foot of his bed, slowly and quietly. A pair of hands slid up the covers. Creigal tracked the shadow, and as the stranger crept close enough, he grabbed at the wrists and caught hold of the thin lanky frame.
“Let go!” Karamina hissed with his daughter’s voice. He checked her hands for a poisoned pin or a garrote. Finding her hands empty, he glared at her, then let her go, as she asked.
“What are doing?” Creigal hissed at the young Jay.
Karamina crawled onto the bed as Creigal’s eyes further adjusted to the dark. He realized she had just shrugged out of her nightgown and was wearing nothing underneath.
“You are in the wrong room,” he told her.
“And if I were?” Karamina whispered her defiance. “But I am in the right room,” she smiled. “Don’t you see? I am here for you, old man.” She advanced with a chuckle.
“Non, child. I do not want such sport,” he said, loud enough for the guards to hear, as he kept her at bay with his hands and feet.
“It is not for you to say,” Karamina replied in a whisper. She slowly pressed against him and tried to work through his defenses as he held her back. “If you defy me, I will scream and bring in the guards. It will be bad for you. I will say you forced yourself upon me, and they will be wrath. There is only one thing for you to do. You must submit,” she said as she pressed her tits against his hands.
Creigal put a foot in her stomach and pushed her back.
“I brought fio,” she said as she revealed a small pouch.
Creigal was not impressed.
“There’s no need to fight each other,” she frowned as she advanced once more. “Don’t you long for love?” She said as she tried to tangle herself past Creigal’s defensive hands. “I offer you the warmth of a woman, a chance to frolic before you die! And not just tonight! I shall return tomorrow, and the next night! I will be with you every night until your last—if you only ask! I’ll be with you until you part this sad life!” she offered. “And I am trained in the ways of sensuality. You will find me to be enthusiastic, even vigorous.”
“It cannot be,” Creigal replied and continued to push her back.
“You think of the Trohl, is that it?” Karamina admonished. “If I were blonde, you would bed me,” she leaned forward and tried to lick his face. She licked his arm instead. “I will make you forget her, you will see.”
“Stop teasing me,” he said and wondered if she might never leave him alone.
“Give me a royal child,” she whispered. “I will see that it gets a good upbringing. I will see to his comfort,” she cooed. She found an opening in his defenses and grabbed between his legs. She caught a handful of his heritage, gasped and thought, My! What a man!
With a huff, Creigal pushed her off. Not wanting to play at games any longer, he stood and wrestled Karamina into a pretty little knot in about three and a half heartbeats. He was a fair deal larger, and much better at the martial arts.
“Let go!” she huffed as she struggled to get out of his hands. She was not well trained at such things, and he knew how to fight. “Let me down!” She raised her voice—though she still hoped they might not be disturbed. Indeed, she liked him all the more for his forceful, yet gentle ways. He might have her pinned, but he did nothing to hurt her. God, he was strong! He’d overcome her with such little effort—and he had not even pinched her in the process! Sweet Naharahna, she wanted him! “You better let me down, or I’ll scream,” she hissed—yet hoped he might yet give her a real reason to scream. Oh, she hoped to scream and call his name all night long! The guards would not mind. They were paid to wait and listen—unless she screamed very specific things in a specific way. Only then would they intrude.
Creigal stepped off the bed, careful not to drop the young Jay. He carried her across the room and to the door.
“Let me down!” her voice banged up an octave as she struggled against his grasp.
Creigal thumped against the door. There was a long silence. He banged again, and was about to hit the door a third time when the door creaked open. Confused guards stared at Creigal as he cradled Karamina in all her unadorned glory.
“No more gifts,” Creigal said to the guards as he set the Jay on her feet. He spun her around and gave her a smart slap on the ass.
“Ow!” Involuntarily, Karamina took a step forward into the hall—one arm covered her chest as the other reached for her sore butt. She tucked her tail and the door slammed shut, and gave her another smart smack on the backside. With shock on her face, Karamina looked at the guards. They returned her dumbfounded stare.
The lot of them could hear Creigal as he stomped away into his room—and then they heard him stomp right back to the door. The door popped open and Creigal gave the girl her nightgown. He turned to the guards. “Well?!” he glared. “Look away boys! Let the lady get dressed!”
The guards turned. Karamina pulled her nightgown over her head, then scampered off to her own room thoroughly embarrassed.
Creigal slammed the door once more. He settled into the dark and wondered how Karamina could have so grossly misread his interest! Did she think she was the only woman to ever throw herself at him? And with such questionable motives! As if he was interested in bedding the enemy! With a huff, he returned to his bed and hoped that’d be an end to the night’s hi-jinx.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 19.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
There were few blankets and almost no tents among the ragtag collection of Ministrians. The paupers huddled under the boughs of low hanging trees and siphoned heat from one another as the night stretched into the wee hours and grew most cold. Then, as the cold was near its peak, Wenifas roused the camp. Guards rekindled the fires so the paupers might warm themselves. Shortly after—almost before the paupers could get warm—the call went out and the column started east once more. Walking was the best way to keep warm, they said. Still, they were lucky. Summer nights in the mountains were not so bad.
The march continued until noon. The parade of paupers stopped and took another rest through the high heat of the day. As the sun began to wane once more, they’d wake, take a bit of a meal—if there was food to be found—and begin their slow march once more.
Wind kicked up from the west and brought with it the smoke from the wrecked forts. The reek was thick and at times it was not possible to see from one end of the caravan to the other. Occasionally, stragglers from the camp joined the caravan with fright in their eyes, blisters on their feet, and wild tales of their escape. Thankfully, there was no sign of any pursuing waokie.
The parade of paupers continued east, heads down and solemn—but not all of the refugees were bowed by the doom and gloom of the situation. The youngest survivors seemed least affected by their circumstance. For one, Claiten skipped down the line of marchers, no longer bothered by his near escape. He did not think to connect the smoke to the destruction of his home, or so many people that he knew about camp. His sister and mother were alive, as were several of his friends, most of whom also thought this was a fine adventure! On top of that, Wenifas marched at the head of the column with a new found respect that the other children extended to Claiten.
The guards were also in odd spirits and restless. There was no guarantee they were free of the waokie, and there was still the danger of what lay ahead. There was also a guilt about them, as they left so many of their brethren to fight and die. Many were quick to note they were under orders and those that tried to defy captain Ayrik were threatened with death. So it was that a majority of the guards vacillated between survivor’s guilt and the pleasure of a new day.
As Claiten ran down the line of refugees with several other children hot on his heels, one of the guard nudged another. “That’s her boy,” he said to his brother-in-arms.
“Who’s boy?”
“The priestess,” the guard answered. “You know. The priestess that rescued... this,” he waved at the various people.
“Yeah? Did you ever petition?”
“Non. I don’t think I ever saw her back at camp. Probably one of those that rarely leaves her tent. She’s a looker though, eh?”
“There are so many lookers among the priesthood. That’s why we like ‘em,” the other joked. “But this one... She is weepy. Did you not see her when she first approached the gate?”
The guard shrugged. “Rough night. Besides, women are meant to cry.”
His friend turned a critical eye. “You mean to ask her, don’t you? You got the coin for it?”
“Maybe,” the guard frowned as he rolled several bits in his hand. “I left most my monies in the barracks. Will you lend me?”
His friend rolled his eyes. “All this trouble and you can think of nothing but pollinating the next pretty flower! We’re a thousand miles from home! Do you not see the trouble we are in?!” Still, he dug a hand in his pocket and fished out several coins.
“Priorities,” the first guard smiled as his friend passed him a couple diems. “If I die, I shall die satisfied.”
“You are not allowed to die,” his friend replied. “You are on the line for two diems, and I mean to have them back.”
His friend winked as he whistled at Claiten. “Come here, boy!” the guard called.
Claiten turned to the heavily armed man. His eyes went wide and his hand drifted to the hilt of his dagger. The guards approved of such caution among the boys and smiled to see it. They thought it was good instinct.
“Come closer,” the guard ordered.
As Claiten approached, his friends kept a safe distance. All of them had suffered lashings from such men, and they also had no idea why their friend was summoned.
The guard leaned toward the boy with a smile. “I beg a favor,” he said and held out the diems. “Take these and give them to your mother. Ask if she will perform ritual, that my soul might be purged.”
Claiten gave a nod, snatched the coin, and ran up the line. He thought his mother would be pleased as he gave her the two diems and whispered the guard’s words.
“Men!” Wenifas bellowed to Meu and her mute Trohl friend. “We are lost in the wilds and they can think of nothing but their stiff little billies!”
Despite her friend’s consternation, Meu only shrugged, while the silent Trohl smirked.
Wenifas turned on her boy and gave him back the diems. “Take this back and tell him I am not performing! Tell him I am sick! Tell him I suffer a rash...” she said to her son. Claiten turned to go back to the guard, but Wenifas grabbed him by the shoulder before he was out of reach. “Non, I will talk to him,” she continued. “In fact, I will talk with all the guards.” She dug into her pack and took out a handful of coins from Fedring’s bag. “May I?” She asked the wyrm.
Meu shrugged once more. It was only coin and easily won. She did not care what happened to it.
Wenifas picked a handful of large silver lunes from the bag and gave them to Claiten to hold. Once the boy had his hands full of heavy silver coins, Wenifas proceeded to the head of the train, then turned and stood in the road. She smiled and nodded as the people passed and stopped each guard. She thanked them for their continued service to the Throne and gave each of them a lune. Several balked. “Priestess, I cannot take this! What monies will you use?”
Thanks to Meu, Wenifas had more money than she’d ever thought possible. Indeed, she felt guilty for having so much of it among so many of her destitute neighbors. “There is enough,” she told the guards. “Please take it. The gods demand it.”
“Why do you pay them?” Claiten asked as they waited for the next set of guards.
“Currency must flow, and if I give them money, it proves my command,” Wenifas told him. “Besides, we have so much of it, and these people suffer. But do not speak of it. Do not tell anyone of our wealth, or we will be in grave danger,” she said and stared at the boy.
With a nervous gulp, Claiten nodded. He pointed at the next approaching guard and whispered to his mother, “He’s the one.”
“Hullo, miss,” the guard blushed. “You did not have to stop for me,” he said with a bit of a flourish. “I would have found you at our next rest.”
“But I do have to stop,” Wenifas smiled. “And I apologize. I am unable to perform for you,” she said as she pressed his diems back into his hand.
The guard’s expression grew dark. “But why?”
“You ask for my service, that you might worship, and I am flattered by your most generous offer,” Wenifas smiled. “But I am burdened by the words of your captain. You see, I must command, and I cannot be under you as I am over you. Instead, give your tender thoughts to one of my talented sisters. Let her have your heart, and let me rule your sword instead,” she put her hands on his ears, pulled him forward, and kissed his forehead.
He blushed to receive such grace, then his jaw dropped as she pressed a silver lune into his hand.
“This is for your good service, my brother.” She turned to his friend and pressed a lune in his hand too. “And for you too.”
“What is this?” the friend asked.
“You protect us, and we must see to your needs that you will stay strong. Please. You must take it,” Wenifas told him. She turned and moved down the line of refugees before they could refuse.
“She is right, you know. You must let her alone.”
“Oh?” the first guard turned on his friend.
The friend nodded. “If not, you’ll have to fight the rest of us for her favor!” he stated, suddenly alight with his own infatuation.
“And now you want to sleep her too?!”
“Did you not hear her words? She is a poet,” he admired. He shook his head, took his two diems, and turned away from the retreating priestess. “Still, there are others. There must be one among this crowd that’s worth your metal—some quivering flower, thick with honey.”
“Some one or two,” the guard glanced about the marching crowd. He realized half a dozen pretty ladies despite the dirt and fatigue that made up their faces. His mouth creased into a smile as he closed his hand around the coin. “To see to our needs, that we will stay strong,” he repeated her words, and offered a sly smile to the next priestess he passed.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 19.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
The tops of several buildings peered over the forest. After three days of walking, Falderfallen’s Hovey was finally in view. There was a nervous trepidation about the refugees. Now that they’d reached a Trohl settlement, would they be welcomed and succored? Or would the locals view them as invaders?
Meriona watched as Wenifas once again gave lunes to the soldiers. They smiled and thanked her—yet not a one thought to ask her where she got so much coin!
After the first time, Meriona wondered that the priestess should give away so much of her own monies. It must have taken years to save so much for one of such low station. Then, as she spied upon the priestess and her child, she discovered something rather fantastic! It was the boy that let it slip, as he dug in his pack. He pulled a purse from his bag—but not any old purse—one marked with the office of the Corpus Majoris! Somehow, this priestess and her progeny possessed the coin of Fedring’s office!
Meriona approached the priestess. “Congratulations,” she smiled. “You have succeeded in saving so very many of our people.”
Wenifas hid her hands in her pockets. “Thank you, m’lady,” she replied. “I did what I could.”
“You have done well, and I am impressed,” Meriona smiled. “Many would have abused such position. They would have taken advantage.”
“In what way?” Wenifas asked.
Meriona shrugged. “There are all sorts of things a devious person might do—but I’m sure you saw opportunity. You are far more clever than you let on,” she smiled.
“You continue to compliment me,” Wenifas bowed.
“It is deserved. Yet, I feel you have entered new depths,” Meriona paused.
“In what way?” Wenifas asked. She was reticent, and although it was subdued, the Jay noted her suspicion. Meriona did not mind. It only proved the priestess’s intelligence.
“We approach a settlement of strangers in our hour of need. How shall we proceed?” Meriona began. “But I do not mean to pressure you. Instead, I hope to be of service. Might I lead the people into town? I know Falderfallen’s Hovey, and I know a few of her notable men. I believe I can smooth over our arrival.”
Wenifas was shocked by the offer, though she tried to hide it, “You would do that?”
“They are my people too,” Meriona rebuffed her. “I must do what I can to see them safely established!”
“And once we are safe?” Wenifas asked.
“I continue to Ebertin. There are matters I must attend,” Meriona said. “When I leave, I ask that you come with me. I would see you commended for the part you have played.”
“Do you take your guard?” Wenifas asked.
“The foreigners? Yes. I have promised to see them to the capital, and I will keep my word,” Meriona answered. She leaned forward and continued in a whisper. “Is there reason I should not bring them?” She asked as she wondered why the priestess seemed suspicious.
“I do not like them,” Wenifas confessed.
Meriona cocked her head. “Oh?” she said, surprised by this revelation.
The priestess’s eyes went wide and shot from side to side. “They are not guards at all!” Wenifas confessed. “They are criminals, escaped from the prison! The night of the attack, I witnessed them murder a man!”
“You saw this?!” Meriona feigned shock.
“I did!” Wenifas asserted. “He was a guard, good and loyal! The very best of men!”
“Then you must come with me!” Meriona charged. “I take them to court—for another matter altogether—but once we are there you can witness against them!”
“Will we see them hanged?” Wenifas asked, her eyes alight.
“Yes, my darling. We will see justice rule,” Meriona beamed.
“Then I must attend,” Wenifas replied and offered a hopeful smile to the Jay. “Please,” she continued. “Lead us into town.”
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A Day in Court
Adjusted chapters 8 and 13 so Scurra petitions the courts before attempting west on her own. Polished 20.1 — 23m24s — 2023/12/07
Polished 20.2 — 44m44s — 2023/12/08
“Why do I speak to a lapdog of Minist?! Is there no priest of the Eternal Song here?!” Scurra sneered at Kezodel. She knew it was a mistake to issue such an insult—what could it win her? But after being ignored, castigated for her petitions, then arrested and thrown in jail for attempting to go west, she now faced flat out insults, and for a moment, she lost her cool.
“Now, now,” Kezodel let out a long suffering sigh—as if he was the offended party—and not the first to throw insults.
If not for his arrogance and smug self-righteousness, perhaps Scurra would have considered Kezodel to be rather attractive—as he lounged on his opulent throne, fully in control. But that’s not to say there weren’t others in the room: others with influence, others with power, others with their own agendas—and so Kezodel was obliged to treat with this angry woman. “I only look for my brother,” she repeated, yet again.
“Ah, but I remember your brother,” Kezodel leaned forward. Indeed, he did. He’d already told the room some bits of their story—or at least his version. “Not only do I remember your brother, but I remember that I told him not to return to these lands. Yet, what should he do?” the Muaha shook his head and leaned forward. “And to pick flowers, you say? How am I to believe that?”
“It is the truth of it,” Scurra glared.
“Yes,” Kezodel smirked. “He wrote it in a letter—a letter you do not have. So, not only does your brother return on some dubious quest, but he has gone west, where a war rages out of all control—and I am to believe it is for flowers?!”
“But you said you believe me,” Scurra replied.
“No, I said the court believes you,” Kezodel corrected. He turned his attention to the lesser judges in their various ranks and glared. Those that were easily intimidated adjusted their seats, shifted about, and generally pretended as if they weren’t the sudden center of Kezodel’s focus. “You may have convinced some of these others, but I am not among them,” the Muaha stated. He glanced between Scurra and Andrus. With a tilt of his head, he held up three fingers, referring to reports of a third man that was seen with them—but Scurra and Andrus had both denied the involvement of Aim.
“Once more, I ask that I be allowed to go west to find my brother,” Scurra repeated.
Kezodel sat up straight. “Once more, indeed!” He began. “The west is closed! It is a war zone! All that are in it are criminals and collaborators!” he stared at Scurra. “Do you truly hope to locate some petty vagrant among such wanton bloodshed?!”
“You have granted entrance to other militias,” Scurra noted.
“Bouge militias,” Kezodel clarified. “And which of them are to be trusted? The situation is bleak, my cousin!” he shook his head and stared back at Scurra—then pointed at her with a smile on his face. “I may not like you, cousin. I may not trust you—but I do admire you. You got a lot of spirit, so I will do this for you. I will make a most immediate inquiry into the whereabouts of your brother. I vow to return him—that is, on the off chance that we know where he is. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised if we found him in one of our jails,” he finished in a smug manner.
“I should be!” Scurra retorted. “How many of your own people have been lost in the byzantine labyrinth of dungeons and prisons that make up your jails?! Yet you pretend to be some great humanitarian!” Others among the crowd were agreeing, elements that had this same beef with the courts. Scurra felt safe enough to throw back yet another insult. “It is quite apparent to me that a reformation of court and council is in order!” she snapped. “Perhaps there should be a vote of confidence, and I shall bring my petition to a reformed court!”
“Now, now,” Kezodel cut in with a glazed expression. “I do not prescribe how the Jindleyak handle their internal affairs,” he retorted. ”I will not have you insulting our efforts...”
“Your people flee to me lands by the thousand!” Scurra lambasted. “They flee with nothing but terror in their hearts and rags on their backs!” She let that sink in, as Kezodel glared, and when he didn’t immediately respond, she continued. “As brothers and sisters, we provide succor and refuge at great cost to ourselves! And what standing do you have to complain of Jindleyak affairs?!”
“Enough!” Kezodel snapped, his face red with rage. “You verge on contempt!”
For several seconds, Scurra fumed at the man. She wanted to tell him all about her contempt, but managed to control her flaring anger. “Alas, I am done,” she replied in a calm manner. “If you will not allow me to search among your forts and outposts, then I must beg you to have your men find my brother. Find him and return him to me.”
“Yes, yes,” Kezodel quickly agreed. “Now I will hear no more of it! If he is among us, we will find the cripple and we will send him running—but I will take no more of your abuse!” He leaned forward, and with a cocky eye, he added, “unless you should like to abuse me in private,” then made a subtle but lewd gesture. Several of the judges that happened to see this signal thought it was worth a chuckle.
Scurra turned away in disgust.
Kezodel looked beyond her. “Next business!” he ordered.
The Jindleyak delegation, nearly a dozen strong, followed as Scurra marched from the center of the floor.
The chamberlain cleared his throat and stepped forward. He glanced at his notes. “The court recognizes Gliedian, Lord Commander of the Empress Seviticah, Defender of the Western Front, Blessed Brother to the Muaha!”
In the corridors of the Great Court, Scurra turned to Traust. “I apologize,” she shook her head. “I was reckless, and I’ve wasted precious time.”
“You didn’t mean to get caught, and if it was my brother…” Traust shrugged. “Besides, I am often in this court, and it is usually a sordid and self-serving affair. At least with you, I got to watch that smug jerk squirm—though it nearly stopped my heart to see it! There were a few times I thought he might come out of that chair!” Traust noted. “So now that you’ve exhausted the court, what will you do?”
“I shall go west to find my brother,” Scurra stated. “It was in my vision. I must see to it that he is freed.”
Traust shook his head. “If he should catch you a second time...”
“Yes. I dare not get caught,” Scurra replied. “I cannot go over the same wall. What other ways are there into the western lands?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking it over, since I knew you’d still want to go,” Traust smiled. “There’s the lake—which I do not like. The locals all say the patrol boats have increased quite sharply. There’s the north route, but most of the fighting has been in the north. We could go south into the Saot Kingdom, then come up through Rynth Falls. It will take a lot longer, but I think it is the best course.”
“To go so far south…” Scurra shook her head.
“Word out of Rynth Falls is very strange,” Traust noted. “Not terribly dangerous. More guarded. But you can’t get there from here unless you go through the western war zone—or unless you go out onto the Noethrin Plains,” he smiled. “It adds a couple days to the journey, but we’ve been meaning to get eyes on Rynth Falls and see if any of the wild rumors about the place have any base in the real world.”
“What are you hearing?” Scurra asked.
“Wait,” Traust shook his head. “We are about to be interrupted.” He cut the conversation and turned to a steward of the court.
“Sir Traust, Lady Scurra,” the steward stopped in front of her with a hasty bow. “Sincerest apologies, but you must come with me. His excellency requires your most immediate return.”
Degorouth guards heard the command and moved to cut off their exit. Despite nearly a dozen of her own militia, armed to the teeth and formidable, there were far too many of Kezodel’s Degorouth to refuse. A shiver ran up Scurra’s spine. “Very well,” she said, and took a step back toward the audience chamber with her Jindleyak countrymen in tow.
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 20.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
Meu kissed Wenifas as they first entered the city. She also kissed the shaman so that both ladies had some idea of what transpired, as they made their way through town and into the Great Court, where everything preceded in a foreign tongue.
Although Wenifas welcomed the kind thoughts of the shaman, they were not constant. Meu used a light dose of venom which allowed the priestess and the shaman to hold back their thoughts if they chose. Wenifas could shut out the others all she liked, which was very much appreciated, but it also meant the shaman occasionally kept her out of his own thoughts, which was inconvenient.
Baet and Carringten did not have such immediate translation and had to rely on the constant interpretation of Toar. Yet, as they entered the main audience chamber where Kezodel held court, the immediate petitioner spoke Ministrian, and the court responded in kind—so although the two guards did not recognize the petitioner, they certainly knew his charge.
The chamberlain stepped into the open half circle reserved for the petitioning party. “Now we shall hear from Gliedian, Lord Commander of the Empress Seviticah, Defender of the Western Front, Blessed Brother to the Muaha!”
Gliedian pushed to the center of the half circle, followed by twenty or so men, including one in irons. “Your worship,” the Lord Commander addressed the Muaha. “I am pleased to report that we have captured the head of the enemy’s army! We ask that he be condemned and given a public execution, so the people can share in our triumph!” Gliedian gestured to the Saot gentleman bound in irons.
Carringten hissed and ribbed Baet with his elbow. He did not point at their duke, as he stood shackled next to Gliedian—but pointed at two figures that stood near the back of the Lord Commander’s entourage, at two old comrades in arms, Garf and Banifourd.
For a long second, Baet glared, then pointed Carringten toward the throne where Kezodel sat. “Look at that sword,” Baet whispered. “Makes Vearing’s claymore look like a toothpick.” Indeed, it was an impossibly large weapon that rested next to the throne, which could be nothing more than decoration. It was nine or ten feet long and as thick as an apple tree at its base. On the other side of the throne was an equally preposterous shield, gilded with precious stones and metals. Although Kezodel was large for a man, these instruments were far too big for anyone to wield. To think of fighting with them was comical.
Not that it mattered. There were at least a hundred guards about the room, all armed to the teeth, with more roaming the other rooms and halls of the greater court.
As the others concentrated on Gliedian and his most unfortunate prisoner, Meriona approached the chamberlain. “Is his excellency hearing many cases today?” she asked.
The chamberlain looked up at the lady and noted the slight pin she wore; two fangs: one gilded in silver, the other in gold. Since she was a person of standing, he answered her kindly. “The day’s work is all but done. This is the last of our petitioners. Do you have business to bring before the court?”
“I do indeed. I apologize for my hastiness, but it is a pressing matter,” she said as she gave the man a conciliatory smile.
“Immediate?” He asked as a frown stretched across his face.
Meriona shook her head. “I should not wish to interrupt this business,” she waved a hand at Gliedian and his entourage. “But if you can fit us in after the current gentleman, such an arrangement would be most fortuitous,” she held up a gold sol, recently pressed, with the bright seal of Minist upon it.
A smile broke across the chamberlain’s face as he took the coin. He nodded emphatically. “Yes. I do believe we shall have a few minutes! Will you require long, or is it a straight forward matter?”
“I should think five or ten minutes will be all we require,” Meriona smiled. “Even if we should prove most entertaining, I do not see us taking more than fifteen,” she said, though she believed it might take an hour or more once Fedring’s coin was discovered—not to mention the time and the hand wringing there would be about hanging another half dozen criminals—but if Fedring’s coin was half as much money as she thought it was… Indeed, now that Meriona thought about it, she wondered if it might not go on into the night, or better yet, might she get to see another closed session of the court? If she had her way, they’d all be charged as the duke’s lieutenants, servants, and collaborators. They’d all simply be hanged. Then, none of them could possibly speak of Fedring’s coin, and Meriona would get all of the profits. If that’s how it went, if the condemned didn’t give away the game, ten minutes might be all of it.
The chamberlain gave a nod. “Well, I do not see this taking all that much longer,” he waved at the shackled Saot. “We shall see to you promptly,” he said with a smile.
Above the whispers of the Jay and the chamberlain, Kezodel leaned forward and spoke with a great voice, as he stared at Creigal and Gliedian. “The Duke of Gaurring himself, you say? Would he speak? Is he agreed to his crime?”
“I speak quite fine, Muaha Kezodel,” Creigal began in Ministrian. “My name is Dandifrod, and I am incorrectly identified. I am but a traveler, looking for investment in distant lands. I have no army except two men and a guide.”
“This is an alibi,” Gliedian asserted. “It is the only lie he speaks. But our sources have confirmed him beyond a doubt. His true name is Creigal berDuvante, Duke of Gaurring, and he means us no good.”
“This is a title of great weight among the Saot, is it not?” Kezodel asked.
“There is none above him but the King,” Gliedian affirmed. He turned to Banifourd. “This man can identify him beyond a doubt. In exchange for nothing more than his honest word, we ask that he be granted his life and freedom.”
“And what is your name?” Kezodel asked the man.
The esquire gave a low bow. “I am Banifourd deMetrius, your honor, and he is indeed the Duke of Gaurring. Until most recently, I have served in his company.”
Creigal sneered at Banifourd. “You are false! You indeed served in my company and know my name—but it is not Creigal! Let ‘em see your own papers and the seal of the company!”
Banifourd held up his hands. “Unfortunately, I have lost my papers.”
“Convenient,” Creigal noted.
“You do not dispute that I was your man?” Banifourd gave a pious shrug. “Would you dispute that Saot royals often use other names when conducting clandestine affairs?”
“Speak your half truths, traitor,” Creigal spit. “You may fool this court, but you will not escape god’s justice!”
Kezodel frowned. “One man’s word against another... Is there no more evidence?”
Gliedian pulled a paper from his pocket. “I also have this: a letter intercepted from Count Drefford of Wibbeley that identifies Creigal berDuvante and praises him for his accomplishments in conquering these lands!”
This caused a stir among the court. Kezodel signaled Gliedian to approach the throne and bring with him the letter. He took the note and studied it for several seconds, then lifted it in the air and waved it about. “Truly we have captured an important man! This is quite a blow to our enemies!” the Muaha gushed. “Still, a man of such title... must we execute him? To wash the streets with such royal blood. Can he not be ransomed?”
Gliedian hedged, “He is guilty of many crimes, your Grace. He is a scourge, a danger to you and your people as long as he lives. We think it best if he is dispatched immediately.”
Kezodel frowned, “It is often hard to know the proper path...” he began.
“If you think a reward is in order,” Gliedian cut in, “the Empire might be able to agree to such terms.”
“I should think we cannot accept less than a hundred gold sol for such a ransom,” Kezodel mused.
Baet shook his head and whispered to Toar. “He does not know the Gaur at all if he thinks us to be such paupers.”
“He is not looking to ransom the man,” Toar answered. “Only to milk the Empress for doing her dirty work.”
Demure, Gliedian backed a pace. “I think we can agree to such a sum,” he acquiesced.
“Then I am satisfied,” Kezodel continued. “An execution is set! This prisoner will die two weeks from today, at the hour of noon!”
“Are no terms given for my release?” Creigal asked. “Although I am not a rich man, a hundred gold sol is not beyond my reach.”
Kezodel sat tall on his throne. “To the prisoner, I offer these terms for his unconditional release: a hundred times a hundred gold sol to be delivered no later than the hour of execution!”
“Well, that is more like it,” Baet whispered as he calculated the sum with wide eyes.
“And why is so much demanded of me?” Creigal asked.
“Do you think enemies pay the same ransom as friends?” Kezodel sneered. “If you should survive, I will see you buggered.”
Creigal held out his empty hands. “Even if I had such money, do you expect I could have it delivered in two weeks?”
“I do not,” Kezodel answered. “Indeed, I do not expect you to deliver anything. I simply expect you to die, your grace. If you wish to live, I suggest you petition your gods. Perhaps they shall save you—but tell them to be quick! Time is of the essence!”
Cruel laughter broke from the assembled audience. Carringten frowned and checked the sword at his side.
“Do not be rash,” Meriona huffed. “It is death to pull your weapon in the presence of the Muaha. Do you not see all the guards?”
“Let it be done!” Kezodel banged his gavel. “And now we shall recess for the day…”
Gliedian bowed as a deep smile played across his face. He turned to leave and motioned for his men to bring Creigal along.
Wenifas noted the dismay of Baet, Carringten, and Toar. For a split second, she thought she should feel vindicated by their pain. But no—a man was sentenced to death, and she had no reason to believe he was guilty. The trial was so quick and the evidence of wrongdoing so very thin! There was just one witness and only one letter?!
“Meriona, Jay of the Empress!” the chamberlain called. Surprised to hear the name, Gliedian stopped. His men also turned to see the Jay.
Kezodel sat back. He turned to his chamberlain, curious to know why he was still called to judge. Was Gliedian’s case not the last? “The court is thick with Ministrian affairs this day!”he mused. “Our blessed cousins provide us no end of business! And what can we do for you, Meriona, Jay of the Black Throne?” He called to the audience, and waited for Meriona to snake her way down to the floor.
Meriona stepped into the half circle alone—save Krumpus, who followed close on her heels. “Your grace,” she began unaware of the shaman’s antics next to her. “I have captured the lieutenants of this doomed general...” she trailed off as she noted Kezodel was not looking at her, but at the interrupting shaman.
While Meriona spoke, Krumpus pushed his way through Gliedian’s men, looped his elbow under the duke’s, and pulled Criegal back into the half-circle, all while berating his captors with a wagging finger and a strong arm. Gliedian held up a hand to calm his men, and let the vagrant with the drying flowers about his neck pull Creigal back into the half-circle, and next to Meriona.
Having his way, Krumpus turned and began to berate the judge in Tallian Hand. There was a wildness in the shaman’s eyes and a petulant scowl upon his face. Wenifas felt a surge of righteous indignation burn through her mind as the shaman allowed all his thoughts through. She knew the feeling. It was the same way she felt as she lay with Derris and talked of the hypocrisy of the Baradha—only now it was propelled by an iron will. Aghast, she clutched her babe and took a step back, sure that his actions would doom them all!
“You cannot…!” The chamberlain began to intercede. Krumpus pushed the man roughly out of the half circle. Several guards imposed themselves and checked their weapons, then men all around the court perked up at the possibility of trouble, including Baet and Carringten.
“No!” Kezodel ordered, and waved his men aside. “Let him stand!” The Muaha stared at Krumpus, turned sour, and leaned forward with an annoyed expression. “I know you,” Kezodel said, as his face turned red with anger. “So it is true, despite your exile, you do return to my kingdom!”
Whispers grew among the audience.
“Quiet!” Kezodel snapped. “What is he saying?!” He yelled at the chamberlain.
The chamberlain brushed himself off as he stood. He shrugged and blushed at Kezodel. “It is Tallian Hand, your excellency. He speaks the silent language of Rigel and Tronde.”
“I know what he’s doing, you imbecile! I wish to know what he says!” Kezodel glared about the room. “Well? I know several of you speak the Hand! Someone tell me, what he says?!”
“It is his fingers,” the chamberlain replied. “They are twisted and weak! I cannot make out what he means!”
Several others grumbled and nodded their agreement.
“What of his sister?” Kezodel asked. “She cannot have gone far! Return her so that she might make it out!”
Several stewards ran from the room in various directions.
Kezodel glared at Krumpus. “While we wait for her, will you let us attend the business of this Jay?”
Assured of the audience, Krumpus shrugged.
Kezodel turned back to Meriona. “I should like to hear what you has to say about this rather diverse collection of petitioners you have brought before us. Am I to believe that some are the Duke’s trusted lieutenants...?” He searched among Meriona’s companions and stopped as a dim recognition once more puzzled his face. His head tilted. “Toar?” Kezodel stared at the Trohl. “Toar, is that you?”
Toar stiffened.
“You are so much older... Has it been such a long time since you robbed me and deserted your post?” Kezodel asked. “You look strong, becoming—and yet you return? There can be only one reason. Do you wish to beg back your position? Amilea will be most pleased.”
“I cannot steal what was never yours!” Toar glared at the Muaha. “And I’ll never return!” he finished.
Kezodel’s eyes glazed over as he stared back at the Trohl. “After all the privilege and honors I gave you, you come back to throw insults at me? And after the troubles you caused. What is it you do with these others?”
Toar snorted as tears pressed at the corners of his eyes. “I remember everything you gave me, and I remember everything you took!”
Kezodel grew dark and was about to reply as a large group of guards escorted the Lady Scurra and the Jindleyak delegation back into the room. “We shall return to your sins,” Kezodel pointed at the native guide. “But first, we have such good news for the lady, Scurra!” He beamed with false alacrity.
“What is it?” Scurra snapped as she was pushed to the front of the room once more.
Kezodel pointed at the shaman, “I believe you know this man.”
With a gasp, Scurra ran at her brother and gathered him in a hug.
“Yes, yes. It is all very sweet,” Kezodel began. “And I have found him with irregular speed, have I not? Now tell us, what is this miscreant saying? Why does he interrupt and defend a condemned enemy of the state?!”
Scurra turned to her brother as he waved his hands about in the silent language. “Sweet Jeiju, what is wrong with your hands?!” She gaped as she stopped them from waving. She held his fingers in her own, and gently rubbed them as she turned on Kezodel, “What have you done to him?!”
“Me? Nothing!” Kezodel insisted. “The injuries are his own!”
“His speech is sloppy and stiff because of it,” Scurra frowned as she stared at his feeble fingers. She did not know it was a miracle he could move them at all.
“I want his words,” Kezodel leaned forward. “Not a rundown of his ailments. Now, tell me what he says!” he snapped.
“I cannot,” Scurra huffed. “It is gibberish!”
The shaman’s righteousness flared in Wenifas, and bravery caught in her soul. She handed Evereste to Meu and took a step forward. “I can speak for the man!”
“And who is this?” Kezodel frowned. “My court is most cluttered with strangers today!”
“Ignore her, your highness,” Meriona charged. “She is but a priestess, and a self-important one at that,” she glared. This was not proceeding as she had imagined. Indeed, the interaction was coming apart at the seams! At this pace, she’d have to mention the coin!
“I can speak for the man!” Wenifas snapped at the Jay. “By the will of the gods, I can do it, and I shall!” she huffed. She allowed her own frustrations to fuel her as she pushed passed Meriona. Krumpus turned to Wenifas and signed in broken language—though she did not need his signal to know what he meant. She was still connected through Meu’s venom. She stood tall and began in a loud voice as she looked about the grand room. “This court is a sham!” She huffed, then pointed and turned to Kezodel. “You are an enemy of the people, and you draw the wrath of the one true god down about your ears!” Wenifas admonished.
“Blasphemy!” someone yelled. “Execute her with the Saot!”
Kezodel raised his hand to quiet the crowd. “Is this what you say?” He turned from Wenifas and stared at the shaman.
Krumpus stamped his foot, nodded his head, and glared at the Muaha.
“Then the soft god of Jeiju approaches? Am I to be scolded and shamed for my many crimes?” Kezodel sneered. He shook his head. “Don’t waste your time with the tired tripe of your nine-fingered Lord of Pieces! I serve the twin gods of the Eternal Song, and know theirs is the true law!”
A wildness overcame Wenifas as indignation streamed from the shaman. “Do not mock, Kezodel! You may have power among men, but you do not hold a candle to the true power of powers! Man as a race comes out of the deep dark ocean, like so many fishes! They no longer swim in schools of common interest, but must find themselves to be individuals, driven by the light of love that dwells in their hearts! Turn from your selfish interest and set your brethren upon the proper path, or you will meet a most immediate doom!” Wenifas scolded.
“You threaten me?!” Kezodel huffed and straightened on his throne.
Caught between the madness of the shaman and her own trepidation, Wenifas turned to the crowd. Krumpus continued to wave his hands—and since she was still caught by his wildness, Wenifas continued to yell and harangue. “All the false idols must fall! Gods and governments that enslave instead of enlighten shall be ground to dust! We, the many fishes, will become as Tronde, Rigel, and Jeiju before us! As heroes of lore! We will become as the Odim Kalodim, bound to each other by sacred love!”
The crowd booed and mocked her. Several threw bits and bobs of trash at her.
Wenifas turned on Kezodel once more and yelled above her critics. “Ebertin belongs to the god of gods, and the city will be restored to her proper virtue! If you repent, then you shall stand at her head! But if you persist, then a dark time must follow—and you shall be the first that shall be swept into her sewers! Now bow, Kezodel!” she glared. “Bow before the true god, or be swept aside for your deceptions and mockery!”
“How dare you...” Kezodel glared.
Wenifas ignored his sneer. She turned on the general audience for one last go. “It is now upon man to carry the water! God restores our role, and we must do our part! All that will not, all that stand in the way, will be swept aside!” She turned back the Muaha. “Now it is you, Kezodel! You must answer! Lead this backwater hovel into the light! Lead these wretches—as god requires—or you will lie at the foot of those you scorn with your sins fully exposed!” she finished. “Choose, Kezodel! Choose now, for the time of your judgment is at hand!” Wenifas finished as the wildness about the shaman subsided.
The Muaha glared as he signaled for the room to be quiet. A fury twisted his features. He stood up and seemed to grow as he did so. Indeed, the man must be ten feet tall, and broad across the chest, with thick arms and legs!
And still, he grew!
Now a giant, Kezodel pulled the impossibly large sword from the side of throne with one hand, and began to swing it about with ease and skill. He took up the impossible shield in his other hand as he continued to glare. “Fine,” Kezodel began, as he took a step forward. “I’ll kill you myself.” Standing twice the height of anyone else, he strode toward the petitioners.
The crowd backed away and created a wall that Wenifas and the siblings could not back through. The priestess remembered herself. She blinked several times as she stepped back in horror. Scurra drew her long knives as she too backed away.
Yet, Krumpus stepped in front of the two women, brushed aside his cloak, and turned up the pointy end of his stick. “STAHB!” Krumpus called in his broken tongue, his eyes wild once more, his hair standing on end. “DUMABRUCHES!” He yelled as he shielded his sister and Wenifas with his cloak.
Kezodel paused as he stared back at the wild-eyed shaman. He shook his head as a wicked grinned crept across his lips. “Now you will die, cripple,” He raised his sword and took another step forward.
Before he could strike, a deafening boom sounded from above, and the dome of the court cracked open like an egg. Lightning forked through the room. It struck the shaman and threw him back.
With a collective gasp, the audience closed their eyes and sucked in their breath. The force of rushing air pushed the crowd back and caused the doors to fly open.
Large chunks of marble fell from the broken dome. Several massive slabs fell on top of the bewildered giant. Kezodel lifted his shield, but to little avail. As big as he was, as grand as the shield appeared to be, it could not stand against the crush of stone. The Muaha was immediately buried as the ceiling collapsed upon him.
Fragments broke from the falling stone and shot about the room. The shards struck at random, and one glanced off Baet’s cheek, leaving a thin line of blood.
As sudden as it all began, the calamity was over. A haze floated about the room as a collection of groans and coughs broke the silence. Bewildered, the audience took stock of the situation. A good number of people lay on the ground, injured, unconscious. A few were dead. Cries, and moans echoed throughout the great chamber.
At the head of the Great Court, in front of the untouched throne and under a mound of marble, lay the crushed form of the Muaha. His twisted body expanded into something grotesque. Kezodel was no longer pretty by any standard. There were large, wicked talons on the remains of a visible hand. There were wild patches of hair all about him. Small leathery wings jutted from his back, twisted and broken by the rubble. Many of the audience stared, unable to understand what had become of their judge, as birds gathered and chirped at the edge of the massive hole in the roof, as they flew down and congregated on the judge’s makeshift tomb.
Meu was the first to understand the transformation. Wenifas caught Meu’s thoughts, and one word slipped from her tongue. “Chimera,” the priestess said, as Meu recognized Kezodel’s true nature. Wenifas repeated it as she stood to her feet. “Chimera!” She pointed at the dead form of the Muaha.
The term caught and was repeated about the room. Chimera? Chimera?! Chimera!
The trickle of people that slipped from the hallway thickened. A full on exodus from the grand chamber commenced.
“Dark magics are upon us!” Gliedian roared. He pointed at Krumpus, Wenifas, and Creigal. “Kill them!” He ordered his men. “Kill them all!”
Birds of every sort dropped in from the broken ceiling. Robins, jays, finches, magpies, hawks, eagles, owls... They flew in the faces of the men that moved against Creigal and stopped their advance.
“God is with us still!” Wenifas yelled. “She sends all manner of beasts against her enemies! Now flee! Flee before her, or perish!” she continued.
Though they did little real damage, the birds caused a great deal of confusion and panic. It was enough. As the priestess admonished her enemies one last time, several of Gliedian’s men broke and ran from the room. Others followed. Only Gliedian and a handful of Ministrian shock troopers remained.
Carringten pulled Bence’s short sword. To a man, the Jindleyak delegation pulled their weapons and stepped in front of Scurra and her unconscious brother. Baet didn’t bother to pull a weapon at all. He stood so close that he simply balled his fist and struck Garf in the mouth. The man fell back as blood ran from his lip. “You’ll pay for that,” he glared, as he collected his feet.
Gliedian pulled Thunder Maker from his belt and pointed the musket at Baet. Baet stared at the weapon and slowly raised his hands. “Careful,” he said, as he glared at the Lord Commander. “Such weapons are known to turn against their wielders.”
The Lord Commander turned the weapon on Carringten, then then duke, then the next in line. “I kill the first man that follows!” Gliedian roared.
Meriona grabbed Celesi’s hand. “We must leave!” she said as she pulled at the girl.
Celesi shook her hand free. “No!” she said, and glared at the Jay.
Meriona recoiled. “After all that we have given you, you abandon us?!”
“I cannot abandon those that held me hostage,” Celesi snapped as she backed away from the Jay.
Meriona sneered and spit at the girl. “Then be a Trohl once more, you ingrate!” The senior Jay turned to Wenifas. “Come now, you fool!” she snapped at the priestess.
Confusion caught in Wenifas as she looked about the room. She stood with the men that murdered Derris, and although she felt the shaman was justified in his wrath toward the court, she could not see herself continuing with him.
Meu was no help. The wyrm had closed her mind and was distracted by the crushed form of Kezodel as she marveled at what had happened. The priestess turned this way and that, unsure what she must do. She took a step forward and held her hand out to the Jay.
Celesi grabbed her other hand, her face filled with compassion and pity. “Stay with us,” she said to the priestess.
Wenifas longed to return to her people, to ways and customs she found familiar. She thought perhaps a sense of normality could return to her life. She no longer needed to be a priestess. She could quit the church and dedicate her life to her children in a place that she was accustomed. Wenifas lifted her hand to Meriona.
“She knows,” Celesi whispered. “She knows you have more coin than you should. She means to see you punished!”
Wenifas saw the truth of it in the Jay’s eyes. It was only there for a split second before Meriona hid her true intent. Shocked, Wenifas recoiled from the Jay.
Meriona slapped Celesi. “Traitor!” she charged.
“You’re not the only one watching!” Celesi shot back.
Meriona turned on Wenifas. “You are a blind fool! If either of you ever set foot on Minist ground again, I’ll see you hanged—or worse!” The Jay spun around and ran after the retreating Ministrians.
Claiten stepped in front of his mother as he brandished his dagger at the Jay. Wenifas held him back, then ruffled her son’s hair as she watched the Ministrians retreat. Once they were gone, she turned and glanced over the various men and women that still occupied the room. Scurra cradled the fallen form of her brother. Carringten and Toar smashed the irons from Creigal’s wrists. Meu inspected the corpse of Kezodel as she carried Evereste in her arms.
Sweet Naharahna! Wenifas thought. I almost left without my babe! She ran to the wyrm and took her child. She turned to find herself standing next to Baet as the musketeer bent down and picked a piece of stone off the floor.
“Balls,” he whispered as he examined it.
“What have you found?” Wenifas asked, overcome by her curiosity.
“It’s a rock, a rock from the sky,” Baet said as he showed the meteor to Wenifas. The stone was about the size of a fist, a pitted ball of blackest iron with glints of every color.
“A bit of Luna,” Wenifas noted. She looked up as she realized this metal ball had destroyed the roof and shot lightning through the room. She wondered that a bit of the moon should drop on Kezodel’s head just when they needed it—and somehow the shaman knew before hand! She wondered if he was indeed touched by the true gods—but then, he was out cold as his sister cradled his smoking form. Indeed, the priestess would not have believed such a thing was possible, if she had not seen it for herself!
Yet, Wenifas was wrong in her assessment of what had happened in one telling way. Though bits of the moon rained down on the world from time to time and still caused no end of trouble for the inhabitants, this rock was not from Luna. Not this rock. This rock was from much, much further afield.
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