Under Oblarra

Bound

Polished — 47m30s — 2023/12/09

The sun rose over the horizon and set its unerring gaze upon the remains of Camp Calderhal. After nine hours of conflict and fire, and having been breached in a dozen different places, the walled camp was a shadow of its former self. The flimsy structures that housed the rabble—made mostly of fabrics and wood—were razed to the ground. Indeed, several of the stone structures that belonged to the governing Degorouth and their Ministrian allies now lay in smoldering ruins. Even the Great Stone Tower itself had suffered severe damage during the conflict—which now housed the coterie of several waokie chiefs, none of which seemed to mind the wobble.

The condition of the Invader’s Fort was not quite so dire. She was breached in several places, including the tunnel—which was quickly improved and extended by the burrowing bugbear—but most of the Fort was still held by the Ministrians, of which there were perhaps a couple thousand left, and about as many more slaves. Before the attack, there were two full legions and a large civilian population numbering altogether some ten thousand between the smaller walled camp of pretend defenders and the much larger fort full of supposed aggressors. Throughout the long night, the humans suffered wave after wave of assault, as the waokie crashed upon the Camp—and then the Fort—in a seemingly endless stream. Now, there were less than half the humans left.

Nobody could number the waokie. Their dead littered the battlefield—but despite the incredible losses, there were always more, filled with a bloodlust. As the battle raged, the sun rose, and the heat of the day began. Feeling the weight of their pillage and having satiated some part of their frenzy, the waokie abandoned their press and retreated from the Invader’s Fort to the comfort and smolder of Camp Calderhal and the surrounding woods. Those humans that remained in the Invader’s Fort were safe for a time—likely until nightfall—when they figured the war of waokie would bare down upon them once again.

Bloody and haggard from a long night of fighting, Petaerus and Dolif stood on the remains of a watch tower and conferred as they gazed over the haggard and demoralized survivors. There was general disorder among many of the remaining guards, and such a fear among the civilians that panic often spilled over, creating dramas of the worst sort. The shock of the night was still very much upon them—though matters were generally calming as the day wore on. Worn and bloodied, Petaerus shook his head as he looked out over the shuffling crowd. “What would you say? Maybe a thousand of us left in fighting form?”

Dolif shook his head. “Our only hope is that enough of those beasts are satiated with the plunder they’ve already won.”

“I cannot believe that,” Petaerus argued. “Listen to that racket! They don’t care that we see them, and they’re barely out of range! Non! I can assure you that once night returns, and those beasts have the advantage of the dark, there will be no quarter for us!” he concluded.

“We are doomed,” the old veteran complained.

“Perhaps not,” Petaerus began. “I think we can make a run for it. We are faster than the beasts, even on foot. If we drive a wedge and break their line, I think we can fight a stalling action, so that some of us—maybe even a lot of us—can outrun them,” he speculated.

“A running fight,” Dolif considered. “And where are we running to?”

“Rynth Falls.”

“Rynth Falls? Isn’t that a good day away?”

“Eight hours at a liesurely pace,” Petaerus replied. “With waokie on our heels, we’ll make it faster than that.”

“If we should make it at all—but I should doubt eight hours. Fighting takes more time, not less,” Dolif stated. “Not that it matters. Orders are to prepare for more fighting, here and now.”

“It is folly!” Petaerus waved his hand at the thick smoke wafting about the air. “The fort is breached, my friend. We will not keep them from returning, and when they do?” he shrugged. “The only reason we aren’t dead already is because those dirty waokie were tripping over themselves to get at us!”

“I agree,” Dolif shuddered. “I don’t think we live if they take another run at us. But does that justify a hopeless forced march just to die in some remote mountain village?”

“Ahh, but you just say that because you’ve never been to this remote mountain village,” Petaerus grinned.

“I was told it was small,” Dolif frowned. “Would they have enough bodies to defend us, or do we have to continue the fight once we get there?”

“It used to be small,” Petaerus agreed. “But now there’s the Degorouth and the Bouge turncoats to consider.”

“Better have twice as many,” Dolif hanged his head.

Petaerus continued to grin. “There are shocktroops in Rynth Falls. Lots and lots of shocktroops.”

Dolif looked up at his friend. “And where did all these troops come from?!”

Petaerus shrugged. “We get a caravan just about every week, and several hundred more men than we need—and they aren’t staying at the fort, friend. All these soldiers that have come through these last several months—where do you think they’ve gone?”

Dolif sat up. “Do they not return to Wibbeley?”

“Maybe half,” Petaerus shrugged. “Most go on to Rynth Falls.”

“So how many are in Rynth Falls?”

“Maybe ten legions,” Petaerus guessed.

Dolif’s eyes got big. He stood and leaned out toward the forest. “Hear that, you blasted vermin!” He bellowed. “How would you like to face ten of the bitch’s legions?!”

Petaerus cheered him on.

“Here’s what we should do: we prepare the people, then pour out the south gate for Rynth Falls—” Dolif began.

“That’s just what I said,” Petaerus complained.

“Patience,” the wily old veteran raised a hand. “I’m making your plan better,” he promised. “So once we punch a hole through the waokie, we send word to Rynth Falls, and if we’re lucky, they send a few thousand men north to greet us on the road!”

“That is better!” Petaerus beamed.

“Yeah, but it doesn’t answer one question,” Dolif paused.

“What’s that?” Petaerus prompted.

“Why are their ten legions in Rynth Falls?”

Petaerus ignored the question because he didn’t have the answer. He knew the men where there, but not why, and could see no obvious answer. He changed the subject back to their imminent escape. “So who do we convince to get us marching?”

“High Commander Hizenwaller,” Dolif said.

“No, he died in the fighting last night,” Petaerus said.

“It’d have to be Grandus Shaufenauper,” Dolif shook his head, disgusted.

“He’s an out and out coward,” Petaerus agreed. “And his men are mostly sycophants and lick-spittles. We can forget about them!”

“I already have,” Dolif noted.

“Who else might we appeal to?” Petaerus looked into the fort and glanced about the people he could see. “Who among the officers might help us persuade the Grandus?”

“There’re Copals Wilkus and Dreanna…” Dolif shrugged as he assumed his old friend would pan their mention.

Petaerus shook and huffed with aversion.

“Yeah, Wilkus is feckless, and Dreanna is a witless boob,” Dolif complained. “We can forget about them too.”

“Perhaps we are doomed,” Petaerus sighed. “Perhaps we must consider desertion,” he whispered.

“Maybe not,” Dolif raised a finger. “Two days ago I saw another officer about the camp—one that carries far greater weight than his mere rank suggests,” Dolif began. “Do you know Copal Drastorig?”

“Drastarig?!” Petaerus stared. “Drastarig the Gorpulent?!”

“Don’t know of any other,” Dolif nodded. “He just came in with the latest caravan, says he’s on his way to Rynth Falls, of all places…” he turned to Petaerus with a frown. “You know, the more I think about it, the more I think something big is about to go down—what with ten legions and Drastarig’s company of raving acolytes making their way south...”

“That’s a question for later,” Petaerus interrupted. “Do you know him?!” he asked with reverence. “Is he as dangerous as they say?!”

Dolif nodded. “I had the dubious pleasure of spending a month with him and his men in Borzia about a dozen years back.”

“The last offense of the Tyriand War?!” Petaerus blinked at his friend.

“Hard times,” Dolif shuddered. “Yeah, he’s as dangerous as they say—and not all there. He has a gruesome tendency of eating the men he kills.”

“Hence, why they call him the Gorpulent,” Petaerus nodded. “Is he any sort of a politician? Can he pull this rabble together and lead us out of here?”

Dolif shrugged. “Him and his men will be smoothing the chinks from their knives, drinking their fill, and resting up for the coming fight. Him and his men are known for their savagery, not cunning. They’re unlikely to consider anything else besides a priestess or two—but…” he grinned. “He does like to embarrass those that rank above him, and he should like our plan as long as he and his men get to kill with abandon.”

“We’ll need him to be zealous of our plan if we hope to buffalo the others,” Petaerus noted.

“Then we need to sweeten the pot,” Dolif stated.

Petaerus considered his words, then grinned as an idea came to him. “What’s better than living?”

“Drink… Women…Slaves,” Dolif replied with a shrug. “Above all, money, since it can buy any of these others.”

“Yes! Money!” Petaerus smiled as he set about revealing the next twist to their plan. “So what of this? What if we should save even half those slaves still in the pens? What do you think the salvage would be?”

“Salvage!?” Dolif perked up. “I hadn’t thought of that!”

“Is this not the battlefield?” Petaerus gave an enthusiastic nod. “Would you not agree that everything here is given to salvage?!”

“Salvage!” Dolif breathed the word as if it were sacred. “It’s brilliant! We can promise salvage to anyone willing to pick up a weapon! It’ll bolster the number of fighters—and half of them will die on the way down anyway, which will only increase the survivor’s share—and I think Drastorig might rather like the idea of salvage!”

“Come!” Petaerus waved. “We’ll make a coalition yet—and who knows—we might even live to see tomorrow!”

Having previous experience with Drastorig, Dolif led their conversation. Then, having Drastorig’s blessing, Petaerus and Dolif circulated among the survivors and gathered some lower officers to be their confederates. After that, they were able to impose their plan upon the remaining shock troops as they convinced the officers Wilkus, Dreanna, and Shaufenauper through reasoning, negotiation, the mention of salvage, and a couple well timed threats.

The plan of Petaerus the high guard was simple; tend the injured, gather supplies, and rest up. Then, as the sun approached its zenith, the remaining guards would press through the south gate and drive a wedge through the waokie, behind Drastarig and his raving acolytes, aided by whatever civilians wished to fight. Then, the guards would clear and hold a path while the remaining civilians and slaves pressed south with all possible haste. Finally, the guards would fight a delaying action until they reached the safety of Rynth Falls—or until they were overcome trying—preferably the former.

But not everybody wanted to go.

“There’s a mess of civilians that want to stay,” Petaerus noted. “Should we rough ‘em up?”

Dolif shook his head, “Remind any soldiers of their oath. We can’t have the enlisted men considering their own ideas.”

“And the civilians?”

“To them, I say good luck,” Dolif tipped his helmet.

Petaerus doffed his hat and the two feathers of Meu swayed and bobbed. “Who knows, maybe a handful will live—to be haunted by the screams of those that don’t hide so well,” he shrugged and spit in the dirt. “Shall we check on the slaves?”

No fighting occurred anywhere near the slave pens, so Petaerus and Dolif were surprised to find a dead guard and a massive hole in the fence as they approached the pens. "Who is this?!" Petaerus raged and noted the guard was missing his weapon. He rolled the dead man on his back, that he might see his face.

Dolif shrugged and wiped soot and blood from his own nose. "Whoever it is, they deserve to be forgotten," he spit. "So far from the real fight, it is best he died. We need no more cowards among us."

Petaerus stared at the pale face of Derris as he ran his fingers along the twin feathers that the dead guard found for him. He shook his head. "I cannot fault this man for following orders," he said, then leaned over the corpse and addressed him directly. "Derris, you fool. Who killed you?"

Petaerus almost felt bad. After all, he gave orders for the man to remain, that he might be humiliated. Instead of joining the battle, the guard must watch from afar, robbed of any chance for glory. After all, how hard was it to guard slaves, demoralized and cowed for so very long?

But nothing had gone as Petaerus expected. Not only had he underestimated the waokie, he'd underestimated at least a few among the slaves. There was still some heart among that sorry lot. There were still a few opportunistic rats willing to take a chance—and capable of killing a trained and dangerous soldier to boot.

Petaerus looked through the hole in the fence. On the other side, prisoners milled about. Just the sight of them filled the high guard with rage. He jumped through the hole and gave chase.

The slaves sprang away and ran in all directions. Petaerus overcame an old man and pounced on him. He wrestled the weak old man to the ground, sat on him, and pulled his knife. "Who has done this?!" he pointed through the ruined fence. "Who has escaped and killed my guard!?"

"I dunno!" the old man replied, wide eyed, and pleading.

Petaerus struck the old man with the back of his hand.

"Please! Please believe me! I was just shown the hole!" the old man begged as he shielded himself with his arms.

"By your mother, you better tell me true!" Petaerus snapped.

"True! True! By Jeiju, I swear it!"

Petaerus struck the old man again. "I spit at your beggar god!"

"By Naharahn..." The prisoner began.

Petaerus punched him in the mouth. "Don't sully her name, Trohl!"

Blood dripped from the prisoner's lips as he coughed and sputtered. A voice cut in from among the other prisoners that gathered at a safe distance. "It was the foreigners!" he shouted.

“Who!?” Petaerus called. “What foreigners?!”

“It was a Saot—a true Saot—and a man as black as night. They had a Trohl with ‘em as a guide,” the voice materialized from the crowd, one of the few men of middle age. “They were here for only a day or two.”

"You know this?" Petaerus called back.

"We all believe it,” the interrupter replied. “They left the hut almost as soon as the bell began, and no one has seen them since."

"Yet, despite protocols, you came out," Petaerus reprimanded.

"Will we be forced to cower even as our masters are killed?!” the prisoner cried.

It was hard to fault these cattle for a certain amount of panic. Petaerus looked down at the old man he’d captured. "You are rats, but you are loyal rats," he said as he shook the ragged prisoner.

"Don't hurt him!” The other prisoner called. “He's done nothing wrong!"

Petaerus glared at the distant man, "You give orders?!" he snapped.

"I beg only our due," the man said with his hands open and to his sides. He knew he’d overstepped. His face was contrite.

Petaerus sneered as a surge of violent indignation overcame him. He’d seen such a large number of his brothers fall and die only hours before and his anger was quick to rise. “You’re all cowards—so I’ll give you a coward's due!" he snapped, and with that, he stabbed the old man in the stomach.

The old man screamed and a collective gasp washed through the remaining slaves.

"Be comforted," Petaerus sneered at the old man, as he wiped his knife and stood. "Likely, the rest of us won’t be far behind you,” he muttered.

“Sir...” Dolif tapped his friend’s shoulder. He wore a worried look of trepidation as he stared at the milling slaves. “We might want to consider a sharp change in tactics if we hope to lead any of them into Rynth Falls,” he whispered. “Indeed, we’ll need a sharp change in tactics if we hope not to be mobbed and lynched right here...”

Indeed, there was a frantic energy about the slaves. They were scared, despondent, resentful—likely to act in a rash manner if pushed any further. Petaerus glanced at his own twenty guards and frowned as he realized he was heavily outnumbered.

Still, if they should attack, his men would kill a terrible number before they were overcome—and just as likely most of the slaves would simply panic and run if it came down to a direct confrontation...

But the high guard wasn’t really interested in the wholesale slaughter of the slaves. There’d be no salvage for that! Instead, he sheathed his knife, spread his arms, and smiled warmly at the crowd. “I’ve been hasty,” he began. “I have overstepped, and for that, I apologize.”

“You stabbed him in cold blood!” one of the slaves corrected.

Petaerus shook his head as he disagreed. “After a night of heavy fighting, my blood has never run hotter. Yet, I cannot return his health, and since freedom is little reward to a man that must die, I grant freedom to you, and any others that wish to stay with you, or with him,” he smiled. “With his blood he has paid your numerous debts. He has bought the freedom of any that wish it!”

A few of the slaves remained hot, but a surprising number were cooled by the offer, weak and ragged as they were.

‘What are you doing?” Dolif whispered. “You can’t free the slaves! What about salvage?!”

“Yes!” Petaerus replied. “And let us get rid of any troublemakers that may be among them.” He turned back to the slaves and began to outline a plan. “To those that are free, you may go as you like. And as we leave, we will distract the waokie from you. And as you leave, you will distract the waokie from us. In that way, more of us shall live,” he allowed. “But those of you that would be free must have courage! If you are mad at me for what I have done, then I say stoke your rage and hatred—but do not aim it at me! Aim it at those beasts instead! They will not treat with you, as I have! They are relentless murderers! They would kill us all and grind our bones for their meal! If you would be free, if you would live, you must use your fire to forge your own path forward—for it is a frightful jungle out there!” He glared at the slaves and dared them to meet his stare.

The prisoners turned to question and council each other.

Dolif nodded. “And now the offer?” he grinned, quite sure what his friend was up to.

With a nod, Petaerus continued to butter up the slaves. “Most of you are not fighters. It is not in you to carve a path through your enemies—but I will not forsake you! If you wish the protection of the Empire, you may stay with us! Indeed, any that wish to come with us are granted the full protection of the army! All they must do is comply with my orders!” he told them. “Come now! Gather 'round if you wish to go with us!" He called and moved further into the prison with his tight knot of guards. "Come, and be saved! Blessed Ooroiyuo wishes to save you! Salvation is at hand!” He called among the rest.

Petaerus stepped away from his victim and walked among the others. The interrupter ran to his wounded friend. "Wil!" he said as blood and bile poured from Wil's wound. "Curse that bastard!" the interrupter huffed as he glared after Petaerus.

Wil stared up at his comforting friend with shock and pain in his tearful eyes. "Oh, Brankellus, my time in this hell is finally at an end! I think you should envy me!"

Other prisoners approached as Brankellus tended Wil. "Why has he done this?" they asked.

"He is stabbed for my insolence!" Brankellus sobbed. "It is no fair!"

Lilyanah stepped through the crowd and brushed the complaint aside. "Fairness is for children,” the young lady said. "How deep is it?"

"To the hilt," Wil confessed.

Lilyanah attempted to lift his hands.

Wil resisted her. “No, girl. This is as far as I go.”

“It is low in the gut,” Lilyanah replied. “It may take a day or two before you bleed out. Much can happen in a day or two. Will you not come with us?”

“Would you carry me as our enemies press upon you?” Wil shook his head. “As you note, the wound is low in the gut. Likely, it was a dirty knife and I am already septic. No. You must save yourselves. Get far from camp! Whatever defeats them does not mean to save us!"

"If we remain with the Ministrians, we are sure to live," Karin volunteered.

"And what kind of a life is that?" Shad replied. "I will be a slave no longer! I will stay and face the dangers of the wild, even if it means my death!"

Others whispered their uncertainty and trepidation as they calculated their chances. Many broke from the group and followed Karin. "We go!" they called and stepped through the hole in the fence so they might go with the Ministrians. "To live is to live, and we would remain on this earth!" A long train of women, children, and the infirm followed.

Almost a third of the prisoners remained. Among them was a great lack of weapons. They gathered what they could find—dull knives meant to spread sauces, splinters of wood from the broken fence, heavy spoons and the pots they stirred. Several moved further afield to find anything more dangerous, but few had any luck.

At noon, a shrill call went out among the Ministrians, “FIFTEEN MINUTES TO MUSTER!” They called, to be oft repeated, then amended, as they prepared to march. “TEN MINUTES TO MUSTER!”

Petaerus returned to the hole in the fence, and called to the remaining slaves. "It is time!" he roared. "To all those that wish to live, and for the glory of the Empire, move out!" He sneered at the remaining prisoners—quite pleased to be free of so many troublemakers. The Ministrians stepped from sight as they pressed on the south gate.

Those that remained among the slaves started for a small gate in the southeast corner. "Is that it?" Brankellus called to them. “Will we do nothing for our brother?!”

Lilyanah shrugged. "If I had grave mushrooms, I should give them to the man," she said. "But I have none of my herbs—just as I have no needle and thread to stitch him—there is nothing I can do. I do not even have a sharp blade to end him quick."

"Non, Lilyanah. I do not want to die like an animal, frightened and begging for a quick end," Wil replied. "The fates have decided how it shall be, so I will sit with my torment, and die like a man."

“And a good man you are,” Lilyanah stroked his hair. "Come with us," she begged Brankellus. “Wil is done for. There is nothing we can do for him—but you are strong. Will you not help us through the wilds?"

"Go with them," Wil said to Brankellus. “I am dead. Do not add your death to mine.”

Brankellus shook his head. “I have died a dozen deaths in this camp. I died the day they took my wife and babe to the west. I died when they cursed my father, and set him out back of the fort, to succumb to the wilds, with withered clubs for hands,” he confessed with tears in his eyes. “For so long, death has been our best chance of escape, and now that it creeps close, I mean to take it!”

Wil huffed. “Do not throw your life away!” he reprimanded.

“I do not intend to. Indeed, it is just the beginning!” Brankellus said as he locked eyes with his dying friend. “Instead, I will pour my rage and grief into the sky. I will attract our enemies and distract them from our friends,” he said. “Then, when they find me, I will fight them, and I will kill as many as I can!”

“They will kill you,” Wil replied. “Surely, they will kill you!”

“Yes, and beyond the grave, I will stay in this world,” Brankellus continued, as he marked his cheek with Wil’s blood. He drew the sigil for Scarad, the Tallian god of war and vengeance. “In death, I will find your murderer and I will haunt him the rest of his days, I swear it!” he hissed.

“Do not be vengeful!” Wil admonished. “Let Jeiju take your soul! He shall escort you to paradise!”

“No,” Brankellus declined. “I will yet make it to paradise—but first I mean to make a misery of that man!”

“It does not work that way,” Lilyanah interjected. “Will you not come with us? There is nothing we can do to convince you?”

Brankellus did not look at the girl. “You think I am weak,” he accused.

"Weak? No,” Lilyanah shook her head. “Weary? Defeated? Hopeless? Everything we ever had was taken from us. How can I expect you to be otherwise?” She leaned into Brankellus and kissed his forehead. “Despite our grievances, I have a lust for life! I no longer see our wholesale destruction! I see a new beginning—born of fear and fire, yes—but it is ours, to make of it what we will! There is yet a place for us in this world!"

“There is nothing!” Brankellus cried. “I will only have my revenge!”

Lilyanah ran her hand through the older man's hair. “You will not change your mind?”

Brankellus shook his head and would not look at her.

“So be it,” she turned to go.

Brankellus caught her arm. “Will you seal me to my fate?” he asked. “I cannot do it alone. I do not think the gods favor me so,” he looked up at the young woman. “But you… they favor you. You have proved it many times.”

Lilyanah stared at her long-trusted neighbor and realized he was set in his path. Likely, the demon gods of vengeance and hate already meant to honor his oath—humans were valuable avatars, even as ghosts. She frowned as she considered the difficulties he was asking her to prove. “I shall not like it,” she said with a tear in her eye, “…but I will do as you ask.” With a grim and determined demeanor, Lilyanah dipped a finger in Wil's blood. She drew the glyph of the red moon on the other cheek of Brankellus. “By Scarad and Oblarra, I seal you to your intent!” Lilyanah called to the sky. “Dark gods of vengeance and hate, grant our friend the strength he needs to obliterate his enemy, as Oblarra has shattered the old Mother Moon!” She grabbed him by the face and smudged both sigils. “Marks to light the way,” she muttered. “A trail to follow…” She licked her bloody palm, then placed it against his forehead. “As the deceitful hunter cloaks herself in shadow, you will be unseen among the living!” she finished in dramatic fashion.

After what the young girl did, nobody wanted to look anyone else in the eye.

Lilyanah grabbed Brankellus by the cheeks and bored her eyes into his. “As a ghost, there will be little strength for you. If you wish to damn your enemy, you will have to be cunning and resourceful.”

“By the will of the gods,” Brankellus nodded. “I will end him early.”

Wil cried to hear all this. “My friend, what have you done?!” he asked as he squeezed Brankellus’ hand.

“Only the necessary,” Brankellus said as he kissed Lilyanah. “Thank you.”

"No, friend,” Lilyanah shook her head and patted his hand. “You have set yourself upon a thankless path,” she said and wrapped him in a hug. “There is nothing before you but misery and horror. So I ask you to remember, when your task is done, look to the love that pours from the stars. They will point you to your ancestors.” She stared into his eyes. “You must remember this—or you will stalk the world unseen and forgotten for as long as the gods demand it—and the gods do love their playthings. They demand an awful lot,” she claimed.

With that, Lilyanah turned to Wil.

“As for you,” she kissed and caressed the dying man. “Go before us, and be with our brothers and sisters once more. Prepare us a place, and know that one day, we shall all join you.” Having said her peace, Lilyanah stood and disappeared among the others that still hoped to escape. “Tonight, we mourn you both,” she said as they turned to the hole in the fence. Many touched and kissed their doomed friends as they passed; several hundred free slaves in all.

Wil and Brankellus commiserated and talked of their people—now trampled to dust and scattered to the winds—as they waited for the inevitable cries and clatter of conflict. They talked until the sharp clang of swords and axes, of metal and stone, finally chimed through the air; punctuated with screams and curses. The Ministrians engaged the waokie once more, and despite the high sun, a chill caught in both men.

Brankellus figured that his friends would have made it to the wall by now. He began to wail and weep, howling and shrieking at the wind, in hopes that he might distract any remaining enemies. Having suffered for so long, Wil called and cried with him.

The fighting intensified as the main column of survivors flooded from the south gate, then drifted away, as the surviving humans ran—and the waokie ran after them. Brankellus and Wil carried on with their frightful wailing and gnashing until they could hear the others no more. For several minutes, Brankellus wondered what he would do if none of their enemies remained—but that was not the way of it.

Indeed, it wasn’t long before Wil and Brankellus heard the low growl and snarl of something angry approaching. They turned to the hole in the fence. Shadows shifted about, stocky and well muscled, dark and menacing forms all the same. Brankellus hissed as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. The beasts were too short to be men—and far too hairy. They gnashed their teeth and threw curses as they approached. There were half a dozen, then several dozen, then far too many to bother with counting!

“Ah,” Brankellus said as he finally realized what they faced. “A war of bugbear…” He crouched and stared at the approaching menace. They had spears, knives, mallets, axes, and swords—some newly acquired, the rest made of edged stone, or rusty and pitted metal from battles long ago. Brankellus began to pant and to flex as he prepared to fight. He summoned his courage as he hoped to leave this life as a warrior. To do so was in the spirit of Scarad! To do so was in the spirit of Oblarra! He felt such action would help him haunt that blasted guard, Petaerus.

The bugbear hissed and snarled as the tall man stood his ground.

“Oh Brankellus,” Wil whispered.

Brankellus roared as he charged at the gathered bugbear. The bugbear leveled their weapons as the wild man rushed them. He tried to brush aside the nearest spear—but the weapon twisted and slashed his shoulder. He howled as pain bit through him.

Despite his injury, Brankellus bowled over the owner of the spear and tumbled on top of him.

The other bugbear swarmed him. They cut him and smashed him with their various weapons from all angles, unconcerned that they battered one of their own at the same time. Brankellus howled and roared. He had nothing left to give, and finally fell under the bugger onslaught. His life rushed from him—and still the bugbear smashed at his corpse. They continued to punish him until he was nothing more than a heap of broken bone and bruised meat in a growing pool of blood.

“Oh Brankellus!” Wil cried under his breath, as tears streamed from his eyes. He tried to sit up, but the pain in his stomach was too much. He almost blacked out from the effort and was forced to lie back in the dirt.

A number of bugbear approached Wil. Since the man was already down, they gathered about him in a slow circle.

“Kill me,” Will glared at the beasts. “Release me, you devils!”

But they did not. Although the bugbear all had weapons, none of them attacked. Instead, one of the creatures sat next to the old man and grinned at him with its snaggled yellow teeth. The other bugbear pried Wil’s hands from his wound so Ol’ SnaggleTeeth could poke at the injury. The others nodded and encouraged his indelicate fingers. Wil screamed as pain raged through him. He squirmed and tried to free himself—but there were too many hands to hold him down. “Kill me!” he yelled at the beasts. “Kill me! Kill me!” he snarled. He grabbed one of the beasts by its fur and yanked with all his might.

The beast yelped in pain and tried to twist away—then bit the old man’s arm until Wil let go.

Will screamed—then, inspired by the beast, he bit an arm that stretched too close to his face.

Fed up with his antics, Ol’ SnaggleTeeth raised his knife and bashed Wil in the face with the blunt end of the handle.

Wil blacked out.

Ol’ SnaggleTeeth reached into his satchel and removed a small pouch. He opened the pouch and pulled a bit of black filth from it. The other bugbear smiled, nodded, and patted each other on the back. Ol’ SnaggleTeeth speared a bit of the filth with his finger, then smeared it in Wil's wound, mashing it deep into the cut.

Wil woke and screamed from a surge of pain—only to black out again.

When Wil woke once more, his arms and legs were lashed to a post from the broken fence. The bugbear half carried and half dragged him from the Invader's Fort. The pain of being jostled was too much. Wil was in and out of consciousness as they bumped and bruised him against seemingly every obstacle.

A fever started. The waking world looked increasingly like the nightmares suffered on the other side. Bugbear danced and cheered as the Camp and Fort burned for a second night. Most of the bugbear ran south, after the Ministrians, but many—several thousand at least—remained and tended the spoils they’d already won. For them, the war ended when the Camp and Fort fell. They were the senior bugbear, the alphas, and their close associates.

There were dozens of other prisoners; all injured, tied, and poisoned. Some were dead, their bones stripped of their meat and made into daggers or meal. Most were still in the process of dying, much like Wil.

“Kill me,” Will begged his captors. “Kill me,” he pleaded whenever a beast ventured near. They ignored him with contempt.

Along with the increasing pain in his stomach, there was pain in Wil’s hands and feet from the lashing. His neck hurt as his head hung at an awkward angle. Indeed, there was no part of the man that did not hurt—only some places that hurt more. There was only torment for the man as he continued to wash between the suffering of the real world and the nightmares of his tortured sleep.

A bugbear poked Wil to see if he were dead. He woke, and as he woke, he snapped at the nearby beast with all the strength and rage he could muster. “Kill me!” He roared at the creature. “Kill me! Kill me! KILL ME!”

Several of the bugbear turned on him. They mocked and taunted him as he continued to scream and struggle. They danced and chortled to hear his torment. This continued until the pain of Wil’s convulsions caused him to black out yet again.

Wil woke again and again as the hours slowly ticked by. He screamed as he remembered his pain—and then he did not have the strength to scream anymore. He whimpered and sobbed instead. Tears rolled from his eyes. He cried and cried until he had no water left to give. A day passed in this painful manner, and a night with it.

Another day began as Wil drifted in and out of consciousness. He could tell he was short for this world. He begged the gods to take him. There was a dull throbbing pain that ran through his body—though it was now muted. More than anything, Wil was simply tired. He could not lift his head. He could barely open his eyes—and when he did, he could see the lines of dark rot creeping upon his arms and hands.

Wil could also see the form of Brankellus, strong and imposing, as the spirit of his dead friend stood to one side. With a grunt, Wil pried his dry lips apart. “I come to you,” he smiled. “I join you in the realm of the dead!”

Wil survived the better part of two days as the rot spread and formed a rich marble throughout his meat. After he expired, the buggers cut the rot-marbled corpse into thin strips, salted it, and hung it to dry in an orderly fashion—but as they divvied up the organs, a scuffle erupted. There were several cuts, bruises, bites, and a fair amount of hair pulled during the fracas. Wil’s intestines were lost in the fight—uncoiling in the dirt—they were trounced, ripped, and exploded as the squabble raged.

Brankellus witnessed his friend’s ignominious end, and a cold hatred fueled his black heart. He focused on Petaerus once more, as a tug developed in his gut and pulled him to the south. An inner knowing told him this sense would lead him to his quarry.

“Brankellus, come with me.”

Brankellus turned to see the ghost of Wil. His friend stretched out a hand as the spirit slowly lifted into the air. “This is the path forward. All that remains for you here is to wander in the dark,” Wil smiled. “Forget your hate. Come with me.”

But a rage boiled in Brankellus and he could not let it go. He could not forget his other friends and family—so he stepped back into the cold night and allowed his hatred and grievances to fuel him on his journey south, in hopes of finding a way to torment his living enemy.

The Oak and Beast

Polished — 31m52s — 2023/12/10

Baet stared at the meteor in his hand, astonished by what he’d witnessed. The cavernous courtroom was no longer as it had first appeared, but was now a wreck of tumbled stone and dusty air. The meticulous splendor and sagacity of the room which had so intimidated the guard when he first entered was now a smoldering mess. The few remaining attendees tiptoed about, as if they expected another shock at any moment.

Baet looked up at the hole in the dome, then back down at the crushed form of Kezodel—half buried in marble—and wondered at the momentous turn of events. He wondered if anything could stand against them so long as Krumpus was about; then—remembering the shaman—he turned to find the man lying on his back, a thin wire of smoke drifting from his form. The shaman’s face and chest smoldered from where the lightning struck. His burnt skin reeked. He lay slumped in his sister’s lap. Baet wondered if he was dead and thought perhaps their luck wouldn’t last after all.

Meu approached and leaned over the unconscious form of the shaman. While the others might wonder, she knew he wasn’t dead. Her thoughts were still connected to his, since he was still under the influence of her venom—only now his mind was in a world of dreams, rich and wondrous. For a second, she thought she might try to pull him back to the real world, but found herself distracted by the glory of his vision. Astounded by what she saw—and not wanting Krumpus to slip her bond—Meu licked venom onto her lips and kissed the shaman. She slipped her tongue into his mouth, to make sure that her mind melding toxin was ingested—which didn’t please the sister at all.

“Hey!” Scurra shouted as she pushed the skin-walker away. “None of that hanky!”

With an apologetic smile, Meu retreated. She was closer than the sister could possibly know, as she peeked into the shaman’s mind, distracted by what she saw—oh so distracted!

"How did he do that?" Celesi whispered to Toar as she edged in a bit closer. "How did he summon the stone?”

"He didn't," Wenifas stated with a far-away look. "He simply sensed it. He's touched by the gods," she said.

Scurra turned on the priestess. "What do you know of it?!" she snapped.

"Did you not hear?” Wenifas replied. “He did not want the judge to die—as corrupt as he was. Indeed, he called the man to repentance, that he might be saved."

"And how is it that you know what he meant to say?!" Scurra asked. "You do not speak Tallian Hand! Indeed, you do not speak Trohl at all!”

Wenifas shook her head and turned away with a shrug. "Some secrets are not mine to share,” she replied with a sideways glance at Meu.

Scurra huffed as she wrapped her arms protectively around her brother. Who were these strange women and what did they have to do with Krumpus?

“He is alive?” Traust asked.

Scurra gave a nod. “He may be out, but his breathing is even. His heart is strong.”

“Good,” Traust said as he stared about the ruined room. “We are not safe here, not even in this city. I think it is best if we return to our own people.”

“Where are your own people?” Creigal asked.

“Hearthstone,” Traust answered. “A good week to the east.”

“I also travel east,” Creigal said. “I track a thief and believe he is in Land's End.”

“Land’s End is only a few days south of Hearthstone,” Traust gave a nod. “You are welcome to join us. Any friend of the shaman is a friend of ours.”

“I should like that,” Creigal replied with a smile. “And I thank you. These are my men: Carringten, Baetolamew, and Toar.”

“And these others?” Traust asked.

Carringten answered, since the duke did not really know them. “This is Meu, constant companion of the shaman, and just as quiet. The young one is Celesi, until most recently, an apprentice Jay. The last is Wenifas, priestess of the Eternal Song; along with her progeny, Claiten and Evereste,” he said with a nod. “I say we let them go where they please, in the company they wish to keep," he said to his duke, and also the foreign captain.

Wenifas stared at the dark man, surprised by this endorsement. Although she spent a week in close proximity to the foreigner, she spoke less than a dozen words to the man. In fact, she hated him for the part he played in the murder of Derris—but there’d been a truce of sorts, and she felt at this point there may be safety in numbers—especially since she was banished from her own country!

“And do they also wish to journey to Hearthstone?” Traust looked to the ladies.

Wenifas glanced at Meu and decided to follow her lead, but the serpent lady was distracted by the shaman’s visions. Instead, it was Celesi that chose their fate. “We would go with you even to Hearthstone,” she smiled at the duke—with a sideways glance at Toar. “My people lived in the west, and they are all gone; dead or slaves themselves. I have nothing here,” she explained.

“Well then, now that we know you, let us introduce ourselves,” Traust nodded. “These are my men: Apulton, Elpis, Andrus, Saleos, Aim, the brothers Homoth and Komotz. This is my second, Duboha; and this is our cousin, the lady Scurra, sister of the shaman. We are members of the Oak and Beast,” he bowed.

“The Oak and Beast?” Celesi repeated.

“The finest militia in the Freelands,” Apulton said with a grin.

Toar leaned close to the girl, “all the militias say this.”

Apulton gave a nod as he leaned in on Toar. “We just happen to be right,” he said with a wink.

“It’s a pleasure,” Creigal said and shook hands with the men, one after another. Carringten, Baet, and the ladies all followed his example—and Toar too—though grudgingly so.

“Now that formalities are out of the way, I suggest we abandon this place,” Traust began. “Aim, do us a favor and bring the shaman along,” he said as he turned toward the door.

Aim was a mountain of a man and the largest of the Jindleyak by a good hand. The sheer size of him reminded Creigal of his dead guard, Vearing. The glaring difference between the two was Aim's unassuming demeanor, which was quite unlike the snarl-toothed swagger of the dead guard. “Excuse me, sister,” Aim said to Scurra as he gently collected Krumpus and cradled the small shaman in his massive arms.

They all started moving out of the room. Meu took Wenifas by the hand, her face bewildered and far away. I must go, Meu spoke in the woman's mind. I am... distracted.

“Stay with us!” Wenifas pleaded and tried to pull Meu after the others. “I am lost without you!”

These others shall protect you. Meu leaned close and kissed the priestess, with more toxin on her lips. Do not fear; I am never far!

Wenifas frowned, but the others were leaving the chamber, and Meu was still in her mind. Celesi took Wenifas by the hand and pulled her along, as Claiten clung to his mother's dress.

“Is she not coming with us?” Elpis asked the priestess.

Wenifas shook her head. “She’ll find us later.”

Elpis shook his head. “That’ll be a trick…” he muttered as he brought up the rear. “We do intend to go unnoticed.”

“Leave her to it,” Wenifas replied. “She will find us.”

Meu watched the party go. With the Jindleyak delegation to keep them, Wenifas and the shaman should be safe; and since she was mostly alone, it was time for Meu to be her true self. She summoned the darkness and shifted into her serpent form.

There were still several others shuffling among the ruins of the room as Meu shifted. One gasped to see her transform. “Chimera!” he pointed—though he was wrong. Meu was merely a skin-walker wyrm. The others still about the room turned and stared at the great winged serpent, but Meu paid them no mind as she launched herself at the jagged hole in the dome and surged upward into the sky.

Although she felt the worry of Wenifas in her mind, Meu concentrated on the thoughts of Krumpus and his dreams of epic splendor. Ethereal beasts of incredible magic and power counseled the shaman. Connected to his thoughts through the venom of her tooth, Meu was exposed to the light magics they weaved in the dream world. She spun upward and rolled in the warm rays of the sun as an incredible peace washed over her. She'd never felt so loved—or so powerful!

Below, the others stepped through a long hall and pushed aside anyone that stood in their way—though most of the court was empty. Traust shouted at the remaining few as they passed, and the Degorouth wisely stood aside. The few Ministrians they saw scurried away as quickly and quietly as possible, still quite frightened by the sudden death of the Muaha Kezodel.

Having taken many meetings in numerous nooks and corners of the court, Traust knew the building quite well. He led the group into a small walled garden and quickly made his way down a side path. The party stopped before a small gate in the garden wall, as several guards barred the way.

The guards looked bored and unconcerned. Somehow they knew nothing of the day’s troubles. They stood tall and straight as they noted the approaching militia and held up their hands in order to stop the Jindleyaks—but the members of the Oak and Beast only glared as they proceeded. Worry played over the faces of the guards as they noticed the grim and serious manner of the Jindleyak militia, and also the figure of the shaman slumped over Aim’s large shoulder. “And where do you think you’re going?!” the sergeant asked as he stepped in their way.

Traust put one hand out, and the other on the wolf’s head hilt of his sword. He stood strong and tall as he glared at the sergeant. “You can let us out, or we can let us out,” he began. “Either way, we are going through that gate.”

As one, the Jindleyak militia checked their weapons.

Heavily outnumbered, the Degorouth watchmen put up their hands and backed away from the gate, to show they were not looking for a fight. Their sergeant muttered curses under his breath as he fumbled among his keys. For his own sake, he could not open the gate fast enough. “Kezodel’s going to hear of this,” the sergeant managed with a glare—but the threat was roundly ignored.

Away from the Great Court, the company continued for several blocks. Traust led them into a tight alley, then stopped, since there were no other people about. He turned to his men. “Pack it up,” he said as he pulled off his own tabard, to reveal the gleam of his armor beneath. The militia men stripped off their tabards, rings, necklaces: anything that marked their affiliation with the Oak and Beast. They stuffed these items into their bags and pockets. With a shrewd eye, Traust appraised the gathered crowd as he devised his plan. “We need volunteers to go to Edgewater,” he began.

“I'll go,” Apulton said.

“Give me one more,” he looked among his men.

“I’ll go,” Toar said and stepped forward—but it seemed as if Traust didn’t hear him. “I’ll go,” he repeated, but the foreign captain continued to look to his own.

With a scowl, Duboha pushed Andrus forward. “Are you training to be a sneak or not?!” he whispered to the young cousin. Andrus blinked and stepped forward with a contrite glance at Duboha.

“Good,” Traust said. “In my apartment, in the top drawer of my dresser, you’ll find a brass case. Bring it to me,” he ordered and gave a key to Apulton.

“What's in it?” Apulton asked.

“Coin, correspondence, personal affects I do not wish to leave," he said and turned to his other men. "If anyone else wants items from the house in Edgewater, now is the time to confide in your friends. Otherwise, we go to Duboha’s.”

Homoth and Komotz turned to each other and grinned. Neither had ever been to the sneak’s own home. Along with the others, the brothers pressed on Apulton and Andrus, to ask them to retrieve a thing or two. The list of requests continued to grow, and caused Andrus to complain. “There is too much! We shall need another body just to carry it all!”

“I'll go,” Toar repeated. “I have an acquaintance in Edgewater that I should like to see, if only for a few minutes.”

Traust frowned as he measured the young man. “This is not a time for calling on friends,” he noted.

“I vouch for his loyalty and intelligence,” Creigal said. “He has no love for Kezodel or his Degorouth, and will do nothing to jeopardize us. If he wishes to stop in Edgewater, I beg that you let him.”

Traust shook his head as he glanced among the others. “If no one else is willing to go…” He turned to Apulton. “Take the young Bouge with you. The estate is invariably watched, so use the shanty tunnel—and stay away from any open windows. Meet us at the House of Leaves—and don't dally—or you can make your own way to Hearthstone.”

Celesi grabbed Toar by the hand. “I go with them!”

With a sigh, Traust agreed. “So be it. Anyone else have a burning desire to go to Edgewater?”

Wenifas frowned though she bit her lip. She knew Celesi didn't mean to abandon her. The apprentice Jay only meant to stay near Toar. For her own sake, and for the sake of her children, Wenifas decided it might be best to stay among the bulk of the men—though they made her increasingly uneasy. At least the shaman was still with her.

Apulton, Andrus, Toar, and Celesi left the others.

“Sir,” Elpis began.

“Yes,” Traust turned to his cousin and nodded. “Take the Ministrian and her children to your Lady Yandira,” he said. “Scurra, you will go with them.”

“What of my brother?” Scurra asked.

“We take him into the caverns of Beletrain,” Traust answered. “Him and the foreigners. It is the best way to sneak them through the city.”

“I have no fear of the old tunnels,” Scurra replied a bit stiff. She was actually quite terrified of the dark—but was unwilling to make any sort of confession.

“I do not ask you to go for your own comfort,” Traust noted. “I ask for the sake of the priestess, that I do not send her with Elpis alone. I would have asked the Bouge girl to go with you too, but it appears she does not want to be separated from her man.”

Scurra considered his words and let them convince her. With a nod she waved to Wenifas, “Okay then. Let's go.”

The priestess shook her head. “I stay with the shaman,” she insisted as she stepped closer to Krumpus. He was the only one left that she still trusted among this strange crew, and although he was unconscious, she meant to keep with someone familiar.

Traust shook his head. “I will not bring children into Beletrain. What if the babe should fuss? It is risky enough with so many capable men,” he noted. “Besides, we need to warn the Lady Yandira of what has transpired—and if we cannot bring the shaman out of his stupor, we will need her connections to move him beyond the gates of the city.” He leaned close to the priestess. “You will have less trouble and more luxury with the Lady Yandira. Believe me, Beletrain is not a place you want to go.”

Scurra took Wenifas by the hand. “So long as I live, I promise you will see my brother again,” she assured. “Now come along. I wish to be rid of this place.”

A sense of dread and urgency welled up in the priestess. She grabbed hold of the unconscious shaman and pulled against his hand in hopes that he might wake. “No!” she cried—then flinched as a strange electricity passed through his hand and into her own.

A flash of insight caught in her brain—as if the shaman was speaking to her—but it was not through Meu, nor was he awake. It was as if he was talking to her from the future. He said she must go with his sister—but not yet.

Wenifas took hold of the shaman’s cloak. “If I must travel the streets, give me his coat, that I might not look like such a foreigner," she said, and thought to herself, I will take his cloak or I will perish!

Scurra frowned and shook her head. She opened her mouth, about to speak.

Wenifas cut off her protests. “I promise surety for it!” She said as she dug in one of the purses stolen from Fedring. She pulled out a gold sol and offered the massive coin to the woman.

For a long second, Scurra stared at the metal round. So did everyone else. They all had the same question. Where does a lowly priestess get such a heavy coin?!

“If his cloak is so valuable, do you not want it with you?” Wenifas asked as she waved the gold round at the shaman’s sister. “As he is, your brother cannot protect it.”

Scurra gave a slow nod to Wenifas as she took the gold sol. “Okay then,” she began as she held up the coin. “I hold this against its return.”

Wenifas unbuckled the cloak and put it upon her own shoulders, then turned and followed Scurra and Elpis. She thought she'd be excited to finally be away from Derris’s murderers—but she wasn’t. She was nervous—and she regretted showing such money among them. They all noticed the gold sol. How many of them noted the hefty purse that it came from? She clutched Claiten’s hand as she carried Evereste with the other.

“Well then,” Traust turned. “Let us make for the serpent’s den,“ he said as he walked.

“The serpent’s den?” Creigal repeated.

Traust nodded. “Below us is an ancient underground city, built by naga. It is a nest of tunnels, a labyrinth that runs further and deeper than any man knows.”

“There are tunnels that run all the way to the mountains,” Duboha added. “Some say they go all the way to the center of the earth and out the other side.”

Baet snorted. "I think we can take that for exaggeration.”

“Perhaps,” Duboha shrugged. “Needless to say, it is not without risk.”

“Naga…” Creigal began. “I’ve only ever heard rumor of such beasts.”

Traust nodded. “Serpents with arms like a man, intelligent and dangerous. Ebertin is built over one of their great cities.”

“You know the history well?” Creigal asked.

“Not half as well as Duboha,” Traust noted. “He’s been here half his life.”

“It is a fascinating history,” Duboha claimed. “Hearthstone is staid in comparison; nothing but farm lands and festivals as far as the eye can see.”

“I would call it idyllic,” Traust stated. “Who in their right mind wishes to live above a naga city?”

“Much of it taken from the naga,” Duboha argued. “Paid in blood.”

Traust shook his head. “We do not know how much of it men possess. The war has never ended. The way I hear, the war has been at a standstill almost since it began—some two hundred years ago.”

“And we mean to enter these tunnels?” Carringten asked, uninterested in leaving the light of day for tight quarters under the earth. “Is there not a better path?”

Traust shook his head. “We are a formidable lot. There are routes, corridors, entire sections of the underground city controlled by the various militias. Indeed, it’s a point of pride among the militias of Ebertin to have a constant presence in Beletrain. We are unlikely to see any naga. The beasts prefer to stay deep in the earth.”

“Even underground, it is rare to run into naga,” Duboha agreed. “Especially during the day. I cannot count how many times I have been in the tunnels, but I rarely seen the beasts. It is maybe once or twice a year, and then they are usually captured, or dead, caught in some trap.”

“Indeed, even in the tunnels, our biggest worry will be other humans,” Traust stated. “The Ministrians are known to go underground among unfriendly militias.”

“Sounds dubious,” Carringten noted. “Perhaps we should just stick to the streets.”

Traust shook his head. “It is still the best way to sneak notable foreigners and a comatose man through the city. If we should come across a few naga, we are a good number and quite dangerous ourselves. If we stay in the streets, if we run into a troop of Degorouth in the open, we will be sorely outnumbered. Indeed, the longer we dally, the worse it will be for us. I suspect as soon as the shock wears off, the city will be thick with our enemies. At least the naga care nothing for our politics. It is unlikely they will be out in numbers.”

“Let us not dawdle,” Homoth complained. “If we mean to do this, let us do it. I'd prefer to be back above ground before the sun sets.”

Traust gave a nod and led the troop down several dingy back streets. They came to an old stone building with a tavern on its first floor. "Meet us around back,” Traust said to Duboha. With a nod, Duboha stepped into the establishment and approached the bar, as Traust took the others around the back of the building.

The bartender turned to the new arrival. “What can I get ya?” he asked.

Duboha leaned in close. “I’d like down into Beletrain,” he said in a low voice.

The barkeep leaned forward and locked eyes with the militiaman, “It costs a pretty bone to get into that den of snakes.”

“I have no chabling, and not enough chits,” Duboha replied. “Any chance you'll take metal?”

The barkeep's face lit up, “Keep your lousy dragon bone and curse the Minist traitor that gave it to you!” he said in a harsh whisper. “Only fools decline good metal coin!”

Duboha knew the man in passing, and had expected such an answer. Still, he smiled and clapped the barkeep on the shoulder, as he passed him several heavy pieces of silver.

“That’s a hefty price,” the bartender noted. “You wish to bring an army with you?” He asked with a wry smile. He dropped the coins in his pocket and led Duboha from the bar.

“The others at your back door—and we’re hoping you’ll keep our passing to yourself.”

“Can’t see it being anybody else’s business,” the barkeep nodded as they stepped through the kitchen and down a long hall. He opened the back door and let the others in, then pointed down a side passage. “This is the way your lookin' to go.”

The Jindleyak piled in and took an immediate left. There was a small room with half burned torches all about a table. Each man took a torch as the barkeep unlocked a heavy metal door with a good number of stops and catches on it. Slowly, he pulled open the heavy door and revealed a thin spiral ramp beyond.

“Why not stairs?” Carringten asked as he followed several of the Jindleyak down.

“And why would snakes build stairs?” Duboha replied.

The ramp opened into a large cavern which, to Carringten’s comfort, was not rough at all. The walls and ceiling were bricked. Despite heavy wear, they looked to be quite solid.

Down the length of the long room ran a wide aqueduct. The room narrowed into corridors at the east and west ends, then proceeded into darkness. There was little to hear besides the slushing of water, the burning of torches, and the shuffle of their own feet. Looking closer at the stone, Baet noted glyphs and symbols all about the passage. “What is this?” he whispered.

“Naga tongue,” Duboha said of the characters carved into the stone. He shook his head. “Can't read a lick of that.” Further along the wall were more characters of a different nature, scrawled in red paint. “This is Trohl,” he smiled as he pointed at the rough painted letters.

“What does it say?” Baet asked.

“Danger,” Duboha shrugged. “Like we wouldn't know... And this here is the glyph of the Gray Sons.”

“Another militia?” Baet asked.

Duboha nodded. “The Gray Sons have been openly critical of Kezodel and his Degorouth for years. We are unlikely to meet with any Ministrians in their tunnels,” he said.

“The water seems drinkable,” Creigal noted.

“It varies,” Duboha replied. “Some of the streams and aqueducts are pure as rain. Some only look as pure as rain, and some are outright sewers. Indeed, the waterworks of Beletrain are quite the marvel. During the war, the Bouge poisoned several of these aqueducts,” the Second continued. “It didn't bother the naga—but the poison killed a great many people. Indeed, the poison did far more damage to Ebertin than Beletrain. Some say it almost caused the Bouge to lose their own city.”

“Some plan,” Baet snorted, as Creigal stepped away from the water.

Duboha shrugged. “The men that did the poisoning were hanged for the troubles they caused. Needless to say, don’t bother trying to poison a naga.”

Creigal was about to make some comment about the luxury of being immune to poisons and how he could have used such an ability all too recently—but Traust came down the ramp. “Let's go,” Traust said as he started forward, “and let's be quiet,” he added as the others followed.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 1.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

At the front of the Great Court, members of the Gray Sons Militia dragged the corpse of the chimera, Kezodel, onto the steps for anyone to see. “People of Ebertin! Look and hear what has become of our fearless leader!” Hopur Dalyth, a captain of the Gray Sons, sneered. “See what hubris and pride have caused for this great man!”

A crowd gathered and Hopur Dalyth told the story of what he witnessed in the Muaha’s court—then told it again as more people gathered. For nearly an hour, he shouted and denounced Kezodel to any man that listened.

The common people of Ebertin gawked and gossiped about the dead chimera with his great, twisted, hairy physique; his strange leathery wings, and long claws. They poked, pinched, and prodded the corpse as Hopur Dalyth continued his diatribe.

Eventually, word came of Degorouth and Ministrians approaching en masse. Hopur Dalyth kicked and cursed the dead corpse of the chimera several more times, then disappeared into the crowd, with his men in tow.

Eventually, several of Kezodel’s more ambitious lieutenants gathered the men and gumption needed to chase off the curious locals. They scattered the gawkers, then took the body of their fallen leader to a secure setting, in hopes of saving some scrap of the dead judge’s dignity. Yet, several thousand commoners had already shuffled past and witnessed both the judge’s weirdness and the sordid story of his demise. They heard talk of a defiant shaman that caused the collapse of the dome, and also of birds that harried anyone that stood against the holy man. Though it traveled in hushed whispers and hurried assertions, the news of the Muaha’s death spread like wildfire upon a parched and thirsting landscape, and although there was no end to the arguments about what would eventually come of it, all the talkers agreed that the immediate effect would be a great deal of trouble.

Lady Yandira

Polished — 18m51s — 2023/12/10

After the unfortunate death of her husband, Lady Yandira became the sole proprietor of Kundilae Merchantile, a large and wealthy trading company based in Ebertin. Due to her savvy business acumen, Kundilae Merchantile continued to prosper under the lady’s leadership, and Yandira increasingly became a woman of influence and power in Ebertin.

About a year after the accidental passing of Yandira’s husband, the Lady was approached by a family of Jindleyak traders. They had fine cloth, blends of hemp and wool. They offered a mix of handcrafted horse tackle, from bridle to stirrups, and everything in between. They also made a divine pear brandy, though it was of limited stock. Indeed, everything they brought her was of the highest quality, and offered at reasonable prices. Since they were a smaller company, Yandira commissioned as much of their wares as they were able to provide. Then, as they celebrated the partnership, Yandira confessed to one of the Jindleyak traders that she was terribly lonely, and soon afterward found herself head over heals in love with the man, a young and handsome Elpis.

Despite the fact that Lady Yandira was nearly ten years his senior, the Bouge Lady and her Jindleyak beau were well matched in values, temperament, and resources. As the association grew and flourished, many of their friends felt a betrothal was imminent, and that the lady stalled only for the sake of propriety.

But now, Kezodel was dead, and the status quo along with him. Elpis felt it might be a good time for Yandira to make herself scarce. She was known as a friend of the Jindleyaks, and although the Lady had her own security and many friends about the city, they’d be no match for the Degorouth and their Ministrian allies, should any of Kezodel’s lieutenants decide to make trouble. For this reason, Elpis intended to take Yandira to Hearthstone, to meet his rather large and prosperous family. They’d planned to make the trip eventually anyway, so current events only expedited their departure—and in the meantime, the Mercantile would operate quietly, making its money with the Lady absent.

That is, if all went rather smoothly.

A cousin of Elpis by half a dozen removals, Scurra had met the Lady Yandira and supped with her shortly after she arrived in the city. She rather liked the polished woman, and now that she’d chosen to go that direction, Scurra was satisfied, because she knew she would indeed be comfortable. “I think you shall quite like the lady,” she smiled as she led Wenifas and her children through the front gate of the Lady’s estate. “She will see that you have everything you might like.”

Such sentiment went a long way to relaxing the frayed nerves of the priestess, and made the boy smile with anticipation. Claiten wondered if she might have children about, children his age, that he might have a few new friends.

The house came into view, a large and well-kept structure of opulence and finery. They could all see the lithe form of the Lady Yandira as she stood on her balcony. Elpis smiled and waved to his light haired lover, all too happy to see her again. The Lady waved back as a bittersweet smile graced her face.

“It seems your Lady knows of the judge’s demise,” Scurra noted.

“She has a number of spies among the court,” Elpis replied, then slowed in his approach. “Is she crying?”

The Lady Yandira leaned over the railing of her balcony and yelled at her visitors—though they could barely hear her across the great expanse of the front yard.

Four guards approached in uniforms of the Merchantile. Elpis did not recognize them, but then there were many men in the Lady’s employ he did not know. The guards gave a slight nod as they approached.

Wenifas noticed the puzzled expression of one as he caught a glimpse of her crescent moon medallion. Without thinking—only feeling it was the right thing to do—she raised her hand in a typical Ministrian greeting and said, “hello,” in her native tongue. Upon reflex, the man responded in kind, not realizing that he gave himself away.

With a hiss, Elpis brandished his long war axe and prepared to fight. As he set his stance and lowered his weight, the breeze caught just right, and the Jindleyak finally heard what his lover was screaming. “Run!” her words drifted on the breeze. “Save yourselves!”

The front door of the manse opened. Degorouth and Ministrians poured out of the house. Elpis realized that his lady was already a captive. His heart dropped into his stomach. He stared at the blonde beauty, suddenly sure of the reason for her tears.

“We can’t be here,” Scurra said and pulled at her cousin. “We should go.”

Elpis considered his options. A dozen enemies proceeded across the lawn as more and more poured from the Lady’s house. He knew he could not overcome such a mob—but he longed to try. He knew the right thing was to run, to escape. Then, he could send an intermediary to negotiate for his lover’s release—but first he must live.

In order to do that, Elpis needed to fight, at least a little. The four false guards were too close. He would not escape them if he turned and ran now.

Scurra pushed Wenifas away and pointed down the drive. “Go!” she ordered. The priestess turned and ran down the road with her children, then noticed the Jindleyaks weren’t following. Instead, Scurra kneeled several paces behind Elpis. “Run!” the woman screamed at the priestess, then drew her bow and nocked an arrow as the false guards closed the gap.

As Elpis charged, he stepped to the left and gave his cousin the look she wanted. An arrow appeared from behind him and caught the first man center mass. The shocked man doubled over as Elpis slipped passed him and barreled into the man on the far left. This Ministrian slashed at Elpis, but was turned aside by a parry. Then, being inside his enemy’s guard, Elpis slashed the man’s chest with the edge of his axe. The man stumbled, dead before he hit the ground.

The third man hoped to catch Elpis as the Jindleyak engaged the second—but was forced to slow or catch an arrow from Scurra. Given a moment, Elpis turned toward the man, parried a strike, and smashed the blunt edge of his axe against the inside of his enemy’s leg. With a loud pop, the man’s femur cracked. He screamed in agony, dropped his sword and dagger, then fell in a writhing heap.

The fourth and final Ministrian rushed at Scurra, but he was turned back as she dodged to the side and whipped him in the face with the end of her bow. Blinded, the Ministrian took an awkward swing and caught nothing but air, then wheeled away. Blinking, the last of the initial attackers turned and realized how drastically the odds had shifted. He decided it was best to flee. Scurra put an arrow in his butt just to be sure he didn’t follow.

Gripping his arm, Elpis turned to take one last look at Yandira. "My Lady!" he yelled, horrified to see a foreign man now standing behind her.

Yandira smiled through her tears, put her hand to her lips, and blew a kiss to her lover.

“No!” Elpis yelled as the man—was this the Ministrian that tried to persecute the duke?—he grabbed the Lady about her waist and hefted her over the railing of her own balcony. Although she struggled, Yandira could not deny her attacker. She screamed and clutched at the railing, but could not get a good hold. She tumbled end over end as she fell from the high balcony, then struck the ground with an awful crunch. Elpis cringed and turned away so he would not have to see the impact—though he suffered to hear it—including the abrupt end of her scream.

In response to such an injustice, and also to give her cousin time to turn and run, Scurra nocked several arrows and sent them at the men that approached from the Lady’s manse. The first arrow was dodged by the first man, then clipped the second man’s ribs, as it disappeared into the crowd. The second arrow caught a man in the leg and hobbled him. The third arrow was blocked by a shield. She was doing little damage as the crowd proceeded across the lawn. If they did not leave, they would be caught.

Scurra grabbed Elpis by the collar, and yanked him down the drive. “We gotta go!”

The enemy continued to advance. Near the gate, Wenifas turned to see her escort was now on its way. Elpis pointed her west, and so the priestess turned and continued to run, babe in hand, and son at her heels.

Elpis ran. With tears in his eyes, he ran past his cousin, then caught and passed the priestess and her progeny too, so he might lead the way. He took them onto pathways and alleys between nearby cottages, gardens, gates, and sheds; as sounds of pursuit crashed about behind them. He knew the area from long leisurely walks with his love, and his familiarity served him well.

On and on they ran through well groomed hedges, orchards, and large beds of flowers, cultivated by rich neighbors. They dodged behind fences, sheds, and outbuildings in an effort to lose their pursuers.

After several minutes of running, they came to the edge of the wealthy neighborhood. The houses began to crowd in upon each other. Alleys twisted and forked among these houses, and the noise of their pursuit scattered and dwindled. After a couple dozen turns and a couple miles of hard running, Wenifas pulled up and leaned heavily against a slant wood fence. "I can't...!" she cried, barely able to breathe. "I can't...!" she wept as tears streamed from her eyes.

Claiten caught up last, and smashed his tearful face into the folds of his mother's cloak.

"Oh, my brave boy!" Wenifas stroked his hair. She choked down her guilt for running on ahead of him, and begged herself not to cry. “My brave, brave boy,” she kissed him as she tried to understand this impossible day.

Scurra turned to Elpis. "I’m so sorry,” she said, and wrapped her cousin in a hug.

Elpis grit his teeth and pushed her away. “I don’t want to think about it. I just want to get out of here.” He shook his head. “We cannot be captured. There will be no quarter for us.”

Scurra noticed blood on his shirt. She dabbed a finger at the mess and held it up for Elpis to see. "When…?" she asked.

“The second man I fought glanced me with his dagger as he flailed and fell,” Elpis winced away from her probing fingers. “It's nothing—barely touched me at all.”

"That's a lot of blood,” Scurra frowned. “Let me see…” Ever so gently, she lifted his arm and saw a gush of blood. Scurra cursed through tight lips as she sucked her breath, then pressed his arm to his side. “Keep it tight,” she ordered, then pulled his tabard from his bag, ripped it, and tied the pieces around his chest and injured arm. "It’s not much of a cut, as you said, but he must have nicked a vein or an artery for it to bleed so much,” she told him.

“Figures,” Elpis grimaced as his cousin worked.

“We have to get somewhere fast,” Scurra said as she finished up. “What's in the area?"

Elpis shook his head. “We're near the slant streets—but an injured man with women and children should not be visiting among those bars and brothels."

“Too conspicuous,” Scurra agreed. “We need to get to the House of Leaves,” she reminded him.

“Problem is, we're going the wrong direction, and we can’t take the streets,” Elpis shook his head.

“No more problems,” Scurra said. “Think of solutions. We need to get to the House of Leaves,” she repeated.

“That’s at the east end of town. We’re heading the wrong way,” Elpis shook his head.

“Solutions,” Scurra repeated. “Where can we hide? I can’t help. I don’t know this city.”

“Well, now,” Elpis considered. “There's the butcher. He’s close, and has an entrance to Beletrain. We could go underground and come up on the other side of my Lady’s estate. It will get us going in the right direction,” he smiled. “Actually, if we come up at the auction, we could be in Peverly, in four, maybe five hours? There’s a safe house there, run by the Ladies of the Daffodil.”

“Beletrain,” Scurra stiffened. “I don’t like it.”

“What’s to like?” Elpis shrugged. On top of that, we’ll have to come up in Fowler's Auction.”

“What's wrong with this Fowler?” Scurra asked.

“Fowler ain’t a friend of the Degorouth or Ministrians,” Elpis began. “But he isn't much of a friend to anyone else either. He respects money, if he respects anything at all,” he shook his head. “It's not a great plan, but we have to come up somewhere. If I had Traust’s maps, we’d have a thousand options...” he shrugged.

“What are our chances?” Scurra asked.

“On the surface we’re bound to come across a patrol of Degorouth or Ministrians, and they’re certain to have questions since there’s blood all over me,” Elpis noted. “But in the tunnels…”

Sounds of pursuit continued to shift and drift all around them, approaching on some sides and receding on others.

Scurra steeled herself against the coming darkness. “Underground might not be a great plan, but it’s what we got,” she nodded. “Which way do we go?”

Elpis pushed himself off the wall with his good arm. “This way,” he said, and turned to the south.

The group dodged through the alleys with furtive glances at every intersection. Finally, Elpis stopped at a gate marked with a bull's head. “This is it,” he grimaced. “Now this guy is a real piece of work, so keep your guard up,” he said, then banged on the gate.

After several seconds of waiting, Elpis banged again. He was about to hit the gate a third time when a latch finally gave and the gate cracked open. A sour face glared back at them. “What’chu want?!” The rancid words caught in their noses.

“We need access to the tunnels,” Elpis replied.

“Tunnels? You mean Beletrain?!” The curmudgeon glared about the group. “We have no door to that snake hole, if that's what you're asking,” he said and slammed the gate shut.

With a snort, Elpis banged on the gate once more. It opened again, but the man did not speak. Instead, he simply glared at the lot of 'em.

Elpis held up two silver half moons. “The access is disguised as an outhouse. I can show you where it is if you'd like.”

The curmudgeon glanced about the group. “You mean to take children into Beletrain?”

“Ain't none of your business,” Elpis answered.

“Might be the business of the Red Dog,” the curmudgeon noted.

“You tell whoever you want after you let us in,” Elpis replied. “And I hope you get a good price for the information.”

“Another moon,” the curmudgeon stated with a glint in his eye. “I wish to sooth my conscience for sending children into the viper's pit.”

“I have no more coin on me,” Elpis lied. He pulled a piece of bone from his pocket, a round ball joint about half the size of a fist, etched with fancy markings, and decorated with semi-precious stone. “What of a twelve weight chabling?”

“Rather have metal,” the curmudgeon groused—but they both knew the worth of a twelve weight chabling. He pushed the gate wide, took the decorated piece of bone, and stepped aside.

The ‘latrine’ was heavily barred and locked. The owner undid the locks and worked the bars free of the door as he grumbled to himself.

“Sturdiest shit house in all of Ebertin,” Elpis noted.

The curmudgeon grunted. “Can't have the snakes coming out whenever they like.”

“We'll need fire,” Elpis said.

“Torches are extra,” the curmudgeon replied.

Scurra held out a copper bot.

The curmudgeon took it with a broken smile. “The bunch of you seemed to be overflowin' with metal,” he said as he leaned into the woman.

“I keep a fine edge on some of it,” Scurra noted, as a knife appeared in her hand. She tapped the flat against the inside of the butcher's thigh.

The curmudgeon backpedaled. “Don't mean for no shenanigans,” he said as he returned to the chains and bars that locked the entrance of Beletrain. “Torches are next to the fire pit,” he pointed. “Take what you want.”

Elpis lit three torches. He gave one to Scurra and another to Claiten, then stepped into the false latrine and made his way down the spiral ramp with a torch of his own. Wenifas followed with Evereste in one arm and Claiten's hand in the other. Claiten shivered against his mother as the chill darkness threatened to overwhelm him. Scurra came last, her eyes never leaving the curmudgeon until he closed the door and locked them in.

“Muster your courage,” Wenifas said to her boy—as well as herself. “The gods mean for us to be brave.” She pulled back her babe’s hand as the toddler cooed and reached for the torch held by her son.

“And quiet,” Elpis whispered to the priestess. “The gods mean for us to be quiet.”

“Which way?” Scurra asked as she came down the ramp. “Let's be quick," she stated.

Elpis glanced at the markings on the wall, then gave a nod and pointed to his left.

“It is too dark,” Wenifas shook her head. “We need to go slow.”

“No time for that,” Elpis said, and nodded back up the ramp. “He’s selling us out as we speak.”

“What?!” Wenifas glared. “We’re being betrayed?!” she asked as she followed the militiaman with a questioning stare.

“Others want to know about it anytime someone comes down here,” the Jindleyak shrugged. “Nothing good ever goes on under the city.”

“Do we need fear this Red Dog?” Scurra asked.

Elpis shrugged. “Never heard of him. Let’s assume the Degorouth will know we're down here before the hour is out—but we’ll be back out of the tunnels an hour after that, so don’t even worry. They have no idea what direction we mean to go, and Beletrain is an impossible maze with far too many exits,” he explained. “Traust has a map with some four or five hundred different ways in and out—and we suspect that's not even half of 'em. So you see, it doesn’t matter where we go in. It only matters where we come up.”

“That ain’t such bad news,” Scurra beamed at the priestess.

“Enough talk,” Elpis said. “We ought to be quiet. We do not know who or what else is down here,” he said as he led them further into the darkness.

A Devil's Bargain

Polished 3.1 to 3.4 — 36m00s — 2023/12/10

Polished 3.5 — 17m08s — 2023/12/11

There is another side

that is not often seen—

and yet it is always here with us.

With ghosts and spirits

and apparitions of all different sorts—

who is to say what is and what is not?

—The Book of Odim Kalodim, author unknown

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 3.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Celesi glanced at Toar. She insisted on walking next to him as they followed Apulton and Andrus through the crowded streets of Ebertin. When there was a break between the trees and houses, she could see Lake Kundilae, and so she assumed they were in Edgewater—or near to it—and thereby fast approaching their destination.

Celesi gaped at the crowds on the street, shocked to see so many of her people wandering free, as if there was no war at all. At once, she was glad that so many of her cousins would go where they may—and yet, disappointed to see so many of them with petulant scowls upon their faces. Were they oblivious to their freedom? Or perhaps bothered by it? Then, after spotting yet another Degorouth patrol with several Ministrian advisors at their head, she wondered if perhaps they were not as free as she suspected. Still, it'd been a long time since Celesi was around so many of her own kind, and her heart was glad for that alone.

As they walked, her conflicted emotions only increased. Celesi sensed a distance between herself and the people of Ebertin. She didn’t know them, and none of them knew her. Indeed, she found herself wondering what had happened to all the people of her old life? Did any of her old neighbors and friends evade the sneaky Ministrians, and their Degorouth collaborators? Was there anyone she knew in the city of Ebertin? Might she run into anyone from the old village—or any of its tiny neighbors?

The crowds continued on and on, and Celesi realized anyone she knew would be lost in this sea of strangers. She had to accept that all of her old relationships were lost to her. Her old life was gone. She did not know anyone anymore—except for a handful of new acquaintances. After that, there were only her enemies. Indeed, after a year of captivity, was it possible that she was a touch too Ministrian for her people?

A lump formed in her throat as she remembered what it was to be a Jay. There were many levels to the Order, and she was the lowest among them. Her sisters, Alise and Karamina, made a point of reminding her of that—and frequently. To be the lowest of the Jays meant that she shared in all the niceties of her sisters profession; an appreciation for the arts, lessons in cooking, manners, and the like. In ways, she was well educated—after a fashion. They were even so liberal that they allowed her to keep a personal journal—though she caught both Karamina and Meriona poking about its contents. Celesi adjusted her words accordingly. She never caught Alise in her notes—but then, Alice was a sly one and not often caught at such mayhem.

As a foreigner, and held in such low regard, Celesi had little understanding or access to the political cloak and dagger that seemed to dominate the Order’s true work. Admittedly, she never wanted to be a part of the Jays anyway and had simply resigned herself to such a life. At least she was young and beautiful, so she was not kept with the other slaves.

And how long could she expect her privilege to last? How long could she expect her good looks to hold out, especially among such an ugly people? She longed for escape.

For too long, Celesi was low on fight. After her village was ransacked and her friends and family rounded up and taken to the Invader’s Fort, she managed to evade the supposed Saot marauders—which were actually the blended forces of Minist, Wibbeley, and Ebertin—for over eight months. Not to mention all the bugbear. But the ordeal took its toll. Thin and emaciated, she was finally caught trying to fish a proper dinner out of a half frozen creek—and wailing like a banshee as lack and frustration took their toll. Her captors found her at the edge of the stream; frightened, starved, freezing—and nearly out of her mind—as she screamed about her bloody torments. Indeed, the soldiers secured her capture with a bit of sweet liquor, some hard tack, and the offer of a thick blanket.

At the Invader’s Fort, Meriona took an interest in her. Celesi complied and allowed the Jay to give her the ‘rudiments of a proper education’. Despite the occasional insult, Celesi was thankful to Meriona. With the lady looking over her, she missed few meals and had a warm bed. Yet, Celesi soon realized her situation had its own perils. Indeed, Meriona was quite open about her plans for Celesi, and explained quite pragmatically how she expected the Trohl to handle the various embarrassments and inequities that approached her. The senior Jay revealed that she had recently returned from selling her last prodigy: another native girl of uncommon beauty—and claimed that the lady had even thanked her and hugged her for making such a fine match! Indeed, Celesi would soon be a concubine to some man of position, her virginity sold to the highest bidder, and her person hid deep within some palace grounds, behind curtains of lace and intrigue. But before she could be sold, she had to be trained in the niceties of Baradha society.

Still weak from running and hiding in the wilderness, Celesi allowed Meriona to do as she wanted. Celesi saw how the other slaves were treated, often abused for minor and imaginary offenses. She knew in many ways she had it good. She went along and built her strength as she studied her enemies. She made no attempt to escape—in part because she had no where to go. Her family was gone; dead, or sold down river. Even before Celesi arrived at the fort, they were all gone. When she was first captured, she thought that at least she’d see her family again—but there were very few of her neighbors left in the slave pens, and none that she knew too well—all among a great congregation of strangers.

Although her body healed, her heart suffered. To dull the pain, Celesi focused on the slanted education she was afforded and clung to what was useful; learning the language, the customs, the habits of her enemies. So what if her life was hollow? At least it was comfortable. After surviving all on her own and quite exposed to the elements, It was a grand thing to have a sturdy roof over her head and others to talk to.

There was no point in fighting. Celesi’s captors had already won and could only make her life more of a living hell. Instead, she grew complacent, grew accustomed to the occasional pins and barbs delivered by her senior sisters. A date was set for her departure to Tikatis, where Meriona would parade her among the Baradha. The months slipped by. Celesi wondered if perhaps she’d squandered her opportunity of escape.

Then, only a week from the day she was to go west, the duke appeared in their house—and everything changed! Karamina and Alise went east with the duke. The very next day, Celesi found herself following!—as a war of bugbear attacked the fort.

East!

Toward her people!

And away from those that would buy and sell her!

And that was not even the last of her shocks! A week after that, a rock smashed through the dome of the Great Court and killed the mighty judge, Kezodel. In the mayhem, Celesi found the courage to stand up to Meriona—and just like that the young Trohl girl was free—as free as the day was long! Now she couldn’t help but grin as she wandered the streets of Ebertin; among thousands, perhaps a million of her own people—and with a handsome and dour man next to her!

Celesi glanced again at Toar and fancied that the young explorer would make a fine anchor for her new life—a free life! All she had to do was win him over.

“They move around as if nothing has changed," Celesi wondered aloud as she glanced at the crowd. "Is it possible that such a lord should die, and the people won't even know it?" She said of Kezodel.

“There's not much talking in this city,” Andrus, the younger of the two Jindleyak, replied. “Anything beside the official story must travel in furtive whispers. There are plenty of Degorouth and Ministrian spies in the city, and they don’t take kindly to gossip.”

Apulton shook his head in disagreement. “The secret is out,” he argued. “Nothing stops the rumor mill. Indeed, when people appear quiet is usually when it is doing it’s best work.”

“For many of them, it won’t matter,” Toar interjected. “Even if they know, they’ll assume the new leader is just as bad as the last—and likely as not, they’re right.”

“But the shaman promised a new day,” Celesi replied.

“And who is he to know the future?” Toar shook his head. “That’s just the hyperbole of a holy man; a best guess, a wild hope.”

“Will there be fighting?” Celesi asked.

“The Degorouth are bitter and petty,” Apulton noted. “They’ll bloody somebody.”

“They're a rotten bunch,” Andrus agreed. “The Degorouth will take their frustrations out on someone—once they get over the initial shock of it all. Likely, there’s fighting already—somewhere in the city.”

“Do you think they'll maintain power?” Celesi asked.

“Without Kezodel?” Andrus shrugged. “With him in the lead, I'd say they were likely to break Ebertin—eventually. She's a tough egg, but Kezodel was something else. Among the various sychphants and lickspittles that groveled at his feet—it is hard to say if any of them are worth their salt—but then, I haven't paid too much attention. I didn't see a reason. I assumed Kezodel would stay in command for another fifty years,” he admitted.

Apulton nodded. “I wonder what talent there is among those other muckety-mucks. Indeed, we all heard the priestess yelling, 'you will be swept aside!' and what not. So who knows? Maybe it is a new day for Ebertin."

“Perhaps the loss of their leader will be enough to shake the parasites,” Celesi noted. “The people deserve better.”

“Do they?” Toar wondered aloud.

“I fear we shall not get to see it, even if we should like,” Apulton stated. “I think Traust will see us all go home.”

Celesi stared at the man. “You would stay? Even with all the coming troubles?” she asked.

“Because of the coming troubles,” Apulton grinned. “I cannot be of help if I am somewhere else. Besides, these troubles will not affect us as much as these others. Our home is in Hearthstone, and we are supported from there. No matter how dire it gets, we are more insulated than most,” he noted. “And what of you two? Do you wish to go east with this Saot lord?”

“What do I know of this town?” Celesi hedged. “What of you, Toar? Would you stay in Ebertin?”

Toar shook his head. “I am not taken with this city. Not in the least. I am all too happy to serve the duke.”

“Didn't you grow up here?” Celesi asked.

“Not altogether,” Toar answered. “I did grow up among the Degorouth, but I should not like to be near them at all.”

“How is it that Kezodel knew you?” Celesi asked—a question that piqued both Apulton and Andrus—as they were not in the main audience hall as Kezodel spoke to Toar. They did not hear the brief, yet familiar exchange between the two.

“I was raised in Kezodel's house,” Toar told them. “I was about Claiten’s age when I escaped.”

Well?” Celesi said as Toar went silent. “Continue,” she half-commanded.

Toar shrugged, then chose his words carefully. “Several of Kezodel’s men had kidnapped the daughter of a political rival. She was young and fetching, so they gave her to the judge as a gift. For her part, the girl only wanted to go home. Some of the ladies of Kezodel’s harem colluded to help the girl. A few were genuinely concerned for the child—though many were simply jealous of a new rival. I was young and petulant at the time. I was often in trouble. Yet, I was trusted by many, as I preferred to keep secrets. So it was that I was enlisted to help this girl escape, to go with her, and help her find her people. The plan worked.

“As good as it was for me, it was bad for Kezodel. Her family was rich and well-connected. When it came to light that Kezodel was behind the kidnapping, it was too much for the judge, and he was chased from his position. The locals rousted him and drove him to Ebertin,” he shook his head. “For years, it seemed the judge was forever out of our lives—except that he managed to take over the capital, and thereby the entire tribe,” Toar continued. ”Then, with the help of his Ministiran allies, he began to ruin the western settlements and slowly sold the people off as slaves,” he added with a sordid tone. “Sometimes, I fear my actions led to Kezodel taking power in Ebertin. If I had not escaped, if he was not confronted by his enemies and driven away; might he still be the judge to some backwater county? I think he’d be unable to ruin a whole tribe of Trohl if he were still in Cedarvil.”

“And who is to say he wouldn't have taken Ebertin over that much quicker if you hadn't contributed to this downfall?” Celesi replied.

“Besides, he has not spoiled the Bouge,” Apulton added. “Not completely.”

“Perhaps,” Toar shrugged. “Yet, the Bouge are not as they claim. I’ve always wondered how we can call ourselves part of the Freelands when so many of us are born to slavery. The doublespeak of our leaders is disingenuous at best.”

“Even among the Freelands, few are truly free, and most are willfully blind,” Apulton noted. “It keeps them from the discomfort of having to make their own decisions.”

“Is Hearthstone not free?” Celesi wondered.

“It is for the most part,” Apulton muttered. “For now.”

“What is this?!” Celesi asked. “I thought Hearthstone was the most beautiful city in the world!"

“It is!” Andrus replied. “But there is no place in the world that is safe from the ruinous effects of stupidity. Even among the Jindleyak, there are those that advocate for their own slavery.”

“I imagine there is no city without its troubles,” Toar said.

“And it seems that most of ours come from Gramgoar,” Apulton complained. He turned to Celesi. “Now that you know it, do you still prefer to go to Hearthstone; or might you like to stay here in Ebertin?”

“This is the greatest of all Trohl cities,” Apulton added with a smile.

Andrus snorted. “It is merely the largest. It is in no way the greatest.”

“Being the largest makes it the greatest,” Apulton explained. “Now shush. We have asked the lady a question, and I for one should like to have an answer.”

“I am not attached to Ebertin,” Celesi began with a shrug. “I know nothing of it, and if there will soon be fighting, I'd just as well go elsewhere.”

“Ebertin is a vast city,” Apulton noted. “I should think there will be fires—and most people won't see them. There will be fighting in the streets—and most people won't hear it. A new order will establish itself—and half the populace will never look up from their daily doings long enough to notice.”

“It is not my home,” Celesi continued. “My home is gone, and my family with it. The only people I know plan to move on, and I wish to go with them,” she smiled at Toar. At once, she hoped she did not betray her interest in the young man—and yet she wondered how was it possible that he had not noticed her attentions?! She thought perhaps it was the stress of their situation—but stress brought it out of so many others! It certainly seemed to get his Saot friend, the tea-drinker, with the lustful eye. Of course, that man gave the priestess the same look, and even looked at Meriona with want, the lout!

But then, what did Celesi know of men? The good men she knew before were all several years in the grave, or slaves in a foreign land. Oh but don't think of your father, she told herself. Instead, think of your newfound freedom! Think of the handsome man at your side! Such thoughts will keep the tears away, she noted, as she wiped the gathering moisture from her eyes. I am free! Free in the Freelands! Think on that! She told herself as she followed the others through Edgewater.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 3.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Aim carried the injured and unconscious Krumpus as the members of the Oak and Beast militia led Creigal and his Saot guards through the dark corridors of Beletrain—but they did not walk alone. A host of ethereal creatures, beings of radiant light and love, swirled in the air about the shaman—all but invisible to the others. The meteor that destroyed the Great Court and crushed Kezodel had sent tremors throughout the area, and made many things uneasy—but despite their restlessness, the beasts of the dark shrank and shivered from these angelic guards as the party passed. Indeed, even a priest of the naga attended in astral form, and warned away several of his own race, for under no circumstances were these trespassers to be disturbed.

Thanks to her venom, Meu was connected to the shaman's mind, and since he could see these creatures, she could also see them. And what a sight they were! They were the most beautiful beings Meu had ever encountered! They were perfect in their manifest forms with brilliant eyes, pristine smiles, and elegant dress—for those that cared to wear clothes. The love and power that radiated from these beings was pure and beyond measure!

Several of the attendant spirits were human, though several had evolved into higher forms and wore wings of light. There was a high dragon, and a couple of his lesser cousins crowding in from the edges. There were several burly dwarves, and a naga with a long flat tail and stick-thin arms. There were also a couple of Meu’s own cousins, though their coloring was strange to her. Their wings were dark, nearly black, and their bodies were marbled from the deepest crimson red to the softest golden yellow, with every shade in between. Their eyes were a striking amber, streaked with hazel and a brown that verged on black. Meu had never seen, never even heard of such coloring, which made her wonder if they were even from this world—or were they possibly from another?

After that, there were a number more of the crowd too weird for the wyrm to even name—though she might hazard a guess or two. One she thought could be an elf—though it looked more like a weird chopped tree. Another could be a warhorse—or a nightmare—as some might call them. Yet, there were a handful more for which she had no names, of types that she could barely describe for their strangeness.

Caught in the ecstasy of the shaman's visions, Meu couldn’t contain herself. She shifted into her winged form, then flew up and up, as she studied this heavenly council from behind the shaman’s eyes. She rose into the sky above Ebertin and spun in exuberant spirals as she spied on the shaman and his visitors. She basked in their magics as she swam in the cool breeze above the clouds. The sun glared down from its zenith, and Meu danced in its rays—yet, despite its incredible heat and light, the sun could hardly compete for the wyrm's attention. Her amazement swelled as she beat her wings and climbed higher and higher into thin air.

Despite the burns Krumpus suffered from the meteor’s lightning, Meu knew he’d be okay. Indeed, once he healed, she suspected he’d be more potent than ever, as he was touched by the strange magics of his ethereal visitors. But the shaman wasn't the only one to benefit. Meu could feel her own understanding and abilities stretch. She marveled at what she witnessed, baffled that such potent magics were not only possible, but seemingly simple! She realized many of her own magics were overly difficult and complicated in the manner she used them, made so by her own fear and uncertainty. The magics of these creatures seemed boundless in the various ways in which they grew and branched. She drew a number of valuable secrets from their words and thoughts, from their songs and dance. Yet, Meu knew there was a good deal she was missing—as the creatures tailored their words and actions to the shaman’s needs—and not her own.

Meu climbed higher and higher, and the city shrank below. Ebertin dwindled and the far shore of Lake Kundilae crept into view. She wheeled as excitement and strength poured through her, as the conversation between Krumpus and these holy others raced on and on. She would have sworn that weeks or months had past—if it wasn’t for the slow march of the ever present sun. Could it really be that only a few hours had passed since all this began?!

Suddenly, the angelic council spoke no more. In their silence, they simply stared at the shaman and waited, expectantly.

No, Meu realized as a nervous surge ran through her. They were not staring at Krumpus whatsoever. This host of incredible beings looked through the shaman and observed the one attached to his mind. They stared at Meu!

She was discovered!

Her heart skipped a beat. Meu leveled out and spiraled in a lazy glide as she accepted the fact that she was known. She wondered what her punishment would be as she hoped these creatures would not turn terrible and destroy her for her trespass. She was sure they could. She only hoped that her destruction would be immediate.

But there would be no punishment, one of her wyrm cousins explained. Indeed, many of them recognized she was there from the start. How could it be otherwise? But it is not you alone, the distant cousin noted. You have brought another. Do you not hear her?

For several seconds, Meu hung in the air, unsure of what he spoke. Then, in a forgotten corner of her mind, she heard Wenifas plead and beg for rescue as she stumbled about in the darkness under Ebertin.

Wenifas!

Meu had forgotten and ignored the priestess—and now her friend was in danger once more! Meu’s heart lurched. I am here! She called to her friend.

With a rush of relief, Wenifas told the wyrm what had happened to the Lady Yandira. Despite close proximity to soldiers all her life, Wenifas rarely witnessed such open and immediate violence. She was used to the creeping secretive malevolence of the Corpus, hidden by the thick canvas of her own tent, justified by custom and rite. It was the violence of a dark night—fists and feet, bites and bruises—strains, sprains, and all sorts of various pains. But there was rarely much blood. Not with the Lady Yandira. They’d murdered her—and not just by some unknown thug—but Gliedian was the one that did it!

The commentary stopped. Wenifas heard Scurra curse as she threw her weight backward, then rolled away, and lost her torch—though she managed to catch her feet. With a hoarse cry, Elpis turned to confront the terror that lurked at the edge of the darkness. The priestess also turned and saw a mallet flash out of the shadows and smash at Elpis. The mace crushed against the handle of his axe, and since he only had one hand to wield his weapon, the handle of his own axe was forced back into the Jindleyak’s face. With an “oof!” he crumbled to the floor.

Wenifas screamed a bloody wail that filled the dark. Next to her, Claiten waved the last of their torches. He yelled his defiance at the strange beast before them. It had long skinny arms, a wide flat tail, and bluish scales all about.

A naga!

But this naga was not a kind and caring specimen, as was the one that attended Krumpus. This beast had dark, malevolent eyes; and a heavy mace in hand. Claiten swung his torch at the beast—but the creature brushed it aside—and the boy also. The torch fell and was dashed on the brick flooring.

“Claiten!” Wenifas called as her boy tumbled into the darkness. She reached for her child—but the beast grabbed her face and shoved her into the brick of the wall. A rude pain shot through her head as she bounced off the structure, and for a split second, her mind went black. She crumbled. By instinct alone she cushioned Evereste as she fell to the ground.

As this violence occurred, Krumpus spoke to Meu. I cannot return yet, he told her. My body is weak, and my spirit is not yet prepared. Will you go and do what you can do to help her?

What can I do?! Meu thought to ask. Is this not already over?! Yet, as she spoke, a resolve filled the wyrm, and she vowed to do what she could. She pulled in her wings and dove. Wind rushed over her form as she raced for the ground.

As she raced, Meu called to the priestess. In the dark, Wenifas regained consciousness—only to hear the sorry song of Evereste, as the toddler howled. Shocked awake, Wenifas sat up and screamed as the naga tugged at her crying babe.

Panic caught in Meu. She knew she’d never make it in time. She fanned her wings and halted her dramatic descent, as fear and impotent rage surged through her. She screamed at Krumpus and his heavenly council. Do something! She begged them. Do anything! Please! Please save her!

All eyes turned to the shaman. It was for him alone. The shaman stared into the mind of Meu, and through it, into the mind of Wenifas. His thoughts burned as they caught hold of the woozy priestess. He traveled back in time and made her insist on taking his cloak. Then he returned to the present, and with her permission, he took control of her hand and grabbed an innocuous little object tucked among the many folds in a secret pocket; a thing of paper, flint, and Gaurrish black powder. She wrapped her hand about it; then, not knowing what it was, Wenifas thrust it at her attacker.

Let go! The shaman commanded—but the priestess wanted to make sure the object worked, so she pressed it against the naga’s face.

Light and heat exploded from the flash bomb. The beast roared and dropped the screaming babe. Wenifas smothered the flames that danced upon her hand in the rough cloth of the shaman’s cloak, and with her free hand, she pulled Evereste to her bosom. Evereste squealed with delight to see the flames, and proceeded to grab at her mother’s burned hand.

Yet, Wenifas was not the only one burned. Peels of agony ripped from the naga as it retreated. The cries ended as the creature dove into an aqueduct at the far end of the dark room.

She still needs you, Krumpus told Meu as he peered back through her thoughts.

I will go to her, Meu replied.

You must, Krumpus smiled—then the smile took on a contrite air as the shaman continued to speak. I am sorry but we are distracting you from what must be done, he told her. His thoughts became overwhelming. At the point of his brow, a spark grew into a flame, which became a raging fire in Meu’s mind—and as it burned, a strange thing happened to the wyrm that she had never experienced before. The connection between her mind and the mind of the shaman was severed!

For several seconds, Meu wheeled in slow circles far above the city as she tried to understand how this had happened. She’d never met someone who could prematurely sever the telepathic connection of her venom. It always took its natural course and lasted as long as it lasted. Indeed, she could not end it early but always had to wait it out. How did the shaman do such a thing?!

The last words of Krumpus echoed through her head. She still needs you. But it wasn’t just her connection to the shaman that was severed. It was also her connection to the priestess. Resolved to find her friend anyway, Meu tucked her wings and dove toward the earth.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 3.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Scurra brought up the van as she followed Elpis and the foreign priestess through the shifting dark of Beletrain. One moment everything was fine, then a curious scrape caught her ear, and instinct took over. She pulled up and leaned away from the sound, just as the head of a long mallet punched out of the darkness and rebounded off the ancient brick of the wall. If she had not moved, the weapon would have smeared her brains against the stones!

“What…?” Wenifas began as she turned back to the militia woman.

Scurra pulled her knife and turned on the strange fish/snake/man amalgamation that lurched out of the shadows. She struck below its guard, and cut across its form—but did not penetrate the beast’s thick leather armor.

Again, the heavy mallet crashed at Scurra. She flung herself back to avoid the strike, but lost her balance, and wheeled away, out of control. The mallet clipped the end of her torch and showered the scene in a thousand sparks, which fell to the ground and disappeared. Trying to regain her balance, Scurra stumbled several steps into the darkness, caught an edge, and flopped onto the hard tile floor.

The beast did not pursue her. Instead, it turned on the others. Elpis gave a yell and interceded between the naga and Wenifas. With only one good arm, he was forced to drop his torch, so he might raise his axe instead. The beast stood tall on its thick tail and smashed at the man with its mallet. Elpis caught the blow—but the strike carried such force—and he had just one arm to brace his axe. He could not properly block the strike. The shaft of his own weapon slammed back and smashed his face. The militiaman crumbled from the force of the blow.

The naga turned on Wenifas. She screamed and clutched her babies as she tried to dodge aside.

With a yell, Claiten pulled his hand from his mom, and swung his torch at the naga. The naga brushed the torch aside and pushed the boy past him. The boy lost the torch and sprawled on the ground.

The naga turned to the priestess, and since she did not present a weapon, it lowered the mallet. Wenifas tried to dodge past him—but the creature pushed her bodily into the brick wall. Stars erupted in her vision. She crumbled. Her only thought was to cushion her babe as she fell.

Wenifas blinked away the pain as Evereste shrieked in her ear. The naga pulled at her child. Rage and defiance burned through the priestess as she felt her babe slipping away from her—and then a cold and calculating presence infused the priestess. Clear as a bell, she felt the reassuring mind of Krumpus ring through her head. With a smile, he guided her hand as she reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled what felt like sand wrapped in paper from a hidden pocket. With a scream, she shoved the packet in the beast’s face—though Krumpus urged her to let it go.

Heat and light exploded from her hand. A searing fire ripped at her fingers and palm—but she was not the only one that got burned. The beast roared in agony as she pressed the fire into its face. The naga let go of her baby, that it might cradle its own face, then retreated into the darkness.

Wenifas thumped her hand against the shaman's thick cloak and managed to put out the fire. With her good hand, she reeled Evereste in and held her child close. She checked the babe for signs of distress. Thankfully, Evereste stopped her screaming, since she no longer suffered the tug of the beast, and since there was such an attractive dazzle of light and heat. The child had gasped and cooed at the flame, then settled as she was pressed into her mother.

Somewhere at the far end of the room, Wenifas could hear the beast, as it scurried away. Only as it slipped into an aqueduct did she realize that the monster was dragging something as it escaped. A chill came over her as she cried her other child’s name, “Claiten!”

From out of the darkness there was no reply.

“Sweet Jeiju,” Scurra muttered. “That beast came out of nowhere…"

Elpis gave a weak croak as he slowly propped himself against the wall.

"At least we drove it off," Scurra noted. She struck her knife against a flint. Sparks gave the darkness dimension. Able to see once more, Scurra stared at the priestess. “So you found one of my brother’s flash bombs, but how did you know what it was?”

“I didn’t,” Wenifas admitted. “I burnt the crap out of my hand!” she cried.

“He never did teach me how to make ‘em, but then, I never saw the utility,” Scurra stated as she ripped her shirt and gently wrapped the injured hand. “Next time be careful when playing with my brother’s toys?”

“I had to do something!” Wenifas bawled.

“You did great,” Scurra kissed the lady’s forehead, then huffed. “So much for never seeing nagas. Damn thing moved quick!” She raised her torch and assessed the scene. “Holy Tronde, Elpis! How much more bleeding do you mean to do?!”

Elpis snorted and tried to wave her off as she examined his bloody face. With a muttered curse, Scurra helped him to his feet. She gave him his torch and lit it with her own.

"There," Scurra smiled then attempted to give the last torch to the priestess.

Wenifas closed her fingers around the torch, then sucked her breath and dropped it. “I cannot hold it,” she held out her burned hand. She cursed and kicked the dropped torch, and sent it rolling into the dark.

“Well, we should have enough light,” Scurra replied. “Where’s the boy?” She glanced about the room.

“That beast took him!” Wenifas cried. “It took him, and I didn’t do anything to stop it!”

“And what could you have done?” Scurra gathered the crumbling woman into her arms. “Shshsh…” she comforted the foreign woman. “You did everything you could. It’s not your fault.”

“You’re the only reason any of us are alive,” Elpis noted. “And if we don’t leave, we might not live much longer.”

“Can’t we search for him?!” Wenifas asked.

Elpis shook his head. “People that go searching in these caverns don’t often come back. There is no end to the number of traps and dangers down too many of these passages.” He put a light hand on her arm.

“No!” The priestess whirled on him and glared. “You coward!” she snapped.

Elpis stared back at her, pale and drawn, blood mingling with his tears as they dripped down his face. He hanged his head, already defeated. “If we go after your boy, we will lose ourselves, and we will lose your daughter too,” he noted. “We’ve all lost today. Let’s not lose anymore.” He wiped his face, then turned, and hobbled away.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 3.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Meu spotted clothes hanging on a line and swooped into the yard. She shifted into human form, grabbed a thin sundress, and let herself out by the gate. Still barefoot, she made for a nearby market.

She knew that Wenifas and her companions were somewhere under the city, among the tunnels of ancient Beletrain. All she had to do was find the nearest entrance. How difficult can that be? She thought, brimming with courage and confidence.

Meu stepped into an eatery and sidled up to the bar. It was a fine place with fancy decoration and a gallant air. The barkeep stared at her for a full second before he thought to approach. He closed his mouth and formed it into a smile as he stepped close. "Welcome to the Fatted Calf,” he began. “Would you like to hear what Branson has made in the back? Or maybe you’d just like a drink on this warm summer’s day?” he asked, a chipper and amiable fellow indeed.

Meu did not speak. She found human language difficult to mimic and could never make the sounds to her own satisfaction. She thought to lick her lips and use her venom, but decided to try a trick used by several of the shaman’s council instead. She leaned toward the bartender and stared into his eyes.

After a long second, the barkeep leaned back and shook his head with a tsk. "Beletrain ain’t no place for a lady! Let me get you a tonic and a dram of my finest gin! Then, perhaps one of these strong men will regale you with the misfortunes of Beletrain—that bitch of a hole!"

With a frown, Meu shook her head. She gave a pleading nod as she continued to stare.

“So be it,” the barkeep shrugged. He leaned close and whispered low. "Two blocks down and one block over, there’s a tanner. He’s almost as mean as the naga—but for the right price, he'll let you into that snake pit. I tell you, miss, you don't want to go down into ol' Beletrain. It's a nasty nest of slow and painful death,” he shook his head. “Or maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll only lose a limb,” he whispered as he pointed to the end of the bar—where a man leaned over a drink with one arm.

Touched by his concern, Meu pulled the barkeep close and planted a kiss on his cheek.

"You pay with the finest coin!" the barkeep blushed. "Before you go, take this refresher," he lifted a bottle from under the counter and set it before Meu. "Please take it, so that I might beg more payment; another kiss to the lighten the other cheek?" he said with a wink.

Meu returned the wink, took his face in her hands and obliged, then turned and ran out of the bar. Still barefoot, she ran until she found the tanner's door, then banged against it repeatedly, as she held the dram of tonic.

"Keep yer pants on!" a gruff and irritable voice roared from the other side of the barrier. Meu stopped banging. Seconds later, the door ripped open. The disheveled face of a large and angry man glared at Meu. “Where’s the fire?!" snapped the tanner.

Meu gave him a beguiling smile. She stared at the tanner the way she stared at the barkeep, that he might read her intent.

“Beletrain?!” The tanner recoiled with a snort. “In a sundress?!” He stared her up and down. “You ain’t got no shoes! Don’t even got a knife!” he roared. “You won’t last an hour!"

Still, she stared at him.

The tanner huffed and shook his head. “It's your funeral—but I don't unlock that cage for less than a lune!“

She held up the bottle.

“What’s that?! Water?!” he snorted.

Meu frowned. She had no coin. Of the three purses she took from Fedring; Wenifas had one, Claiten had another, and the last was with Krumpus.

Not that it mattered. There was more than one way to purchase a thing—and this tanner seemed the type to take advantage. She touched the collar of her dress, pulled it down to expose more skin, and gave the man a suggestive look.

The tanner snorted as he looked her over. His mouth twisted into a wicked grin and he pulled the door wide open. "I do like the looks of you!" He said as he grabbed her by the arm and yanked her into the shop.

The tanner whipped Meu into the room and slapped her ass as she wheeled past him. She braced herself for impact against a table full of an indescribable accumulation of junk and dross piled high on its rough and dirty surface. As she slowed to a halt and regained her balance, Meu glanced about the dingy quarters. Thin paths cut between massive jumbles of clutter and accumulation. What a mess!

The gruff tanner swiped at the door and it banged shut with a violent shudder. Several objects fell from their precarious perches and clattered to the floor. The greasy man turned on Meu expectantly as he blocked the door. She'd made the offer and now he meant to collect.

Meu hesitated—which turned out to be a mistake. The tanner rushed forward, grabbed at the front of her dress, and almost yanked her off her feet. "No need for clothes!" He roared with the rancid smell of how many meals still on his breath?

Instead of resisting, Meu lunged at the tanner with a lusty look, and wrapped her arms around his neck. She didn’t believe she could possibly convince him with just her eyes. She needed in close, and quickly, before he had time to do any real damage. Wrapping herself about him, she buried her face in his neck and planted her teeth.

With a yell, the tanner threw her off. Meu landed heavily on a table and tumbled to the floor amid a clatter of mess. The tanner charged her as she stood. He wrapped his meaty fist about her neck. “You bitch!” he roared as he touched at the blood that dripped from her bite.

Meu jerked and grappled with the tanner—though she could not keep him off. Her breath caught, and for a split second, she wondered if she’d miscalculated—then fetid thoughts of violent sex poured into her head. He didn’t care if she was dead or alive, so long as she stopped her struggle. Her world began to spin, and if it wasn’t for the rough tanner holding her up, she would have crumbled to the floor. With her mind reeling, and the darkness overcoming her, she commanded him to release her.

The tanner's eyes went wide as he realized he was no longer in control of his own body. He thought to back away—and Meu allowed it as she settled wobbly on her own two feet. She blinked and coughed, as he stood several steps away from her, unable to move.

In full control of both their bodies, Meu spoke in the tanner’s head. I take back my invitation, she said. I apologize for the ruse, but you must let me into Beletrain all the same.

Unable to resist, the tanner turned, and led her into a dingy basement. The rest of his dwelling proved to be just as cluttered and messy as the workshop.

There were several barriers that had to be unlocked and removed in order to get into Beletrain. There were massive chains and locks, even multiple doors to open—and when the tanner was finished, there was simply a dark corridor with nothing beyond it—just a sucking void of pitch black stale air.

"I won't let you back up," the tanner snapped.

You'll do whatever I ask you to do, Meu replied as she ran a hand down the gruff man’s cheek. She gave him a slap and the man flinched from her. I admit I never meant to sleep with you, she continued. And normally I would return the insult and injury you meant for me. In his mind, the tanner saw the punishment Meu thought appropriate. He saw himself turn and run headlong into the brick wall behind him. Such a blow would surely knock him out—if it didn’t have more permanent effects. However, I am blessed today, Meu continued. I will not sully the grace I am given. Go. She ordered him. Go upstairs, and use your vicious anger to scrub your hovel clean. You might not have much, but it is yours, she lectured. To care for your stuff is to care for yourself!

"What is it to you?" The gruff tanner huffed.

Despite his belligerence, Meu could sense pain, fear, and abandonment under the thick layers of resentment and hostility. It is little indeed, Meu smiled. But you have given me access to Beletrain, and I would yet pay you—if only after a fashion. She said, as she stepped backward into the dark.

The tanner stared after her—and then he was no longer before the entrance to Beletrain at all. He was far away, in water over his head, naked and wet, as he fought the grip of the ocean. With ragged breaths, he swam for shore, then stepped from the surf with a sponge he'd retrieved from the chill waters. His chest heaved as he regained his breath and strength.

Safe on the beach, the tanner studied his surroundings. The sun drifted at the edge of the horizon, far over the ocean. Was it about to set, or did it just rise? he wondered. A massive tower sat atop a cliff, and overlooked the crashing waters. There was a trail that led from the beach, up the side of the hill, to the tower atop the cliff.

This is mine, the tanner realized as he stared at the tower. He followed the path from the beach and looked out over the ocean as he proceeded. The day was warm, and he could not believe the beauty of the landscape; the peace of the birds as they wheeled, and called, and played above the surf.

The tanner approached the tower and saw Meu standing at its top. She wore the same slight dress, as she smiled and waved at the man—only she was different—she was younger and even more beguiling.

With a smile, the tanner went up the trail. He approached the massive door and pushed it open. Meu stepped down a set of stairs and smiled at the man’s nakedness—which caused the tanner to blush. She took the tanner's free hand and pulled him into the tower, then gently shut the door behind him.

In a corner of the room was a small pool filled with steaming water. Meu approached the large tub and shrugged out of her dress. She beckoned the tanner to join her, turned, and stepped into the warm bath.

With sponge in hand, the tanner washed the young Meu’s back and shoulders, arms, and legs. A persistent grime covered Meu’s skin. It required a bit of soap and a fair amount of massaging with the soft sponge; but as he washed her, a constellation of freckles appeared across her shoulders and dappled her back.

"Will you see to my hair?" Meu asked, and pointed to a brush on a small table. Her voice was as rich and sweet as any he’d ever heard, and he realized he could not possibly deny her.

The tanner retrieved her brush, sat behind her, and brushed her long strawberry strands. As he brushed, Meu sang a song of heartache and longing. The tanner barely breathed as he listened to the sweet lilt of her voice echo among the stones, his heart full to bursting, his little man thick with longing.

After several silent breaths, Meu turned her loving eyes on the tanner. "A towel, my darling."

The tanner turned to a fine cupboard filled with clean linens—indeed, everything about the tower was neat and orderly—a place for everything with everything in its place. Slowly, Meu stepped from the pool and took her towel. He smiled at her as his longing continued to build—yet he knew the only way to get what he wanted was to remain patient. He knew he had to let her give in. If he should try to force her, she’d only slip away.

With a playful smile, the tanner wrapped his arms about her legs and lifted Meu off the ground. As he picked her up, Meu laughed and ran her fingers through his hair. His face was just above her navel as he carried her up the stairs, to the top of the tower. As he carried her, he reveled in her scent; a faint citrus zest—a warm, fertile, earthy smell.

On top of the tower was a large canopied bed with heavy weatherproof drapes, made by the tanner’s own clever hands. These were tied back to reveal soft, inviting covers.

A warm wind blew out to sea as the sound of crashing waves and seabirds drifted up the cliff. The tanner set Meu on the bed. He ran his eyes over her alabaster skin, broken by a fine smattering of freckles; tan stars against an ivory sky. Out to sea, the sun settled to the horizon, and the world turned a warm red.

The application of a fine scented lotion turned to touching and kissing. Emerald green eyes shined with mirth and thin lips curved in a playful smile. Meu pulled the tanner close. The tanner could not imagine what good he had done to deserve such a woman! She climbed on top of him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and for a second he feared she might bite him again. Instead she took him in and sang a song of heavy breathing—moaning and begging—as the tumultuous sounds of the ocean and the shrill cry of seabirds accompanied her.

Afterward, Meu laid on top of the tanner and whispered to him in the growing dark. "You can have these things," she began. "They are all for you. But you must remember your passion,” she stared into his eyes as she brushed back an errant curl. “Do you not lust for such a life?"

The tanner settled next to this slip of a woman as tears of joy and ecstasy clouded his vision. He did not reply, as he had no interest in making excuses. Besides, this creature knew everything about him, and somehow still found him worthy!

"There, there," she whispered as she ran her hands over his gruff skin. "You deserve such love! We all deserve such love! But you will not find it the way that you are! You must make yourself the way you used to be. Remember who you were when you cared, before hate and lies took hold and began to terrorize you? Before selfishness and small comforts consumed you?" she lectured.

Meu filled the tanner’s head with memories of years gone by. He was a young man with ambition—a thousand dreams caught in his eyes. His deepest regret was that he could not chase them all. "These dreams are meant for you," Meu whispered. "What will you pursue? The riches of the world beg to be claimed, and our reward promises to be more than we need. Certainly, it is more than we deserve!" she smiled. "But we must be worthy! We must take the hard road! Admittedly, it is long and fraught with peril—but you are up to the task! Be worthy once more, my fine man, that you may claim your share of the world’s treasures!" she said as she kissed him one last time.

Meu and the tower receded into shadow. Before the tanner, there was nothing but darkness. There was only the sucking hole of Beletrain.

Remember yourself, Meu whispered as she disappeared from his mind forever.

Standing at the entrance to Beletrain, the tanner stared into the darkness. If he closed his eyes, he could almost see her, smell her, and feel her still—but he could no longer hear her. He leaned into the darkness of the tunnel. “Hello?” he called. He had no light. He could not proceed. “Don’t go!” he yelled. “COME BACK TO ME!”

His heart longed to see her come out of the shadow and throw her arms about his neck once more. He promised to be gentle, to care for her as only a real man could.

For several minutes he stared into the darkness, listening for anything creeping in the shadows. How long was he dreaming? How long was he standing before all the dangers of Beletrain, completely lost in fantasy?

He thought to follow after her—but he knew she would not be found. She would not allow it. Instead, his thoughts returned to the life he knew before this slip of a woman barged in. He stared down at the dirt on his hands and the mess of his clothes, his filthiness suddenly obvious and overwhelming. He reeked. Seed soaked his pants. A deep and profound longing filled his heart to bursting. Slowly, reluctantly, the tanner shut the door to ancient Beletrain. He replaced the chains and the heavy locks; and when he was done, he sat on his haunches, put his face in his hands, and wept. He wept for his squalid conditions, because he had abandoned his dreams, and sold himself so very cheap.

The Tunnels of Ancient Beletrain

Polished 4.1 to 4.4 — 41m42s — 2023/12/11

Polished 4.5 to 4.7 — 41m58s — 2023/12/11

In the year 1119, Tallian refugees first arrived upon the shores of Lake Kundilae. The water was clear, the fish and game was plentiful. They found the fecund wilderness with all its beautiful ruins quite to their liking—but among the many ruins were said to be a serpent people, and these serpent people were said to like the taste of human flesh.

At the time, very few Yak clans were brave enough to make the Kundilae Valley their home. Those that were already settled in the edge of the wide valley claimed to be happy—though they admitted that the naga caused trouble from time to time. Occasionally, people were kidnapped or simply killed. Livestock too. It was said that once an entire village disappeared—though most said it was before they were born.

Since they rarely saw the beasts, most believed there couldn’t be more than a thousand naga in the valley. The Tallians noted their substantial number and decided a thousand naga was no real threat. Chances were, the natives exaggerated the naga anyway. Besides, the dirt was soft, and invited their crops. There was rich hunting among the trees, and there were fish aplenty in the streams… So it was that Ebertin was found; and the ruined tunnels of the naga were incorporated, ignored, and sometimes destroyed, as the humans built their settlement.

For several years, there wasn’t much trouble from the naga—though there were a number of stolen chickens. Yes, they stole a child or two, and every once in a great while—on a moonless night, or as the occasional storm broke over the valley—naga were known to attack and kill full grown men. But what were a handful of deaths to a people that had suffered the collapse of their empire, and a great exodus of a thousand miles, all while being harried by their Waoernok enemies? Although it was a grim view, they recognized that something was always killing the men and stealing the children. Besides, there was such a rich bounty of resources and few other problems in the valley. The majority of these refugees thrived and counted their lives to be good enough.

Ebertin grew, and as Ebertin grew, more and more of her men ventured into the tunnels of ol’ Beletrain and began to fit them to their own liking. The humans came into the caverns, but they were hesitant to go deep. The naga were a nuisance on the surface, but when the men ventured into their territory, they were downright dangerous. The men were all too happy to stay near the surface and have more children and chickens than the naga could possibly steal.

Initially, the naga profited by their new neighbors. They dug their tunnels deeper and deeper into the earth to avoid the men and their clumsy scratching—and if these men thought they could control the naga’s access to the surface by sealing or locking every entrance they could find, they were sadly mistaken—for the tunnels were vast and easily stretched for miles, even into the mountains both east and south of the valley. There were thousands of entrances! Indeed, it is said that the tunnels are deeper than the naga care to admit. It is said in the deep dark of the earth there are things far worse than naga. Indeed, there are said to be systems that run the entire length of the continent, even burrowing below the oceans—but such fanciful stories are hard to believe.

As the years passed and a steady stream of Tallian refugees continued to pour into the Kundilae Valley, the naga began to worry. Not only did they find themselves outnumbered in a few short years, but the human population was said to be three or four times the number of naga. The fear of the naga boiled into anger, then blossomed into rage. Eventually, too many of them agreed that something ought to be done.

On a summer’s night in 1127, as a massive storm swept the valley, Vericote naga poured from their ruins and set upon the men of Ebertin, hoping to drive them away and slaughter those that refused to go.

But the naga did not find a soft and lazy people. They found a rugged and formidable lot, veterans of the Broken Legions of Tronde and Rigel, chiseled in the battles of the Great Betrayal, forged by an exodus of a thousand miles, now tempered by hopes of a new home. Needless to say, the initial attack went poorly for the naga, as the Tallians were quick to rally, and brutal in a row.

Incensed by the attack, the Tallian refugees attempted to dig the naga out of Beletrain and managed to clear a fine network of tunnels close to the surface. But the naga were too deeply entrenched and dangerous in their labyrinthine warrens. Even after years of hard scrabble fighting, the men could not penetrate the depths of ol’ Beletrain. All too often, the combatants died for mere inches—only to lose their gains a day later. Having what they could get, the men established their barriers and traps, and maintained constant vigil in many quarters. Even with all these precautions, the men of Ebertin could not deny the naga the occasional theft, or murder. There were a thousand cracks, crevices, and concealments still connecting the two cities.

To this day, chickens, dogs, and children still go missing. On occasion, naga are caught in the act. It is a fairly common to see naga dragged through the streets to a nearby courthouse, cussing and spitting. Those that are caught alive are afforded a semblance of a trial—though it is hard to believe any jury is impartial. Even the most amiable of their human neighbors are forced to admit that—despite their ability to communicate—the naga rarely have anything nice to say. At the very least, naga caught in the city are branded and banished. But if a naga is caught that is already branded—or if it has killed someone or is caught abducting a child—the creature is hanged until dead.

In this manner, the war continues.

– On The Bloody Shores of Kundilae: A History of the Long War between the Men of Ebertin and the Naga of Beletrain, Wybrow the Wanderer, p.64

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 4.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Meu sat a couple dozen yards into the underground city, just out of view, as she led the tanner through his tower fantasy. She pried the cork from the bottle given to her by the bartender and drank of the light tonic as she imagined a gentle lover with rough hands. There wasn’t an over-abundance of spirits in the bottle, thankfully. Meu figured there was still a long day ahead of her, and if this place was as dangerous as she was led to believe, she’d undoubtedly need her wits about her.

The tower fantasy ended and Meu withdrew her thoughts from the tanner—though she could still hear him pleading in the back of her mind. Full of regrets, the tanner slowly closed the door to ol’ Beletrain, and locked the skin-walker in.

Enveloped in deep shadow, Meu could not proceed. In human form, Meu suffered a human's senses, which were ill-equipped for such extreme darkness. She sluffed off her dress and shifted into her wyrm form. Her sensitivities became that of a wyrm, which were better suited to the darkness. After all, she was born among the Spires of Gendalou; where the wyrm made their dens in cracks, crevices, and caves that dug deep into the mountain.

Yet, Meu was slow to start, and for a time thought the maze might overwhelm her all the same. She could handle the dark—yet she could also smell a great deal of vitriol permeating the underground labyrinth. It was a hostile and brooding place with a long history of sharp and sudden violence. Daunted, Meu realized the enormity of her task and began to shrink. Her thoughts shifted to concerns in distant parts of the world. She thought of her daughter and her coming grandchildren—eggs for a couple months already. Yet, she also wanted to see Wenifas and her children settled somewhere safe. There was also the shaman to consider. She wanted to say goodbye to him before she continued on her journey south, and in order to do that, she had to wait for him to wake.

As she wandered into the dark, Meu wondered what she might do for the priestess. Indeed, the last time Wenifas needed rescuing, Meu simply stared on in horror as the priestess spoke the shaman’s mind. Wenifas poked at Kezodel's delicate ego as hundreds of the judge’s men looked on. Chagrined, Kezodel stepped forward intent to handle the shaman’s insults on his own. He was over ten feet tall, with the largest sword and shield Meu had ever seen! What could a wyrm—even a skin-walker—possibly hope to do against the magical talents of a chimera?! If she'd acted against the beast, she'd be dead!

Thank the gods that the unthinkable happened! Somehow Krumpus knew when and where the meteor would strike. He goaded the judge, and Kezodel stepped forward to the very spot the roof would fall at the precise moment the meteor punctured the cupola—and that was that!

As Meu thought of the shaman, a face appeared in her mind. At first, she was frightened. She feared the visage, since it was a naga that swam among her thoughts—but the presence was soft and friendly in its tone and attitude. After several seconds, Meu realized it was the naga that had attended Krumpus among the heavenly council. Somehow, this creature was still in her mind!

Yes, the naga mage smiled. I knew you would want for a guide—and somehow the shaman granted his connection to me. I don’t know how he managed it—but here I am, eyes closed in my little sanctuary, able to see what you see and sense what you sense, he said. My name is Eikyale Libbetz. Welcome to Beletrain!

Thank you, Meu replied. How do you know the shaman?

I have never met the man, Eikyale admitted. I felt the presence of a bright light that sputtered and begged for assistance. In my astral form, I traveled to his side—only to find so many others already there.

But that is not where our attention should dwell, he pointed. Your friend is well attended and quite safe. I think it is much better for you to keep your senses locked on the labyrinth before you, Eikyale urged. There are many dangers here—especially near the surface.

Through the eyes of Eikyale, Beletrain softened. Although Meu still sensed the hostility between men and naga, she also felt a grand appreciation for the incredible work it must have taken to excavate and maintain the vast network of tunnels and caverns. Now, she saw Beletrain as an ancient and immense underground palace; one that stretched in every direction with a thousand ways leading back to the surface, and a thousand ways that slipped down into the deep.

Meu took notice of small details and realized the floor was tiled with a faint and intricate pattern that spoke of a precision and skill she did not expect. Through the eyes of Wenifas, Beletrain had seemed filthy and rough. Viewed with the fine senses of a wyrm, Beletrain was obviously crafted with intent—though it struck her as foreign and frightening. With Eikyale to guide her, the catacombs reflected a rich history of untold generations, and the builders of the grand passages were artisans of high skill.

Admittedly, there was dust and dross accumulated in the corners—especially in the areas controlled by the various human militias—but the walls themselves seemed like they might stand another thousand years before wear and crumble might see them blocked and impassible.

Despite the filth and funk in many corners, there were clear paths worn in every direction. Meu could tell where humans frequented these passages—and also where serpents crept about at the edges. Despite the immediate intervention of human energies, the air was still thick with naga magics. These were serpents born to earth and water, as Meu was a serpent of fire and air. Her magics were quick and agile—fleeting in comparison to the slow, ponderous, and weighty magics of the naga. She was reminded that her place was above the surface, lighting among the treetops and clouds, while these shiftless catacombs were the strange home of a cold and calculating people. The burrows of her neighbors and friends among the Spires of Gendalou were natural caverns, worn smooth with centuries of use; while Beletrain was a metropolis, carved from the rock with picks, shovels, and patience.

In various areas, large courtyards of rough native cave opened up. Streams often brought water. Aqueducts were also frequent, and the quality of water varied greatly in both. Some were pristine while others contained copious amounts of filth, debris, and sewage. No end of pipes, taps, and valves extended the waterworks. Some stretches of underground streams looked completely untouched. Meu pondered the confusion of this engineering, unable to make much sense of it.

Eikyale chuckled at her puzzled fascination. Water is life, and we are masters of water, he told her—though he could explain little of the intricate works before her. Many of his people could build, operate, and repair the maddening array of technological wizardry—but he was not one of them. My talents lay among the mystical arts, a path open to all sentient beings—though few care to trudge it, he smiled. Indeed, I can sense that you’ve mastered some parts of this path yourself.

Perhaps, Meu smiled.

Along with the waterworks, there were also spikes, pits, traps, and other dangers. A tinge of dread caught at Meu each time she sensed these obstacles—as they often appeared from out of the shadows rather abruptly. Each time this occurred she bolstered herself by remembering not only Wenifas, but also Derris. After all, it was the ill-fated lover that introduced them. If not for Derris, Wenifas would not have had a safe harbor when she was forced to run from the bugbear. The priestess had cared for her when she needed a safe place to recuperate. If only she’d never left the side of her friend!

She never would have left the priestess if she was not so distracted by the luminous visitors in the ruined court of Kezodel—but what a distraction it was! The very angels of heaven! And the things they revealed! Meu had never talked to humans without the venom before—and now she could do it with a simple glance!? It worked on the bartender, and also on the tanner—though he required a stern bite in the end. Well, he certainly deserved it, the brute!

Your mind wanders, Eikyale noted. It is best if you keep your attention here.

Meu agreed. Besides, she preferred not to think of the tanner—though he was still trapped in her mind. Instead, she concentrated on Eikyale. Why is there such animosity between humans and naga? She asked her escort.

The war has raged since before I was born, Eikyale replied. Too many of my cousins are consumed by vengeance and hate. It is an old and sorrowful story, but it has no grip on me, he assured her. I know that all living creatures have a connection to god—though most seem to forsake it.

Meu smiled at the naga in her head. He was kind, observant, and had already saved her from a half dozen missteps. Indeed, he was far more useful than the bedeviled tanner—who’s petulance and discontent seeped into her views. She could still hear the gruff man as he picked through the mess that overwhelmed his shop; intent on regaining his life, despite a mountain of resistance. She wondered how long that might last, and encouraged his resolution, as she heaped goodwill upon the brute—though she did so in a secretive manner. Eikyale chuckled as he witnessed this curious interaction, only intruding when the wyrm failed to spot some lurking danger.

In this fashion, Meu searched the dark of Beletrain; alone, and yet accompanied by the cordial naga and the repugnant tanner. She noted a great number of lines that ran through barricaded doors, attached to bells and gongs on the other side, so those that held the entrance might let their countrymen out. She imagined that most would demand payment. Meu wondered what she might give a man in order to escape Beletrain—an escape that she would have to make naked. That would be problematic, especially since she was also quite low on venom. There was enough to force one more human to do her bidding.

Yet, this was not the time for considering her exit. She wasn't trying to get out just yet. First, she had to see about a woman, lost somewhere in this massive maze. Despite the helpful company of Eikyale, Meu could do little but wander the long tunnels of Beletrain and hope that she crossed the priestess’s path—but to her chagrin, the underground city kept getting bigger, and bigger, and bigger…

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 4.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Dressed in her finery and jewels, Meriona stared across the opulent office of the Lord Commander, Gliedian. “I do not wish to go east!” she snapped at the man. “I want to go home, to Tikatis!" she glared.

Jaw set, Gliedian stared back and replied slowly. “Without Celesi you have no reason to go west at all—not even to Falderfallen’s Hovey. Especially since the Empress needs you here—so here you will stay," he said, as he held a letter out to the Jay.

Meriona stiffened as she saw the seal of the Empress upon it. “This is in regards to the duke,” she speculated as she took the envelope. “Am I to be punished for your failure?”

Gliedian ignored the insult. “The duke did not appear at the Lady Yandira’s like we’d hoped. It was only the lover, and a few incidental others—though your priestess was there.”

“The priestess,” Meriona stared as she thought of the coin the woman stole. “To think that even she should escape us. Yet, these failures are not mine. You, yourself, went to Lady Yandira—and how can I be blamed for Kezodel’s fall?” she asked as she opened the letter.

“It was with you that the shaman gained entrance,” Gliedian noted—then waved away her objection. “Besides, it is not a question of blame. We do as we’re told,” he said. “Still, she has offered you a choice. You can go south and do the Empress’s bidding among the Noethrin, or you can go after the wayward duke."

"And what in the name of Rauthmaug would she have me do in the Noeth?!" Meriona waved the curt letter.

“Go to High Plains. Keep your eye on our enemies,” Gliedian began.

“Why are we continuing with any of this?!” Meriona huffed. “Kezodel is dead! The Invader’s Fort and Camp Calderhal are destroyed! Indeed, it remains to be seen if the Degorouth can keep this city at all! From where I stand, it appears that the Trohl lands are lost to us! Do you really think the Empress will continue this campaign once she discovers all that has happened?!”

“I most certainly do!” Gliedian snapped. “As we speak, twenty legions march on the road from Tikatis—and I have been promised thirty more by the end of summer!”

Meriona gaped at the Lord Commander. “Fifty legions?!” She stared. “Where are we getting another fifty legions?!“

“It is not just the legions, for behind them is a building wave of settlers!” Gliedian chortled. “And what sort of reports are you receiving from your spies? Have you heard nothing of our efforts in the Noeth?”

“I’ve heard of merchant investors,” the Jay shrugged.

“Yes! But have you considered their numbers?”

“Their numbers?!” Meriona blinked. “What of their numbers?”

Gliedian snorted. He knew the Jay was privy to much information. Was she really so bad at analyzing it, or was she simply not paying any attention? It didn’t matter. Since she didn’t know, he would explain it to her. “We have nearly a thousand spies working to meet our ends,” he scoffed. “We already have ten legions in Rynth Falls, and half as many persuaded Trohls. Can you not guess to what purpose?”

Meriona gave an uncertain nod. “To continue the slow erosion of the Trohl Freelands—but what does that have to do with the Noeth? And why should we need another fifty legions, if this is a slow burn?”

Gliedian shook his head. “We continue our slow work against the Trohls. That has not changed. Yet, the Empress has come to an understanding with Gred duReb and the Dunkels. Soon we will be lighting fires in Gaurring, and we mean for it to be a quick and bloody affair!”

“Gaurring?” Meriona considered, then shook her head. “Fifty legions do not simply appear. Where are we getting so many men?”

“It is simple,” Gliedian began. “Our interests in Borzia now belong to the King.”

Meriona blanched. “We’ve turned over our holdings in Borzia?! Why would the Empress do that?! What do we get for it?!”

“Well, we still get a small percentage from the King, his tribute to the mighty Empress, but we also get the Noeth,” Gliedian smiled. “And it is from there that we will stage our attacks on Gaurring—and once Gaurring is defeated, we will plan our war against the Breck, and also increase the corruption we pour into Trohl lands,” he grinned.

“The Noeth,” Meriona shook her head. “But why?”

“Because it is close to home and ripe for the taking,” Gliedian noted. “Are you really so taken with the jungles of Borzia, or would you prefer a civilized land that is closer to home?!”

“But the Noeth has a modern army. Will they submit to our authority?”

Gliedian nodded. “Drefford and the Dunkels know that the Empire is the true power on this continent—and any noble that balks at the change in governance will not survive the trade—for although King Gred duReb gives us the Noeth, our Empress is intent on taking it!”

“And that is why you would send me to High Plains,” Meriona stared at the Lord Commander—astounded that so much occurred right under her nose—and yet she had not noticed.

Gliedian nodded. “While Wibbeley and Land’s End will be given to the Empire, Solveny and High Plains will be taken. Count Yurand and his progeny are not what we want among the Baradha—and his downfall will serve our cause!”

“If I go to High Plains, I shall be there for weeks, even months,” Meriona realized. “Why, I am still shocked that this is happening,” she confessed.

“Did you not feel the shifting of the winds?” Gliedian mocked. “The Empress turns her head! She eyes opportunities closer to home! What you thought was just a passing fancy is suddenly a great wave of interest! Did you think we merely loot and riot among these natives?!” The Lord Commander smirked. “We are not here to sow a little chaos! We’re here to take these lands and these people for our own!” he continued. “Do you think the Empress would be happy with the western wilds; Salyst and a little Bouge territory?” He shook his head. “There are eight other tribes to subvert—and we cannot expect some duped berserkers to take on Gaurring alone! They will need the Empire's legions to lead their minds and bolster their spines!"

Meriona blinked. "She brings the legions from Borzia. But there are over a hundred legions in Borzia.”

Gliedian nodded. “About half go to Hof Hebrin—to subdue the uprising—but as this trade proceeds, I am assured of at least fifty. And with the armies of the Noeth at our disposal, and Gred duReb’s troops attacking in the south, I think Gaurring shall have a hard time resisting us,” he bragged. "So what say you? Will you go to High Plains and work toward the invasion of Gaurring, or do you go after this duke, to make sure he never goes home?"

Meriona considered her options. There was nothing for her in the south except for her task. Yes, opportunities would undoubtedly appear, but she figured she had scores to settle among the duke's company. “I shall go after Creigal," she nodded, as she thought of Wenifas and Celesi.

"Very well,” Gliedian nodded. “Then Alise shall go to High Plains. We leave Karamina in Falderfallen’s Hovey to watch after our interests there—and she will be thankful for that—after her failure with the duke.”

“How did she fail?”

“She was meant to get pregnant by the man,” Gliedian snorted. “Can you imagine all the ways such a child might be used?! But no. The succulent tart could not handle a mere bit of seduction!”

Meriona shook her head.

“Well, then,” Gliedian continued. "I give you four of my finest to do your work.” He turned, and with a whistle, he waved several men to join them.

"Four?!" Meriona complained. “This duke travels with over a dozen guards!"

“It is not left to the five of you,” Gliedian told her. “There are others intent on making sure the duke never leaves these lands. Indeed, there are thousands among the watch, actively seeking him. This militia that has interceded on the duke’s behalf is quite known to us. We have informants around their place in Edgewater, and sneaks are watching several other places they’re known to frequent. These four are simply for your use. I know how you like men that are good with knives—and these four are not just any men! They are some of the best at what they do! They hunt, they track, they kill; and they do it all with great efficiency,” he nodded.

“Jaded Blades,” Meriona realized as the vicious men approached.

Gliedian nodded. “They have their own connections, informants, and finks. They are perfect for this work. Just remember; it is the duke that concerns us. The Empress cares nothing about the others.”

Meriona gave a slow nod, though her own plans for the priestess and her former apprentice were already taking root.

“Once the duke is dead, you are free to return the Empire proper,” Gliedian noted. “If you are lucky, our Degorouth allies will catch him first, and you will only have to identify the body.”

“And what of you?” Meriona asked. “What will you do?”

“I do as I always do,” Gliedian purred. “I go to make war.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 4.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

“You sure this is the place?” Andrus looked at the large house, covered in vines, the yard crowded with a verdant growth.

“This is the place,” Toar nodded as he approached the door.

“Ten minutes, then we’re out,” Apulton insisted.

Toar shrugged, uninterested in offering any concrete assurances. As far as he was concerned, this would take as long as it took, and no less. He knocked on the door.

The door opened immediately. A young face, maybe six or seven, gazed up at the assembled lot. “Hello, strange sirs,” she began, and although her face was young, her demeanor was serious. “Please state your business or be off!"

Several other faces appeared around the door jam, some older—but all quite young. The lot of them were curious, bored, suspicious...

“We seek Hazle,” Toar began with a gentle smile. “Is she home?”

“Might I ask who is calling?” the girl questioned.

“I am Toar,” he bowed. “I am an old friend from Woodring, recently come to town.”

“Woodring?!” The children turned and stared at each other with astonishment on their faces. “They’ve come!” one of them said, as the rest giggled with excitement. They pushed the door wide open, then retreated into the house. “Gran! Come quick! Your people have arrived!” they called. They split up among the house, searching for their matron. “They’re here! They’re finally here!”

Toar stepped into the house, followed reluctantly by the others. Although the house was large, and the rooms spacious, they seemed small, thanks to a great crowding of furniture and objects. A number of coats hung near the door, over a mountain of shoes. Shelves held innumerable books, trinkets, jars, pictures, knickknacks. Every window was jammed with potted mysteries, fragrant and flowering. Sounds came from every direction. Indeed, there seemed to be a hundred people about the various rooms! Many poked their heads out, to look at the strangers, to smile and wave, then disappear back to whatever they were doing before.

“Are you sure we should be here?” Andrus asked, feeling uneasy about all the people in the large house.

Now numbering twice as many, the children returned with a withered old woman in tow. “Toar?!” The wizened crone called from the hall, stooped by innumerable years. She approached slowly as the children laughed and skipped around her. Several guided her gently by the hand. “Oh, Toar! Miracles never cease!” she cackled, as she searched the dim faces before her. “You bring friends,” the half-blind woman noted. “But not ones that I know…”

“Hello Hazle,” Toar bowed, a deep and formal greeting. He took her hand and kissed it.

The children giggled to see him act so proper. “Oh, enough of that!” Hazle frowned as she stepped close. “Give an old lady a hug!” she commanded as she held her arms out.

Toar did as he was told, allowing the woman to hold him as long as she liked, an affectionate smile slowly melted his serious demeanor.

“Ooohh!” Hazle cooed. “I hadn’t expected to see you again—certainly not in a few short months!” she laughed as she stared into his face. “Ahh, but I see you have been searching for me,” she turned on the others. “And who are these?”

“These are my friends,” Toar began. “This is Andrus and Apulton of the Oak and Beast militia. The pretty one is Celesi,” he said of his companions.

“Pleased to meet you, miss,” Apulton bowed, confounded to find himself wrapped in a familiar hug by the wizened old woman.

“Well, you are a strong devil—and a truer shot there never was!” Hazle winked at the man. “Yet there is danger about you. There is danger about all of you—but you most of all! I beg you to leave this town, and be cautious in your manner!”

“You are not wrong about danger,” Apulton frowned, then shook his head. “I am not afraid.”

Hazle beamed at him. “Then love rules your heart, and for that the gods will keep you.” She chuckled, then turned and wrapped Andrus in a similar fashion. As she pulled away, she kept his hand and tsked. “Unknown even to his own,” she shook her head. “Yet there is power in you, power you’ve yet to find!” she cackled. “You too should be careful, for powers outside will seek the powers inside, once you should find them!” She said, and pressed a finger against his belly.

Andrus thought to ask her what she meant—but the old woman waved him off. “It is too soon! You will know in time!” With that, she turned to Celesi and took the apprentice Jay by the hand. “And you!” Hazle gasped. “Ah, you are a sight to see! Why, I should think that Toar has brought me an angel—and with the fetter just removed!”

Celesi blushed, curious to hear such a compliment melded to her newfound independence. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” she smiled and wrapped the endearing old woman in a hug.

“Welcome home, my dear,” Hazle nodded and patted the young girl’s hand. “Ah, but we will not waste your time with a fortune! Of all of you, you are the one most sure of your future!” the old lady chuckled and shook her head, then pressed Celesi’s hand at one of the children. “See our new friends to the kitchen. See them refreshed while I have a talk with Toar.”

“Yes’m,” several of the children called, then took the hands of Andrus and Apulton. They pulled the visitors to another room as one of the kids spoke. “Momma said we’d have visitors today!”

“We prepared several sweet breads!” another added. “And with them, would you prefer milk or lemonade?”

Toar turned to Hazle, a glad smile on his face. Her expression was no longer jovial, but was quite serious instead. “What’s the matter?” he began.

“Walk with an old woman,” Hazle replied. She took Toar by the arm. “Take me into the garden,” she told him and pointed the way.

Slowly, step after plodding step, Toar led the bent woman to the back of the house. She remained silent, and Toar decided to leave his questions for the moment. She’d speak in her own time, as she always did.

The door swung open with a creak. The insects and wind sung their gentle song to the odd couple. Hazle breathed deep, “Can you smell them?” she beamed. “I may not be able to see much anymore, but I can tell that the flowers are magnificent!” she said and tapped her beak.

“They are,” Toar smiled as he led her down the narrow garden path.

They came to a bench, and Hazle sat. She tapped the bench next to her, signaling that Toar should join her. She stared toward his face with her cloudy eyes full of concern. “I must say, I am quite surprised to see you, my young friend. I expected you’d be among the Salystians by now, learning the great magics you’d always hoped to know,” she frowned.

“Me too,” Toar shrugged, “But things have not gone the way I’d intended.”

“You are troubled,” Hazle agreed. “What has happened to you on your journeys?”

“I’ve failed,” Toar shrugged. “I made it to the edge of Salystian lands only to find them teeming with bugbear,” he shook his head. “How could I proceed?” he asked.

“It was never that empty place you were meant to find,” Hazle shook her head. “It was always the people that once lived there.”

“But where are they?” Toar asked. “I’ve heard that some have gone beyond the Red Desert—but how am I to get there when the west is increasingly filled with Ministrians and bugbear?”

“This is not all of it,” Hazle shook her head. “Something else has brought you back.”

“I was close,” Toar replied. “I was but a day or two from the city—but it did not call to me. Instead, I met a foreign noble. He was poisoned and needed my guidance. I led him through the westlands—or so I tried,” he said as tears gathered in his eyes. He shook his head. “Am I forever meant to serve the rich and privileged?”

Hazle clucked. “Do you think the poor and powerless can teach you the magics you hope to know? I assure you, when the time comes, it will be one of station and wealth that finally helps you heal your heart!”

“It shall not happen soon,” Toar speculated. “For none of my current company seems up to the task,” he complained. “Not even the shaman—though he has some power about him.”

“Now now,” Hazle chastised. “Don’t fret. Pessimism cannot guide you in your quest!”

“I know,” Toar said as he wiped his eyes. “I know, but I am overcome with sadness.”

“Yes, and you must strive to heal it in a calm and patient manner,” Hazle stroked his hand. “Shall I look into your future? Would you have me tell you what I see?”

“I would,” Toar nodded.

“Well then…” Hazle placed a hand on the young man’s chest and the other on his forehead. She closed her eyes. For several seconds, neither said a thing. Hazle shrugged, then pulled away from the young man. “Your path has not changed. The people of Salyst still call to you.”

“Then you mean to send me across the Red Desert,” Toar asserted.

Hazle shook her head. “Do not seek the straight road,” she chastised. “Yours is a circuitous route! Instead, stay with this noble and go where he means to go. Then, when the time comes, your paths will diverge, and you shall find the people you seek.”

“I’ve heard that some Salystians are harbored among the other tribes,” Toar noted. “Am I to find them in the eastern lands, among one of the other Trohl nations?” he asked.

“That is not a thing I can see,” Hazle revealed. “Instead, you must trust that you go where you need to go, and you will learn what you need to learn. Above all, you must learn to be patient!”

“Then I wait,” Toar sighed. He slumped in a defeated gesture. “I’ve spent my entire life waiting.”

“And what is one life to an immortal being?!” Hazle huffed. “No! You must be careful and silent. Search your heart as you go. Then, when the time comes, you will not be able to stop your destiny! It will catch you up, and it will rush you off, and from there you won’t be able to escape it, even if you should want to!”

“But when?!” he snapped. “How much longer must I wait?!”

Hazle shook her head and tsked at the young man’s impatience. “It will come, and when it comes, I should think you will beg for more time. But enough of such talk! You know the path forward, and you must walk every step of it—so stop asking an old woman to hurry you along!”

Toar hanged his head. “You are right,” he began. “I know the way, and I am on it. I just—I find the road to be so long!”

“One foot after the last,” Hazle smiled. “Go with your new friends. Help them in their efforts. Enjoy their company. In return, they will help you. They will not even know it—and yet—they will see you further than you can imagine,” Hazle beamed at the young man. She reached into her pocket and produced a small jar. “Here. You must take this.”

“Thank you,” Toar wiped his eyes. “I did not think I could ask you for more of your ointment.”

Hazle scoffed. “You used it selflessly, for the comfort of another! It may be precious, but I cannot withhold it from one that uses it in such wise ways.”

“I admit, I have missed it,” Toar said as he stuffed the slight jar in his pocket. “Some days the pain is substantial,” he said as he bent over the old lady and kissed her cheek. “Thank you.”

“Say nothing of it, my blessed boy. Do you not see all that I have?” Hazle held out her hands and gestured at the richness of her garden. “This life is a trial for you,” she continued. “There will be little pleasure or comfort in it—but it is just one life! Still, I wish I could do more to alleviate your pain.”

“I am not your ward,” Toar replied. “I am determined to be my own man.”

Hazle nodded. “If not, I should ask you to stay and help an old woman look after her garden.”

“If things were different, I would stay,” Toar shrugged. “I should think all this is too much for one old woman to look after.”

“Ah, but I have my sons, their wives, and so many wonderful grandchildren,” Hazle beamed, then leaned forward conspiratorially. “And soon I shall also have my apprentice,” she revealed. “Soon I shall be with a number of neighbors from the old town! It is promised in my dreams!”

Toar frowned, for he knew that her people were lost. If she was to meet her friends and an apprentice, he realized that she must soon die.

Hazle snorted, “Oh, ye of little faith! Now go to your companions and be about your business! Indeed, I think you should be happy that your friends are in such a hurry!”

“They do hurry,” Toar smiled as he stood to leave. “Thank you, Hazle. Thank you for everything.”

“Think nothing of it,” she smiled. “I have so much to give! I’d be remiss if I did not help such a beautiful and gentle creature as you! Now hug me, for this will be the last time we meet.”

Sure that Hazle would soon meet her demise, Toar wrapped the old woman in a crushing hug. He held her longer than he meant to, because her words confirmed her coming end. If she should live much longer, he would certainly come to find her! Indeed, once he had his magic, there was nothing that could keep him from the witch’s side! With tears in his eyes, he kissed her on the cheek, then turned and walked back into the house, as Hazle stayed in her garden.

Toar found his friends in the kitchen, chatting and laughing with the children, as they enjoyed an assortment of pastries with milk. Several of the girls were just about finished entwining flowers in Celesi’s hair, who was prettier than ever, which didn’t seem possible. “We are set,” Toar smiled, as he helped himself to a large cookie, speckled with raisins and chocolate. “Let’s be on our way.”

The children complained as they wrapped the visitors in hugs and stuffed treats in their pockets. Slowly, Andrus untangled himself, from a number of boys that were wrestling with him, while Celesi curtsied and thanked the girls. “Are we leaving so soon?” Apulton complained, as he was pushed and pulled to the door by a dozen small hands.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 4.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Carringten scanned the flickering shadows of ancient Beletrain and began to wonder if they’d ever come up out of these claustrophobic quarters. They’d been under the city for a number of hours, and his skin was beginning to itch with all the dust and darkness. The passages were often cramped, and the torches barely pushed back at the devouring black. He had the sense that there were creatures all around them, secretive, cloaked in shadow, seeming to follow—yet, he’d seen nothing—and if their escort noticed anything, they certainly weren’t letting on.

“WHO GOES!?” a strange voice roared from out of the darkness and broke the monotony of their shuffle.

The Jindleyaks snuffed their torches and pressed themselves closed to the walls. Carringten put himself between Creigal and the voice. He reached for Bence’s short sword, glared into the darkness, and gulped at the stale air.

“It is I, Traust of the Wooden Hound!” replied their escort. “Who is it that stands in our way?!”

“We are the Pan Iskaer, and there is a price for passing through our tunnels!” the voice called back.

“HUAH!” A number of voices called from all around.

Carringten realized they were pinched and outnumbered. If it came to a fight, they’d be attacked on all sides—but as the duke’s body guard prepared for a desperate fight, the Jindleyak around him relaxed.

“We know you, Pan Iskaer, and we are more than happy to pay your charge,” Traust replied in a congenial tone. “Only, let us do so in the light of the sun, so we all might be sure of the coin.”

“Then I suggest we hurry. The day is waning,” the disembodied voice replied. “Where would you care to come up?” it asked.

“Near the Plaza of the Serenah,” Traust answered. “The bake shop, Mullaynes.”

“The bake shop,” the voice repeated. “Squirrel, take them through to the matron.”

Several sparks jumped in the dark. Traust and his men and the Pan Iskaer lit torches all about. Several dozen of serious looking men appeared in the darkness and grinned at their guests. Some of them clapped hands with the Pan Iskaer. Carringten spooked one as he stepped past the duke.

“Come on then,” Squirrel smiled, the smallest among them—perhaps as small as Toar, though he was a good deal older. “Let’s not doddle,” he frowned. “I didn’t come down here to serve as an escort.” With that, he turned and motioned for his charges to follow.

The company passed a series of barricades and a number of other warriors. Carringten glanced up at the unusually high ceiling and noticed once more the thinness of the tunnels. Duboha had said the dimensions of the tunnels were a reflection of their naga builders, who were quite slender and tall. It was said they could stand nearly ten feet on the edge of their tales.

For a time they walked and took several turns. From around a corner a light appeared, and just like that, Carringten could see their escape. Convinced he might yet make it back out into the open air, his breathing eased, as he suppressed the urge to run.

There was no door to secure the entrance. Instead, they marched into the sun and found themselves in a small courtyard with high walls all around them, nearly twenty feet high, and smooth all about. Several men looked down from the walls, armed to the teeth, and somewhat bored. In this courtyard, three of the walls had identical thick wooden doors, while the fourth housed the ramp that led back down the way they came.

“Well, well, look what furry found us,” one of the guards smirked as he leaned over the high wall. “Who’s that with you, Squirrel?”

“This is Traust of the Wooden Hound, and other friends of the matron,” Squirrel called up to the man. “They wish to pay their respects.”

With a nod, one of the guard disappeared. Traust pulled a purse from his pocket and poked about the coins.

After a few moments, the voice of a woman materialized, seeming to lecture, as it huffed and struggled up the stairs. They all heard her long before they saw her. She appeared with a huff, old and massive, both tall and wide, with thick white hair. There was flour on her apron and a bothered expression as she stared down at those in the box. “Well now, you certainly have found enough of ‘em!” she snorted at Squirrel, her arms akimbo, as she eyed the large company. “Wooden Hounds, huh? You got dealings with that Red Dog?” she glared.

“Can’t say I’ve ever heard of him,” Traust smiled. “I take it he’s the wrong sort?”

“‘Wrong sort’ is putting it lightly,” she mumbled.

“Pardon me, ma’am, but me and some of the boys know several of these, and they ain’t the type to stir up trouble,” Squirrel told her. “At least not the type of trouble we’re like to complain about.”

“Is that so?” the matron began. “How y’all manage to keep all your silly code names straight is a marvel to me. Well then, did you get there money, or do I need to add it up for you?”

A couple of the guards chuckled at this. With a huff, Squirrel waved her off. “They asked to pay up here, since it’s such poor light below.”

“They all gotta see their money,” the matron complained as she rolled her eyes. “Why don’t any of ‘em ever come with the price in hand?”

“Beg your pardon, my lady,” Traust bowed to the woman, “but the price is always changing.”

She smiled down at the leader of the Jindleyak. “There is that,” she admitted. She counted the men, then scowled at the comatose form of Krumpus. “That didn’t happen on our watch, did it?”

Squirrel shook his head.

“Well then, five moons,” she tallied. “And if you feel that’s not fair, you can take the blood door!” she threatened.

Traust smiled and offered the money directly, but she waved him away. Squirrel took the money instead. He counted it and gave a nod to the matron. “It’s here, and with a fine compliment to boot.”

“The compliment is yours,“ she said to Squirrel, then turned to Traust. “Would you prefer the alley or the shop?”

“The shop—and if you don’t mind, we’d like to exit a few at a time,” Traust stated.

“Do as you like, so long as I can get back to my baking,” she waved and began down the stairs. “All you boys acting like there’s nothing else to do with the day but play in the dirt…” her insults trailed off after her, becoming unintelligible.

The door to their left opened and Squirrel waved them through with a nod. “If this door leads to the shop, and the other door leads to the alley,” Carringten began. “Where does the third door go?”

Squirrel shook his head, as it wasn’t his place to tell such secrets.

With a knowing smile, Traust leaned close. “It’s a narrow corridor that goes nowhere. There is a semblance of a door at the far end, just to entice one to enter, but it is only painted bricks,” he explained. “You can fit two dozen men in that hall—and about twice as many above them.”

“It is for those that must pay the blood price,” Squirrel added, then put a finger to his lips. “Farewell, men of the Wooden Hound,” he added with a wink, then turned and went back down the ramp into Beletrain.

Carringten turned and followed Traust and Creigal through the door and into the shop; which was full of various breads, pastries, buns, rolls, cookies, cakes, and all sorts of other baked delicacies. Having not eaten in hours, several of the Jindleyak picked a few items among them. Traust noticed the wandering eye of his charges, and also their discipline. “Try a few,” he said to the Saots. “If not, you must wait in agony as my men check the streets.”

Realizing he was famished, Carringten selected a meat pie and a sweet piece of pastry that was bursting with fruits and nuts. Traust recommended several pieces and purchased a rather large basket of assorted breads, pastries, and pies. “We’re nearly home, and you can’t find better bread in town,” he told them.

Though he would normally be one of the first to exit, Aim waited with them, since he carried the shaman. Instead, it was Duboha, Saleos, and the brothers that went out. With them in position, Traust waved the foreigners forward. Carringten stepped into the fading light of the sun. They entered a massive square with a fountain in its center, a winged woman with cherubs all about. The crowd was slight, and carried about its business. A few glanced at Carringten, curious to see a man colored like the shadows, but left him alone. His type was rare so far north, but not unknown. Carringten proceeded as if everyone was always staring, which was often the case, as he was a constant companion of the duke—though few of these strangers even bothered to glance at his lord. He considered that to be a good thing.

As they proceeded, Carringten noticed the other members of the Jindleyak militia hovering near, keeping a sharp eye, as their charges proceeded down the street. He turned and gave an approving smile to Creigal. They passed a few quiet words about the right proper job their escort was doing, and continued on their way.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 4.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Increasingly, bands of roving men banged about the tunnels of Beletrain. With their garish torches, they traveled en masse from one entrance to another—searching, always searching. Meu invariably noticed these men long before they might see her—but all the maneuvering and dodging slowed her progress. Indeed, there was such a glut of activity that after several encounters, she decided to abandon the areas controlled by men altogether. She slipped through a corridor riddled with traps and found herself in no-man’s-land.

No-man’s-land was not a safe and easy passage. Too often and always at inconvenient times the corridors and passages were blocked with barricades and traps set by both sides. The going was slow even with Eikyale to bolster her senses and ease her suspicions. Instead of skittering back and forth, passing precariously between traps and heavy barricades, Eikyale thought it might be better if she entered naga territory proper. Meu agreed. She descended. The dinge of no-mans-land diminished, then disappeared altogether.

Although barricades and elaborate traps no longer barred her way, Meu was often blocked by ornate doors and gates. Some of these gates she could slip through and around—though some were of a tighter mesh. Indeed, many were designed so naga might slip by—but humans could not—and since wyrms were even thinner than naga, she had an easy time getting through these gates.

Meu slipped passed yet another gate, and couldn’t help but feel the animosity between nagas and humans that permeated the air. These peoples hate each other so much, she wondered. Must it always be so?

We are strange to each other, Eikyale noted. Is it possible for such different peoples to ever get along? he wondered.

I think so, Meu replied. We are equally different to the humans, and yet we manage to coexist. Indeed, there is a small band that lives about the Spires of Gendalou.

But it is just a few? Eikyale asked.

We think of it as a vast community, though it is only a couple hundred, Meu clarified. It is mostly survivors from Salyst. Initially they were refugees, cut off from their own people, but now they are well established. We trade and often entertain each other. Indeed, there are several yearly celebrations, held in the name of our friendship. Our southern cousins are said to have a similar understanding with men in their country, though in the south it is said that the humans are beyond count. I shall know for myself, and soon, as I am headed that way.

They live directly with these people? Eikyale wondered.

In the south? I am told they live at a distance, but it is said that the human towns are not far off. It is said there is common trade between them, Meu continued.

Well then… Perhaps, if there was a shake-up, if we were forced to look at our similarities and to forget our differences, Eikyale replied. But there is so much blood and anger on both sides—some of it deservedly so. It would take a good deal of compromise and compassion to bring us together.

Or some great calamity, Meu suggested.

I shudder to think, Eikyale replied.

Does neither side weary of the war? Meu asked.

Our hatred for each other is often renewed with slights, Eikyale noted. There are some among us that long for peace—and I suspect there are those among the humans that want the same—but most teach their children to hate, and the children tend to do so with vigor.

Saddened to hear it, Meu ventured on. She occasionally passed doorways with thick drapes that blocked the way. Eikyale explained that these were the homes of naga, and that she should not go into them. The curtains were invariably laced with bells and chimes, to alert the occupants beyond. Often, they were tied down.

Despite such close proximity to a number of their homes, Meu had yet to see any of the beasts—and then she saw one slither toward her. This naga was much more intimidating than Meu had expected; lean and muscular in his sleeveless shirt. His hands were empty, though there were two long curved blades that wrapped about his back. Those are quite the weapons, Meu stated as the naga passed.

They are excellent for stabbing around corners, Eikyale noted. Down here, we have plenty of corners.

This naga passed much quicker and closer than Meu might have liked. She hid above an entry, done up with ornate bricking. She was happy to see him proceed—though he slowed and glanced up at her—undoubtedly curious to see such a fine stone figure above a door he must have frequently passed. It was good he passed without any trouble, since this naga did not appear friendly whatsoever. As it continued on its way, Meu wondered if it wasn’t a sourpuss, even by naga standards.

After this first naga, Meu began to see them more frequently. Still, dodging the occasional naga was better than slinking over the barriers and traps that clogged no-man’s-land. Indeed, many of the naga were not nearly so intimidating as the first. Meu saw a number of females that all wore shirts of fine fabric. They often had soft feather boas draped about their necks and wrapped about their arms. Indeed, the young were cute in the way that the young always are, with overemphasized features that promised of future growth: big hands, eyes, and tails. She was surprised to hear the naga speak, even more so when it was Trohl, though they mostly spoke their own language with an inordinate among of clicks and hisses. Eikyale translated some of the small bits Meu heard, though none of it was germane to her mission.

Meu continued on. The naga thinned and for long stretches disappeared altogether. Muffled conversation drifted on the air. There was a laugh, several knocks, and other disparate noises that seemed to grow in frequency and volume as Meu made her way through a large and airy hall. She could not say this tunnel was any stranger than the rest—for they were all quite strange to her—until she came across a small passage with a basic grate of thick metal mesh over it. Beyond this gate the tunnel angled down into the earth. She could tell that this tunnel was not long, and there was a dim steady light at the end of it. What is this? she asked her guide.

These are vents, to carry away smoke and bad air, Eikyale told her. You must be above the market Ancore.

Ancore, Meu repeated, and sniffed the air. There was a rich scent, mostly pleasant, that spoke of a large gathering below her. She stared at the grate, fascinated by the idea of a naga market, and realized the bars would not keep her out. If I should take a look, do you think anyone might notice? she asked her naga guide.

If it is Ancore, you will be quite high up and mostly out of view, Eikyale began. Perhaps your friends are below, on the floor of the market—though, if that is the case, our troubles are severely compounded.

Meu couldn’t resist. Wings tucked close, she slipped through the grate and slithered down the tunnel. The tunnel was well kept, lacking any cracks or seeming wear. How is this so? she wondered.

There are ways to meld the rock, Eikyale confided. It is ancient naga magic and understood by a number of our master masons—though I am not one of them. I can make the slurry that helps fuse the rock—but the method of application is tedious just to think about—and how it all works is quite beyond me.

The whispers of the naga below grew into a cacophony of sounds as Meu approached the end of the tunnel. She was high above a massive cavern; so massive that it had not one chimney, but over a dozen; with metal loops between them. For her, with wings at her side, it was not that daunting to go from one to the next, but she could sense a tinge of dread as Eikyale experienced the height with her.

On the floor of the cavern, far below, was the naga market. It was several hundred feet to the floor of the cavern. The market was lit in many ways, though the sources were dim by human standards—but after the pitch black of the upper levels, this giant cavern almost seemed sunny.

There were balconies on every wall that often crowded in on each other. Some were so distant they were hard to see. Most were furnished and decorated. Some held naga, as they lounged and mingled one with another. On the floor of the cavern, at one of its corners, was a large bath. The smooth walls suddenly gave way to a jagged natural section of cave, where steam lifted from the water and drifted halfway to the chimneys—before it dissipated. There was a great crowd about the pool; wading, swimming, relaxing. Meu couldn’t see the far edge of the pool, and Eikyale confirmed that it extended under the wall into a low cavern. It was a famous bath, quite large and luxurious.

Ancore, Meu spoke its name. So this is the great market of Beletrain, she wondered, as she stared down at a thousand naga in the grand space below, with plenty of room for a few thousand more.

Eikyale chuckled. It is not the market of Beletrain—but simply a market of Beletrain.

It is but one? Meu marveled. And how many are there?

There are half a dozen bigger than this, Eikyale told her. Ancore is a fair size, with a good amount of traffic, bigger than Hekate Square for sure, but a dim glimmer compared to the Shore Rows. Indeed, this market is newly expanded. It is said that it was little more than a neighborhood bath—back before the Rotunda fell to the militias.

The Rotunda? Meu asked.

Another market, closer to the surface, Eikyale said. It is now held by humans, though I hear they do little with it.

Meu gasped. Are you saying the humans sacked one of your markets?!

It happened some time before I was born, Eikyale noted with calm dispassion. You have to remember that the war is old and tragic. Indeed, we are blessed with a relative peace these days.

Meu gaped at the crowd of naga below. There are so many of them! To think that this is only one market!

Eikyale chuckled. We are plentiful here, deep in the earth.

How deep do the tunnels run? Meu asked.

Very, Eikyale confirmed. Indeed, they are endless. At a hundred different points the city simply ceases and becomes natural caverns—or just as often, older passages, carved by the gods only know. These abandoned and unexplored areas we call The Deep, and everyone agrees that The Deep has no end.

Meu could not believe it. There is no end to it? But the earth is only so big!

Agreed, though I imagine it seems quite endless to most, Eikyale replied. My people have come out of these caves at a thousand different places, sometimes in jungles, or deserts. There are exits near beaches, as well as atop mountains. Of course, there are parts of this underground that we’ve settled, other cities—but there are also great dangers in The Deep—areas we do not go, inhabited by strange and cunning creatures of malevolent intent. Eikyale shook his head. There is much in the earth, and although we don’t care to admit it, there is much we don’t know.

Meu was astounded that so much should transpire below the surface. To think, there was a whole different world under her feet where she had expected nothing but dirt! Stunned and wordless, she simply gaped at the majesty of the market below her.

As she studied the melee, Meu realized it wasn’t just naga on the floor. There were humans too. Indeed, there was a knot of fifty or sixty people, of varying ages, that stood to one side. People! Meu breathed, then noticed the leashes about their necks.

Slaves, Eikyale confirmed. Taken, stolen, kidnapped from the surface and sold in these markets. Most are brought as children, though adults are captured from time to time. Adults are harder to train, harder to break—but then, some like the challenge.

A few of the humans called and cried, their voices weak and long defeated. Meu searched them for faces she might know, but none of them seemed familiar. Then, as she studied the humans, a slow uncomfortable suspicion crept over her. A shiver rose up her spine. She felt eyes upon her.

Meu turned to the closest balconies. It didn’t take her long to find the spy. To her left and several levels down, a naga stood stock-still and stared at her. Her heart jumped as she felt menace and calculation in the creature’s gaze.

A Veracote, Eikyale hissed. Do not trifle with that one. It is unlikely that he will be friendly, and he is undoubtedly dangerous!

Still, there was nothing that this Veracote could do to her from so far away—or so she hoped—and for a time, they simply stared at each other.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the Veracote pulled from view.

Meu glared back at the beast as it disappeared behind the edge of a wall. She knew it was up to no good. If she should wait, if she should stay, it would likely spring upon her, to kill or capture.

You should go, Eikyale agreed. And quickly.

Meu glanced once more at the slaves. If Wenifas or any of the others were in the crowd below, well; never say die—but with so many naga about, and with guards now on the prowl, Meu believed she could be of no assistance.

But which way to go?

Having been discovered, Meu decided to be bold. She unfurled her wings and flew from the chimney.

Some among the crowd below noticed her flying form. A number of gasps and a pause in conversation followed as Meu darted toward a wide open balcony with a grand and empty room beyond. It took mere seconds to cover a couple hundred feet—still—fingers pointed, and several more sentries made for the exits.

The chase was on. Meu moved quick and often took ramps and passages that led closer to the surface. Thankfully, she ran into no one, as she outpaced her pursuers. After several levels, she had to move slow to safely navigate the various traps set by the underground beasts. She didn’t stop until she was through another patch of no-man’s-land, then back into corridors that smelled more of humans than naga. Only then did she feel safe enough to wander about in a ponderous manner once more. She listened for any sounds of pursuit, but heard nothing.

Eikyale commended her efforts—but his words were not all optimism and encouragement. You’ll have to be careful. My people do not take kindly to intruders, and the Vericote are not likely to forget you anytime soon.

How long do you think they will search for me?

Actively? A day or two, though I imagine the thought of you will bother them for weeks, the naga mage speculated.

Will they search here, among the tunnels of men?

Some of them, assuredly, Eikyale said. But there is too much territory, and I imagine most will stick to our own holdings. My people may claim all the tunnels under the earth, but only the most brave and foolhardy cross into the tunnels frequented by men. You’ve seen the traps. In my estimation the militias of Ebertin are nearly as cunning and vicious as the Vericote.

Indeed, if I could not fly I would be very slow to cross no-mans-land, Meu confirmed. Feeling relatively safe, she wandered through corridors that stank of men and considered her course. She had no idea how long she’d been underground, and wondered how much longer she could stay. Hunger and fatigue were creeping upon her.

Did she dare sleep in this place?

She considered the surface. Then, as she traveled, a familiar scent caught in her maw. Meu paused. For a second, she thought it was a trick as she immediately lost the scent. She turned back and caught the smell once more, as she hovered near the edge of an aqueduct.

By some miracle, the familiar scent of Claiten stuck to the side of the water. Meu moved to the left, then to the right, then forward and back—but the smell was only ever in this one spot. It took her a minute to realize the boy must have come out of the aqueduct, laid for a time, then got back into the water.

But why? She wondered. Why should he be in the water at all?

What if he was pulled into the water? Eikyale asked.

Meu realized it wasn't just the boy's scent. There was no smell of the others—of Wenifas, or Evereste, or even one of the Jindleyaks—but there was the scent of a naga. She realized that if she wanted to follow the scent of the boy, she needed to take a bath.

Meu decided to take the hard path and swim upstream. That way, if she had to reverse and come back the other way, at least it would be easy. She swam against the current, through several chambers and long tunnels. The water was brisk and gripping. Although Meu was an adequate swimmer, her kind wasn’t exactly built for it. They were built for the air and only ever tolerated the stream. A couple of the tunnels were dangerously long and tested her ability to hold her breath. She rested often.

Eventually, she came to a brick and mortar room, full of smoke, where she noted the faint scents of Wenifas and Evereste. She filled her lungs with the odor of her friend and the Trohls that traveled with her. Excited that she’d finally found them, she moved several feet in the direction of the priestess—but as she came to the end of the room, she stopped. There was no smell of Claiten in this direction—no smell of the boy at all.

Meu realized she was going the wrong way. She needed to go back into the aqueduct, after the boy. That is where I am needed, she thought—then realized that if she hesitated her courage would flag. She could already hear a part of herself argue against going after the boy. It’d be exceedingly dangerous to venture deep into Beletrain once more. There were too many naga, too many unknowns.

Before she might talk herself out of it, Meu turned, lifted into the air, and dove into the water once more. She steeled herself and allowed the current of the aqueduct to sweep her back under the brick of the wall, into the meandering caverns beyond, back into the depths of the naga city—and after the boy.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 4.7 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

The house sat on a large lot, among few neighbors, with plenty of space and tall trees all about. It was a quiet and affluent part of town, with wide lawns and gardens; perfect for seclusion in the city. "This, my good man, is the House of Leaves," Traust said with a satisfied smile.

Creigal grinned and gave a nod, happy with the look of the place. “It belongs to you?”

“It belongs to Duboha, his woman, and their numerous children—though they will not be staying with us,” Traust smiled.

Creigal frowned. “We are not putting them out, are we?”

“There is nothing to be done for it,” Traust shrugged. “They will go and stay with relatives, and they will be comfortable—but we are in need, and this is the safest place for us. This one is quiet, in a roundabout neighborhood, and close to the gate. Indeed, I have only been here once, when I first arrived and was not known at court, so I might know the safe house if we should ever need it.”

“And how many people know we are staying here?” Creigal asked.

“None that will talk,” Traust smiled and began up the drive. “The politics of this city have been deteriorating for years now. We’d be remiss if we did not make adequate plans, yet, we’re not the type to sacrifice comfort unnecessarily.”

They approached Duboha as he waited on the porch. “I’ve sent my family and servants away. None of the others are here, though I’m not surprised, since we took the most direct route,” he said. “Who do you think gets here next?”

“They return when they return,” Traust shrugged. “In the meantime, I’m feeling peckish, and I do not think the breads we’ve bought will be enough. Let’s raid the kitchen and talk over what we might do next. Then we can see the duke supplied with any immediate needs: paper, pen, a blade if he should like. I know if I was in a foreign country and hunted by local authorities, I’d want a decent pig sticker…”

"I shall repay your kindness," Creigal smiled. "Though I am far from home, I am a man of means, and good to my word. If you or any of your men are ever in Gaurring...”

"Yes,” Traust interrupted. “If ever we find our roles reversed, I am sure you will return us such favor," he patted the duke on the shoulder. “Come! You haven’t lived until you’ve tried some of the local delicacies!”

Aim saw to it that Krumpus was settled, then went with Duboha back out into the city, while the others took their meal on the porch, overlooking the garden, and whittled away the hours with pleasant conversation. The shadows stretched and deepened. They lingered over dessert. Suddenly, Creigal saw Aim and Duboha strolling up the drive, accompanied by Toar, Celesi, Andrus, and Apulton. Creigal waved to his guide and the former Jay. Fresh succor was brought out for the new arrivals.

Apulton and Andrus emptied their bags and fulfilled their obligation; then began to eat. Some stayed to hear of what happened, while others went inside to squirrel away their prizes. Conversation was crisp, as the day’s unbelievable events were rehashed yet again.

They talked for some time before Creigal realized anything was wrong. He glanced at Duboha as the second half-heartedly mopped up streaks of gravy with the crust of a bread—only then did the duke realize something weighed on the man.

Creigal wasn’t the only one to notice. “What’s got your goat?” Traust asked, and interrupted Duboha’s mopish mopping.

Duboha locked eyes with his friend. He shook his head. “Yandira’s dead, and at least a dozen others,” he frowned as he stuck a bit of soggy biscuit in his mouth.

“What?!” Apulton snapped, as his loaded fork drifted back to his plate. “Why didn’t you tell us?!”

“I am telling you,” Duboha locked his eyes. “Word is, Degorouth arrested her. When Elpis and the others arrived, a fight broke out. Our cousins were last seen running toward the slant streets with the priestess and children in tow.”

“No other word?” Traust asked.

Duboha shook his head, then pointed a thumb at Apulton. “We were making the rounds, hoping to hear more when we found this lot. We thought we should bring them in first.”

Traust shook his head. “Changes nothing for us. I suppose neither Yandira nor any of her people knew of this place?”

“Not a one,” Duboha claimed.

“And if they get their hands on Elpis?” Apulton asked.

Duboha nodded. “He’s been here—but not since he started seeing the woman. She’s too high of a profile.”

Apulton shook his head. “We gotta do something.”

Traust stared at the man. “Go with Aim and Duboha. Go out into the streets. Do what you do.”

Duboha, Aim, and Apulton all nodded, they stood and prepared to go.

Traust put a hand on Duboha. “Send word to the Lady’s family through one of our less partisan cousins. Give our condolences and see if we might be of any assistance,” He said, then stood, and excused himself from the table. He stepped from the porch and began to mosey about the garden.

Creigal watched the man go. “Is he all right?” He asked the table.

“He’ll be fine,” Apulton nodded as he prepared to leave. “The one that’s really gotta be shook is still out there.”

“You speak of Elpis,” Creigal surmised. “What of the others? Will none of them join you in your search?”

Duboha shook his head, and pointed at Traust, “They often travel with Traust, and so they are known. As the emissary of the Oak and the Beast, he’s too well known to be wandering the streets, so he knows he can’t leave the property and do anything about this—but me and the boys…” he grinned.

“What of you?” Creigal replied. “Aren’t you known as his second?”

“No,” Duboha answered. “You know me as his second, but among our enemies, Saleos is his right hand man. On the odd occasions when we are seen together—like today—I’m just another lump with a blade, hangin’ about the edges. It is the same with Aim and Apulton. We’re just there when he needs to show a little extra muscle,” he explained.

“Or in the case of Aim, a lot of extra muscle,” Baet jibed. “And they consider you a sneak?!” Baet said to the massive man.

Aim shrugged.

Duboha smirked, then continued his commentary. “You see, Traust is a visitor. He’s a diplomat, representing the interests of our family, back east. He’s here to treat with our enemies and friends alike, in a formal capacity. But not me,” the second grinned. “This is my city, my neighborhood, my home—and I lurk about in the shadows, so we might know what’s really going on. I’ve been here for years, and I am unlikely to ever leave.”

Having said his peace, Duboha finished the rest of his plate, then went back into the city, with Aim and Apulton at his side.

Of Fire and Air, Of Earth and Water

Polished 5.1 and 5.2 — 43m21s — 2023/12/11

Polished 5.3 and 5.4 — 24m42s — 2023/12/12

From the remains of the Invader’s Fort, the surviving Ministrians managed to break through the southern line of waokie—then began a long, harried march to Rynth Falls. The swarming bugbear chased after the fleeing men, but were repeatedly battered back by Ministrian ambushes. Yet, the fighting took its toll. There were simply too many of the beasts and time after time the soldiers were forced to turn and run, always shy a few more men. A great number of brave Ministrians volunteered their lives to slow the advancing enemy from catching the main column of civilians and slaves.

Shadows stretched and grew over the low forested hills as men and beast slaughtered each other. Another ambush was falling apart. Petaerus sprinted from the massacre and stepped too close to a waokie that had managed to get behind their lines and hid itself in a tree. As he stepped by, the waokie scratched at his eyes. The soldier dodged, but was caught along his cheek.

Stung, Petaerus turned and chased after the beast, as it howled its victory. He got close, but the ragged bugger slipped through a tangle of undergrowth. For a long second, the soldier cursed and kicked at the uncaring brush, sure that he could feel poison seeping into his veins. Still seething, he heard the trample and crash of far too many pursuers. He took the prudent course, and ran.

In the growing shadows with pandemonium all about, Petaerus ran south. After this particular fight, it took him nearly half an hour to get to the main column of survivors. Once there, he joined several more ambushes and even reunited with Dolif as they crawled toward the safety of Rynth Falls. Then, when the night seemed to be at its darkest, when many of the fighting men had been torn to shreds, and as waves of despair washed over the high guard; he was startled to see men running the other direction—dozens—even hundreds! Militiamen came charging through the woods and just about gave the two soldiers a heart attack as they raced passed, yelling and screaming. Wave after wave of armed men wearing the various colors of Rynth Falls were running at the waokie! After the initial shock wore off, Petaerus felt a surge of relief wash over his exhausted body. They were safe!

Still, it’d be another hour before a wall appeared out of the haze, with torches all about. Petaerus leaned on Dolif as they made there way to the parade grounds where triage tents were being erected. He was fairly delirious by the time they found a bed. There was a noticeable patch of rot on his cheek, and his face had swollen up so much that one of his eyes was shut.

For the next several days, Petaerus suffered. He was one of the last to recover, due to the difficulty of treating the rot on his face. For most of the attending doctors, the preferred treatment for rot was amputation, as once the infected limb was removed, recoveries nearly tripled! But such a fix was not possible for Petaerus, since they simply could not amputate his head and expect him to live. A more delicate tact was required, so it fell to Voressa.

Near blind, and half the age of the mountains, Voressa the hag returned to his bed every few hours to administer a repugnant draught, maybe perform a delicate lancing (which always felt like hellfire for at least a good hour after), and also to have a little grope at the man’s glory. She chuckled to herself as she cradled his unaffected eggs. Sometimes she got a rise out of the soldier—only to give him a pinch for his impudence. In such a manner, it took three days for the old witch to cure him.

“Does it look as bad as it feels?” Petaerus asked Dolif as he gingerly fingered the scar on the morning of his release.

Dolif frowned. “With a little luck, it should calm considerably,” he offered.

“Can’t say I’ve ever felt any better. There’s nothing like the edge of death to make a man feel alive!” Petaerus bragged—though his face was still delicate.

“That’s the attitude!” Dolif grinned. “For a while you had me scared.”

Petaerus snorted. “War takes the weak. Ooroiyuo has use for me yet—and Naharahna means to spread more legs.”

“Well then, your recovery is just in time,” Dolif said. “Soon we go south!”

Petaerus was perplexed. Surely, their commanders did not mean to abandon the north to a bunch of dog-men? “We do not move against the waokie?” he asked.

“Non, that is for others to address,” Dolif explained. “We’re volunteered to go south with Drastorig’s acolytes, to lead the Trohls against the Saot—which is all the better. Why chase waokie when we can riot and loot among men?”

Petaerus considered his words. “What you speak is true—though I would like a little revenge,” he shrugged. “So you signed us up with Drastorig?”

“It was that or chase dog-men through the woods, and for what reward? For revenge?! That won’t buy me a priestess!” Dolif charged. “And we aren’t signed up with Drastorig, either. You’re the special envoy to the acolytes,” he shrugged. “Technically, you’re in charge!”

Petaerus blinked. “Drastorig didn’t make it?”

“On the contrary!” Dolif exclaimed. “Drastorig fought the whole way, then joined the watchmen in their assault. He came in looking like a conquering hero—as he dragged one of them vermin all the way to the walls of the city.”

Petaerus blinked. “He caught a woakie?”

Dolif nodded. “Broke both arms and pulled one of the legs out of its socket—but the vile thing was still hissing and pissing and howling for half the town to hear!” He shook his head. “So that’s how it started, and when they wouldn’t let him bring it inside the city walls, he proceeded to build a fire and cook it.”

Petaerus blinked. “To what end?”

“They don’t call him ‘the Gorpulent’ for nothing—and Just the smell of it made me gag!” Dolif cringed. “How he managed to choke down any of that meat is beyond me! Even after he cooked it, the beast smelled a mess!” he stared at his friend and shook his head. “It turned out to be a bad choice. The next day, Drastarig was sick as a dog, losing solids and liquids from both ends.”

“Bleak,” Petaerus shuddered.

Dolif nodded. “He’s been sick ever since. Yesterday the fever broke—but he ain’t keeping much down. The man’s lost at least a stone’s weight and was pale as a sheet the last time I saw him.”

“You think he’s going to make it?” Petaerus asked.

Dolif shrugged. “I think he’s turned the corner—but even if he recovers, he won’t be lifting his sword for at least a week. They expect a full recovery in… what? Maybe a month?” he hedged.

“Cripes, and I thought I had it bad,” Petaerus said.

“Not at all, son! You have it good!” Dolif clapped his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Did you notice your stripes?”

“Copal?!” Petaerus stared.

“They made me your second!” Dolif grinned. “Didn’t I tell you? You’re the special envoy to the acolytes, until the return of Drastorig!”

Petaerus blanched. “And why would they put me in charge of Drastorig’s acolytes?!”

“Don’t let them hear you say that,” Dolif shook his head. “No! You are the ‘special envoy’—it’s a very specific title. Learn it for both our sakes.”

“Special envoy?” Petaerus shook his head. “How am I a copal?”

Dolif punched his arm. “Our plan saved nearly fifty fighting men, several hundred civilians, and twice as many slaves,” he smiled. “The salvage was very generous—but the awards didn’t end there! Drastarig had nothing but good things to say about you—before he got so terribly ill—and he was the only one with any rank to make it through, so…!”

Petaerus didn’t know what happened to Wilkus or Shafenauper, but during the commotion of their flight, he himself had sunk a blade into the worthless back of Dreanna. He smiled as the thought about it. “Well, I have recovered, been promoted, and been rewarded with the bounty of a rich salvage!” He beamed. “The only thing that could complete this day is a woman!”

“Well, it might not be that much money,” Dolif muttered. “Any priestess worth her tears will charge you double—at a minimum.”

“What?! Do you mock me?!” Petaerus huffed. “The ladies love scars! Besides, I’m a hero! I should be paying half!” he complained.

“You won’t hear argument from me,” Dolif began. “Give it a few more days to calm, and I think the ladies shall not blanch as much,” he shrugged. “Not that it matters for the time being, since we are going south, and shall be looking for women among our enemies,” he continued with a grin. “For them, we shan’t have to pay a copper!”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 5.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Meu recognized a rank muskiness about the residence even before she entered. There was such a mix of spice and strangeness in the air that it took several seconds for her to locate Claiten’s scent among the myriad other flavors that drifted from the home. She slipped past several iron gates that would have kept any men or larger beasts out. There was also a thin iron door, but it was left open, as was the case with many residences.

Behind the open iron door was a thick cloth curtain. Meu moved slow and hoped anyone inside could not hear the ever-so-faint tinkling of the bells attached to the drapes, as she squeezed past the bottom corner that covered the front doorway. There was no movement on the other side of the curtain, no sudden sounds, and little light that came from a passage at the far end of the front room. Ever so slowly, Meu crept over thick soft rugs that padded the cold dirt floor.

The ceiling and walls were also covered. Heavy drapes insulated the home and kept it noticeably warmer than the outside tunnels. There were also several couches, a couple low tables, and a rack with an assortment of coats and weapons all about it.

Meu’s ear pricked as it caught a noise. At the far end of the dark hall and down a corkscrew ramp, someone was singing. Meu didn’t like the idea of any surprises behind her, so she decided to search the other rooms before she headed down. The first attached room was dominated by a bed and several dressers. He’s a neat one, Eikyale noted as they surveyed the bedroom. The next room was dominated by a large desk and several tables. This room was a fair deal messier as Meu noted a number of projects currently in the works. Notice the plaque on his wall? Eikyale asked. The symbol of the trident and the flower?

Yes, Meu replied. It’s on everything.

Just about, Eikyale grinned. He’s a Veracote for sure. You’ll want to keep your distance.

Meu returned to the main room. She noticed another slight ramp, much thinner than the first. The musty smell of water drifted up this ramp.

This will be the bath and privy, Eikyale told her. She peaked inside and was happy to see there wasn’t anyone there.

The next room was simply a storage; packed with bureaus, tables, chairs, beds, chests, and other large furniture; stacked one upon another all the way to the ceiling. The drapes along the walls were tattered and appeared to be a good deal older than the rest of the residence. So naga are just like humans after all, Meu reflected.

In what way? Eikyale asked.

You both tend to hoard.

Eikyale sighed. Such habits only fuel our problems. Is there no greed among your kind?

We are not so perfect, Meu assured him. We have our trinkets and treasures. There’s plenty for us to betray, fight, and kill over.

No people is perfect, Eikylae replied.

After the storage room, there was nowhere else to go but down the spiral ramp and into the kitchen. This ramp was a fair bit wider than the one that led to the bath. The smells of the kitchen increased and complicated; enticing, beguiling, and a touch concerning since Meu smelled meat. The soft light intensified. The singing became clear and distinct. She was surprised to hear the low grumbling voice was singing in Trohl. There was a hissing accent to the words, but otherwise they were simple and clear. The naga swayed as he sang:

"Chicken fall upon the floor,

chicken cannot open door,

chicken want for sssun be sssore,

sssoon da chicken be no more!

Chicken, chicken, ssstuck in ssstore,

ree and ssscree and cluck before,

tasssty eating, sssuck the core,

in me belly pluck one more!

Hen and cock and chick all sssweet,

sssoup and pie—they tasssty eat,

what to do with beak and feet?

give to dogsss—then dogsss for meat!"

Dogsss to flog and kick and beat,

watch the teeth and clawsss on feet!

mean and viciousss—though good eat

give to friendsss and guessstsss to greet!"

Boil and toil and ssskin the dogsss,

grill and sssmell thossse tasssty fogsss!

ssskewered, basssted, great with grogsss

—but don’t forget to add the frogsss!

Hoppersss, floppersss, ssswimmers free!

frogsss are tassstier than brie!

The bessst: blind cave frogsss cannot sssee

toasssted, basssted, poached for me!

Catch the floppersss in the ssstream,

in the light, their eyesss do gleam,

by the dozensss, children ream

‘a copper each!’ They call ’n beam.

Frogsss, ssso many, it may ssseem

in da pot they boil and teem,

‘too much frog!’ a mother ssscream

then feed to chicken, lookin’ lean!

From there, the song started over—and yet the naga continued with gusto:

Chicken fall upon the floor,

chicken cannot open door!!…

And so the song continued on and on. Once the naga finished the cycle of verses, he only began again.

But it was not all fun and sport for the naga. A blood soaked bandage was wrapped about the left side of the creature’s face. From time to time, the beast grimaced and took delicate notice of this affliction. Because of this, Meu knew it was the beast that had attacked Wenifas, and she was glad to see its pain.

War stirs, even in your heart, Eikyale chided.

Especially when one of my own has been taken, Meu replied.

The kitchen was dominated by a large stove and plenty of counter space, half covered with ingredients, and the tools required to mix them. Seasoned meat cooked in a large cauldron, and Meu wondered if she was too late.

Beyond this workspace was the pantry. Meu could smell the snakes, lizards, and turtles that were kept in bowls too deep and slick to escape. There were also a number of jars filled with bugs, beetles, snails, and other creepy crawlers: some dead, some alive, some mixed one with the other. There were a few fire sprites and several moon wings in separate cages, and also a couple lava worms at the bottom of a great iron basin—though all these creatures looked rather sick and pathetic.

“Dogsss to flog and kick and beat,

watch the teeth and clawing feet...”

The naga winced and touched the bandage on the side of his face. Muttering to himself, he picked a candle off the table, turned, and trundled to the back of the storage area. The final cage was massive—big enough for a boy, Meu realized—as she noted the mountain of ruined clothes in the corner. The naga shook the cage and scolded the unseen occupant. When no reply was forthcoming, the beast grabbed a long wooden rod, and poked about the mountain of rags. A yelp issued from the pile, followed by the curse and shriek of a child. The face of a small boy poked out of the clothes, streaked with tears, only to have his pleas ignored. With a chuckle, the naga grumbled his satisfaction, then returned to the counter where he resumed his song:

“Hoppersss, floppersss, ssswimmersss free!

Frogsss are tassstier to me,

the bessst, the cave frogsss cannot sssee!

Toasssted, basssted, poached with brie!”

As the naga turned away, the boy disappeared back into the rags, and buried himself once more. The clothes in the cage seemed of every sort, though most of it was small clothes for mere children.

All of it was ruined and blood stained.

The boy will be fine for a day or two, Eikyale stated. We should take our time, and wait for a proper opening.

Meu snuck low under some shelving and considered her options. She was still situating herself when the naga turned and approached. He did not see her as he searched among the assorted jars and boxes. He stood so close! Meu thought to save the venom for Claiten, that she might have an easier time communicating with the boy—but the opportunity to get inside this creature’s head and force him to her will was too good to pass up! She took the opening and bit the beast. Her fangs punctured the naga’s scales. Meu injected her venom, then slipped past the naga and fled up the ramp.

Caught off guard by the sharp pain, the naga banged its head, and cursed a blue streak.

No! Eikyale hissed in her mind. What have you done?!

The naga soothed his banged head. He turned in time to see his attacker slip up the ramp. Still cursing, the naga pursued after the intruder.

Meu made it into the overcrowded room and slipped among the jumble of discarded furniture. She only needed a few seconds for the venom to do its work, but the naga had a knife, and if she wasn’t careful a few seconds would spell her end.

The naga entered the room. He thrashed about the bureaus, beds, chests, and whatnot, as he searched for her. Meu climbed into the rigging between the ceiling and the insulating drapes. Safe and out of sight, Meu waited for the venom to catch hold of the creature's mind.

An errant thought issued from the naga, slight and ethereal, only to vanish. The channel created by the thought dried, emptied, and disappeared almost as quick as it formed. Another thought stuck in Meu's head, this time carrying Golifett's name, then another thought, and another—but as each channel formed, it faded and evaporated just as quick as it was established.

Meu wondered that a lasting connection with Golifett's mind would not hold. She wondered if the beast was too stupid. Then the opposite idea struck her and she thought perhaps the beast was too smart.

It’s none of that, Eikyale began.

A low rumbling chuckle issued from Golifett as he paused in his search and regarded her bite. "Have you poisoned me, cousin? Do you think to use your venom against me?” he asked with a tsk. “Oh, but such things rarely work on the naga. You should have talked to the men of Ebertin. They might have told you how they poisoned the aqueducts during the war. They killed fish, and frogs, and men by the thousands—but nary one naga died!” he chuckled. “You see, we are quite resistant to most toxins and venoms," he laughed as he continued to search for her, now in a reserved and patient manner.

He is quite right, Eikyale confided. We are not totally immune, but poisoning a naga is very difficult.

Perhaps if I bit him again? Meu asked.

Perhaps, Eikyale shrugged, unconvinced. Perhaps not.

It is all the same, Meu confessed. I am out of venom.

Golifett continued to search for Meu. He could not find her, mostly because he forgot to look up.

What of traumas? Meu asked. Are you immune to strangling?

Before Eikyale could answer, Meu dropped on Golifett's head. He tried to duck away, to throw her off; but she coiled tight about him, and grabbed the hand with the knife. She held the weapon away as she squeezed, and shifted her body to stone.

Golifett tried to pry her off. Precious seconds ticked by before he slipped the knife from one hand to the other. He sliced at Meu—only to find her hide was hard as rock. The blade slid off her coils, and caused Golifett to stab his own shoulder. Shocked, he dropped the knife and tried to pull her from his neck—but he could not. The naga slumped to the floor as blood flowed from his new wound.

Thank you, Eikyale said, since Meu did not kill the naga—though she thought she might. Instead, she slipped away from the naga and shifted into her human form. She located a length of rope that held one of the trunks closed—but could not get it free before Golifett began to wake. He lifted himself off the floor, groggy, and uncertain.

Meu grabbed the naga’s blade and smashed the handle against the beast’s head. Golifett flopped back to the floor, out cold. She returned to the rope and freed it of its previous duties, then wrapped the naga's hands and tail, and tied her best knot.

Still unconscious, Golifett laid bound on the floor. Meu took his blade and keys. She returned to the kitchen. She tried the keys one after another against the cage that held Claiten. The right one slipped into the lock. With a grin, Meu twisted the key. The lock popped with a satisfying click. She wrenched the lock off the door, flung the door open, and stepped into the cage. She cooed as she grabbed at the mountain of rags and flung them aside in search of the boy.

Claiten poked his head from the clothes, his eyes wide with fright. It took a second for Claiten to recognize Meu, and then he was puzzled and confused by her nakedness. He was not used to seeing others in the buff, and found this woman’s lack of clothes both intriguing and unsettling. He clung to the mountain of ruined garments as he looked about for the naga. "Are you caught too?" he asked and wondered if he would have to share a cage with his mother's naked friend. He blushed with embarrassment. He felt he would die of shame.

Meu frowned at Claiten's shyness and beckoned him to the front of the cage. If only she'd known her venom would not work on the naga. It did not help that the boy spoke only Ministrian, a language she was just beginning to learn.

“Where’re the others?” Claiten continued with his questions. "Where’s mum?"

Meu shrugged as she could only guess at his words. She stared into his eyes, and tried to speak in his tongue. "Druss Meu," she said and hoped her sounds were accurate. Human language felt garish and obnoxious in her throat. She did not like to speak it at all—but there was nothing else she could think to do—and so she repeated herself, “druss Meu.”

Claiten stared back into her eyes and immediately knew what she meant. “I trust you,” he said with a gulp, then took her hand, and scrambled out of the cage—as he clutched a ruined shirt to his nakedness.

Meu pulled him to the ramp. Claiten stared about the kitchen—so he didn't have to look at Meu in the buff. He saw the coins his mother had him carry: copper, silver, and gold; all lined up in neat stacks next to the empty purse. He pulled his hand from Meu, grabbed at the coins, and stuffed several handfuls back into the purse. With a scold, Meu grabbed his hand again and pulled him up the ramp. Metal will come and go, she said with her eyes. Let us be more concerned with our lives.

Golifett stirred, and despite his bonds, he managed to flop into the main room. He cursed and swore as he fought the knotted rope. He struggled in earnest—until he saw Meu with his dagger in hand come up the ramp from the kitchen. She pointed it at the beast as she stepped by with Claiten in tow.

The naga glared back and forth between the woman and the boy, confused to find only humans in his presence. Where was the beast that had strangled him? Where was the winged serpent? Who was this woman? Was she the one that seared his face?

Claiten held Meu's free hand with his own as he pulled her along. "Let's gooo…" he begged in a low whisper.

Meu glared at Golifett as Claiten pulled her past the beast. She hissed at the naga as she moved away, and he did nothing to encourage her return.

Meu flung aside the belled drapes, which chimed and rang with such a racket. With Claiten in tow, she fled into the darkness of Beletrain—but only for a dozen steps. After that, Meu dared not go any further, since she was blind as any other human in the dark of the dungeon. She stopped and turned to Claiten, wishing once more she’d saved her venom for the boy. "Druss Meu?" She whispered once more in broken Ministrian.

"I trust you," Claiten repeated and offered an anxious smile. "Take me to my mother," he said as a pit of fear grew in his stomach. A wetness clouded his vision—not that he could see in the pitch black darkness of Beletrain anyway.

Cursing and thrashing sounded from Golifett's quarters. At first, they were slight, but as his boldness returned, Golifett began to scream, long and loud.

"Get me out of here!" Claiten begged in a frantic whisper. Fear raged through the boy and threatened to overwhelm him. Tears flowed free. He felt as if Beletrain would wake with the naga's screams and slowly crush him. “Please!” he begged. “Please get me out of here!”

“Druss Meu,” she whispered once more and pressed the naga blade into Claiten’s hand. She took his wrist.

Claiten held the weapon and wondered why Meu gave it to him. If she meant for it to give him courage, it helped, but only a little.

Still thinking of the dagger, the boy was surprised to note that Meu no longer held his wrist. Instead, the boy felt the velvet softness of feathers brush his hand. Confused, he nearly jumped out of his skin as a scaly tail wrapped about his arm.

Revulsion washed through the child. He thought to swipe the tail with the dagger, to cut it deep. The tail was certainly thin enough, thin like a rope. He might be able to sever it—but another brush of feathers made him reconsider.

Scales and feathers.

Claiten remembered how Meu had shifted in his mother’s tent. Though it seemed to be ages ago, it was a little more than a week since he witnessed this astounding feat of magic. He wondered how he could forget that Meu was a shape-shifter, a skin-walker wyrm, as his mother had put it. At the time, the spectacle had staggered and frightened the boy. But that was also the one time he’d seen her make the transition. Since then, she'd always appeared human—and what with all the excitement of the last few days, he’d almost forgotten the winged serpent altogether! “I trust you,” he whispered to the creature.

Meu guided Claiten away from Golifett’s lair as the boy thought of the ribbon snakes he used to catch when he lived near Tikatis. Although the beasts struggled to get free, they rarely bit and could do no real harm when they did—unlike the spearheads he saw around Camp Calderhal, with their long fangs and noxious venom, that killed full grown men from time to time. Claiten might be repulsed by Meu’s scaly touch, but he realized that all serpents were not the same.

The boy grit his teeth as he shuffled along the unseen stone of Beletrain and tried to sense the darkness before him. Meu guided him, calm and pragmatic, with Eikyale still in her head to help. Slowly, the boy adjusted to her signals. They certainly got plenty of practice, since there were a good number of obstacles to navigate. Still, there were some areas that were smooth and clear. Claiten began to understand when he might rush, and when he needed to move slow and deliberate.

They continued, on and on. Claiten grew comfortable with Meu’s direction. He had a natural sense about the wyrm's signals. He slowed when she did, and hurried when she hurried him. He trusted her implicitly, and was a talented follow.

Meu dodged Claiten through several gates, which, thanks to his young age, he was able to squeeze through. They dodged around aqueducts, navigated drops, slopes, inclines, ramps, holes, bobbles, and catches. She took a slow deliberate pace when traps and other obstacles revealed themselves, and rushed him when the way was clear. Together they dodged naga, dodged traps set by the naga against the humans, dodged traps set by the humans against the naga, then dodged a few well armed human patrols, as they slowly made their way up from the depths of Beletrain.

Still, they had to get out. Well, good thing the boy had grabbed the coin after all! But explaining their nakedness would still be a chore—and if they came to the wrong door, whoever opened it might simply take their metal for themselves… so how to get out?

The wyrm and child came to a natural hollow of cave with a smooth floor and irregular walls. In one corner, where the floor sloped up to become the wall, a ragged drape hung in the way and blended quite well with the rock on which it rested. Meu could sense a current of air behind it. She poked behind the drape and discovered a thin tunnel.

This will be one of the ways my kind sneaks into the human city, Eikyale noted, his voice thin and hollow in her head. She could tell that his presence in her mind would not last much longer. Be careful, he warned. When such entrances are discovered, the humans don’t always block them. Often they simply trap them.

Meu proceeded slowly. The tunnel was drenched in the smell of naga, but also the stench of humans. Still, it didn’t smell of the muddled emotions a trap-setting adult might give off; clouded with revenge, resolve, pity, and exaltation. Instead, it was the grisly, oily smell of fear—of out and out terror—and nothing else. It was the smell of the abducted young. Meu pulled herself into the tunnel.

Claiten swept the heavy drape aside and felt the warm air of the surface swirl about its entrance. There was also a light, ever so vague, which showed him nothing but dirt. Still, a sense of relief flooded over the boy. Once again, he began to cry. With wet eyes, he pushed Meu into the tunnel and pressed her forward.

The tunnel curved back and forth. It was quite thin in several places, and a tight fit for the boy at such junctures—but Claiten was young, strong, and resolute. He pushed himself along, as she pulled. He dug the dagger into the earth, and also the purse full of coins. He lost several of the precious metal rounds, but kept a tight grip on most of it.

Foot after foot, Claiten followed the thin form of Meu. She wondered that the naga could fit at all, but their shoulders were narrow, and they had no hips. With a powerful tail to propel them, naga had an easy time climbing through such tunnels. It might be a tight fit, but the narrowness would keep any adult humans out of the tunnel altogether.

Around a bend, the bright light of an exit appeared. Claiten gasped when he saw it, and surged up the slope of the tunnel. He huffed and puffed as he pushed Meu ahead of him. Still, she was slow and deliberate in her advance. She sensed the possibility of traps at the entrance and thought it best not to abandon her caution just yet.

Finally, the tunnel came to an end. Meu peered out. The entrance was in a park, wedged between a stone and the trunk of a massive tree. There was a fair amount of undergrowth in front of it, which gave it camouflage. As she poked her head out of the tunnel, Meu realized the world had a red hew about it. The sun was near the horizon. Soon, it’d be dark.

Although there were people in the park, they were few and far between, and they all seemed to be in a rush. It'd been the better half of a day since Kezodel’s death. By now, most of the city must know of his demise—and the rest would certainly be feeling the uneasiness of their neighbors. The very order of things would be in question. For most, this was not a time to meander through a park, caught up in quiet contemplations, or lackadaisical musings. Still, it was a big city. There were always a few.

Behind her, Claiten clambered from the entrance. He stared and grinned at the world of the surface, happy to be able to see once more. For a time, he stared at the wyrm form of Meu and took comfort in her imposing figure. He stroked her fine scales as she rested in the tree above him. She was a friend no matter her shape, and the mystery of her powers gave the boy great confidence. He thought to crow, and even took a deep breath, then caught sight of Meu and suppressed the funny urge.

Though the two were hidden, Meu did not want to stay near the tunnel's entrance. She suspected that the naga did most of their creeping about at night, and the surface world would soon be dark. For a moment, the park was clear. Meu spread her wings and flew low over the grass. Claiten bolted from the hiding place and sprinted after the flying wyrm, with nothing but a ruined shirt tied about his waist.

As he ran, someone gave a startled yell. Claiten turned and saw an armed man on the path, some distance back.

Meu angled behind a tall clump of brush, and Claiten followed hot on her tail. The man disappeared as they rounded the vegetation. Meu veered toward a tall pine, pulled her wings in tight, and disappeared under the low boughs of the tree. There was nobody in view as Claiten dipped under the branches, and though the ground was packed with rude needles, he forced himself next to Meu’s slim form.

Claiten huffed as he huddled near the trunk of the tree, excited by his exertion, yet nervous that he should need to breathe so loudly. There was barely enough room for the young boy and the slender serpent under the tree. They held still as the man appeared. He jogged along as he looked this way and that. Although he passed a dozen feet from where they hid, he did not see Claiten or Meu huddled under the large pine.

The man muttered something as he passed, something in his Trohl tongue. Claiten remembered once more that he was in a foreign city and could not even talk to the inhabitants. Despite Meu's presence, he suddenly felt very much alone. He turned to see Meu's smiling face and realized that she was once more a naked human, as she stared back at the boy. "Druss Meu?" she asked him again.

Claiten wondered if it was the only phrase she spoke. Indeed, he'd never heard her speak at all! Until today, he'd thought she was a mute—much like the shaman. "I trust you," he nodded and gave a weak smile.

Meu smiled back at the boy. They could not continue without clothes, and she’d have an easier time gathering it if she went alone. Claiten saw this in her eyes and knew she was right. Although he did not want to separate, he also had little interest in running around with nothing but a ripped shirt tied about his waist. Although the park was clear once more, he could hear the bustle and press of people on a nearby street. What would the locals think of such a child with nothing but a dagger and a purse full of coin? If this was anything like Tikatis with his own people, well, most would simply take the money and blade for themselves, then push the boy into the gutter. Eventually the church would find him, whip him for his indecency, and take him to an orphanage, so he might live a hard life of labor, worship, and shame. Not knowing his options, Claiten vowed to stay under the tree until Meu returned.

Meu kissed Claiten's forehead and caressed his hair. "Druss Meu," she repeated, then summoned the shadows and shifted back into her serpent form.

Claiten stared after her as he laid on his bed of needles. "I trust you," he replied as she climbed to the top of the tree. "I trust you," he whispered as she spread her wings and flew away.

Night came on. Claiten dozed for a time, but the temperature continued to drop, and the cold eventually proved to be too much for the boy. Awake once more, his teeth chattered as he huddled under the pine and searched for any sign of Meu in the sky. He tried not to think of what he would do if she did not return. He did not think she would abandon him—but what if something happened to her? Fear played through his mind as Claiten considered the possibilities. What if Meu was spotted and killed? What if she was captured, injured, or if a thousand other things should happen that might cause her to be lost? What if she could not remember where he was? Cold and fear conspired against him, and Claiten began to shake. He could not stop. "Meu?" he whispered, but there was no reply. He called into the dark, again and again.

"Meu!”

“Meu?!”

“Meu!?"

A knot of worry caught in his belly as Claiten listened for any response. "MEU!" His hoarse whisper carried into the night.

A shadow shifted and Claiten held very still. Though they may be few and far between, there were undoubtedly others about. He realized it’d be best if he stopped calling. Who knew what might find him in this strange city if he continued to mew?

Instead, Claiten cried. He sobbed, and choked, and wept as quiet as he could, and thought it must be a time for tears. Thankfully the tears warmed him up and wore him out. He wondered that his sobs should heat him up and also flush the fear from his body.

Embers of resolve took light in his belly. Despite his straits, Claiten began to formulate a plan. He was alive, and if he should live until morning, he should be okay. When morning came, he would bury the blade and coin, excepting several pieces of silver. Then, with the light of morning, he’d go into the city and buy clothes and food. Once he had some clothes on his back and some meat in his belly, he could return for the remaining coin and blade. Then, dressed and with his resources about him, he’d begin his search for his mom.

As Claiten thought of his mom, tears overtook him once more. The last time he saw her, she was struggling through the underground city of the naga. If she wasn’t dead or captured by now, she was certainly hiding. Either way, how would he ever find her?

Once again, Claiten cried himself out. Exhausted and warmed by the effort of his sobs, he curled against the trunk of the tree and closed his eyes once more.

Claiten woke with a fright as something pushed its way under the boughs of the tree. Red curls were followed by Meu's smiling face as she tangled with the branches of the cedar. Best of all, she was fully dressed and had an arm full of clothes for the boy!

Meu pushed the clothes at Claiten. With a smile, he chirped as he slowly managed the task of dressing in the cramped space. The outfit was a bit big, but it was warm, and Meu remembered a belt so that his pants wouldn't fall. He thought it was a great comfort to be covered once again, then slipped the coin and blade into his pockets.

Meu also brought a long cloak. She forced her way under the boughs of the pine and settled next to the boy with the cloak pulled over them. It was still dark, and Meu hadn’t had any rest, so they huddled close. She kissed Claiten on the cheek and closed her eyes, as she nestled against him.

Claiten was surprised to find that Meu was cold to the touch. With the cloak and the clothing, the boy warmed quickly, and as he warmed, she warmed with him. No longer cold and alone, he settled into a deep sleep.

With sleep came dreams.

Claiten dreamed of strange and seductive women with serpentine qualities. There was danger all about them—but Claiten was no longer a mere boy. He was a strong and discerning man of talent, and he escaped these women one after another.

Still, the serpent women became more and more beguiling. Slowly, Claiten came to realize that one of these scheming women would eventually get him. He also realized not all of them were desolate. Many meant to improve him—and to be improved by him. They displayed an array of talents, proclivities, and abilities that complimented the boy's own. He realized it was a matter of giving in to the right one, and not being suckered by one of the vile spearheaded ladies. He stared about the ring of encroaching women, with their bright smiles and wind-tossed hair; and wondered which one he should choose. How might he know? Intrigued and excited, a haunting desire caught low and infused the boy’s body. He stretched out his hand to a lady with sky blue eyes, and long lustrous hair. She smiled and touched him.

As the dream woman touched him, Claiten thrilled and woke with a start. He squirmed as he found a restraining arm around him. Meu covered his mouth. Claiten stared into her eyes to find caution and worry. He turned to consider what she feared, and realized there was something else creeping about in the park.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 5.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Halfway across the city, Scurra slept at Fowler’s Auction; and as she slept, she suffered another one of her spells. In all ways, Scurra’s spells were the opposite of her brother’s. Where he seized and convulsed, causing himself undue damage, she often went slack. Also, as his visions were light and blessed, hers were dark and sinister. Her brother’s visions never repeated and were rarely prophetic; while her spells always seemed to be harbingers. Most often of all of her repeated dreams was the one she had where she was crawling through a pitch black labyrinth, as something sinister chased her—but this was not that dream.

During this spell, Scurra stood among her cousins and their new friends on a road that overlooked a placid lake. Across the lake were mountains, and above the mountains a storm brewed. Clouds boiled and spilled across the lake. The breeze picked up and became a steady wind, then increased to became a raging gale. Scurra stared on, assured that something terrible was coming her way—and knowing she was unable to stop it.

And what of her friends? They were fast asleep. She shouted—but it was too late. Dots appeared before the storm; a few at first, then a dozen, and finally scores.

Birds?

Crows.

Hundreds, if not thousands of crows raced before the building storm. They swooped and dove and shot past Scurra as they fled upon the howling winds. Terror danced in their coal-black eyes as the rooks raced on—and as they shot past, they called to her.

"Run!" they screeched with a thousand voices. "Death comes for us all!”

Before she could do anything about it, the storm was upon her. The wind and rain stung as it tore at her skin. Scurra wailed—though she could not hear herself above the gale.

Lightning danced. A slender finger of raw power stretched from the clouds and slammed into the Jindleyak woman.

With a jolt, Scurra woke in a cold sweat. Her heart raced as she remembered the rude details of her harried dream. She wondered, even prayed, that it was just a nightmare—though she knew better.

Laying next to her, the priestess squirmed and huffed her disappointment at being disturbed. Evereste also fussed and squawked with disapproval. Even the smoosh-faced girl that slept in a chair at the far end of the room lifted her head, to see what the commotion was all about.

“What’s wrong?” Fowler’s second daughter asked.

“Nothing,” Scurra said.

They had arrived late and put Elpis in a bed almost immediately; he’d lost so much blood. The father was there to start, but left to seek help from a local doctor. Wenifas was barely standing as she hugged her small child. Evereste fussed. She was cranky for being held so close for so long, and also for a lack of food. The priestess put Evereste on the floor, and the auction keeper’s daughters were nice enough to change her diaper and get her some milk. At first, Scurra didn’t want to stay—but what could she do? Elpis was out and Wenifas wasn’t far behind. The daughters were kind…

“Where’s your father?” She asked as she stood, and tried to shake off the nightmare.

The smoosh-faced girl rolled her shoulders and tilted her head to the floor. “He’s still out,” she admitted.

“How far is this doctor?” Scurra replied.

The girl continued to stare at the floor.

Scurra stood and stepped to the door, intent on seeing her cousin.

Nervous, Fowler’s daughter stood and followed her down the hall. “Where are you going?”

Scurra ignored the girl as she stepped down the hall, then pushed her way into the room where Elpis slept. She leaned over her unconscious cousin. “Hey there,” she said as she put a hand on his cheek.

Elpis startled awake, but relaxed as he glanced through his good eye and saw who stood over him. “Hey, Scurra.”

“How are you feeling?” she asked as she examined his bandages.

“Like someone ripped my heart out, then punched me in the face for good measure,” Elpis answered with a heavy sigh.

“That’s about how it went,” Scurra noted. “At least someone did a bang up job on your bandages. We can be glad of that.”

“Perhaps,” Elpis shrugged. “Whoever did ‘em was a might handsy. I had quite the time trying to convince ‘er there were no troubles below the belt.”

Scurra leaned in close. “I don’t trust these people,” she said in a whisper.

“Just for hands?” Elpis frowned. “Or do you got other concerns?”

“The father left as soon as we got here. Said he was going to get a doctor. Still ain’t back.”

“How long?”

“Several hours?” Scurra shrugged. “Not sure entirely,” she frowned. “Nodded off for a bit.”

“The sooner we go, the sooner we get to the House of Leaves,” Elpis stated. “Once we get there, we can rest all we like.”

“Agreed,” Scurra said. “All right, then. I’m gonna help you up and we’re getting the hell out of here.”

“Alright,” Elpis sighed, pale and grim, but determined. “Let’s do this.”

Scurra took his good arm and helped him sit up.

The smoosh-faced girl realized what was happening. “You can’t leave!” she protested.

Scurra continued to help her cousin out of bed. “We thank you for your hospitality,” she replied. “But it is time for us to go.”

“Go?! It’s the middle of the night and he needs rest,” their host complained. “You should at least wait until father returns!”

Scurra paused and stared at the girl, “and when will that be?”

The girl said nothing.

“Right,” Scurra said as she helped Elpis get his pack over his good shoulder.

Arms akimbo, Fowler’s daughter frowned as she blocked the door. “Father won’t like this.”

Scurra glared. “Move,” she ordered.

With a whine, the wide-eyed girl stepped out of the room. “What are you doing?!” she yelled, in an effort to wake the house, as she retreated into the hall. “You can’t be leaving! It’s the middle of the night!”

Scurra ignored her. She marched down the hall, opened the door to the room where Wenifas still slept, and called into the dark. “Get up. Get your baby. We’re leaving,” she ordered.

Wenifas grumbled. “But I just got to sleep…” she rubbed her face.

“It’s either you get up and come with us, or you stay here, and good luck to you,” Scurra said.

“Your crazy, you know that!” the smoosh-faced daughter called from the end of the hall. “It’s the middle of the night! Where will you go?!”

Another daughter poked her head out of her room. “What are you doing?!” she repeated. “Where are you going?!”

Alarmed by the rising commotion and Scurra’s sinister tone, Wenifas shed her covers, grabbed the shaman’s cloak and her bag, then scooped Evereste out of the bed.

Scurra pointed to the door. “Open it and step aside,” she commanded Fowler’s daughter.

By now, all four of Fowler’s girls stood in the hall and spoke over each other. “You should stay!” “You need rest!” “Why won’t you stay?!” “Father will be angry if you leave!”

Scurra and Elpis ignored them as they stepped from the house. Wenifas apologized, though she moved quick to follow the Jindleyak cousins as they hurried down the street. As they walked, Scurra made a point of jostling her bow.

The four daughters stood, and held a makeshift council at the open door. “What are we going to do?” “Father isn’t going to like this...” “They should have stayed!” “One of us is going to have to follow…”

“Well,” the oldest turned to the two youngest. “Go pick stones.”

The youngest returned. “Which color?” she asked and held out her fist.

The third also put out her hand.

The eldest tapped the hand of the third and said, “red.”

The third opened her hand and revealed a red stone. She gave the oldest a big smile and a high five, then handed the stone to the youngest.

For a second, the youngest put the stones behind her back, then held her hands out.

“Red,” the smoosh-faced girl claimed and touched the youngest girl’s left hand. The youngest opened her hands to reveal the red stone in the right hand and a luminescent white crystal in the left. The wind went out of the smoosh-faced girl as she conceded.

“Well?!” The eldest girl stared. “You better go!”

With a sigh, and slowly at first, the smoosh-faced girl slunk into the night.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 5.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Ever so gently, Meu shook Claiten awake.

As the boy came to, he muttered something, some part of a conversation, some part of his dream. Meu clapped a hand over his mouth. With fear in her eyes, she pointed through the boughs of the pine.

Claiten looked over the park and noted several forms as they moved about in the dark. Immediately, he knew what they were: naga.

They had weapons aplenty. One had a bandage wrapped about half his face, and another on the opposite shoulder. Panic caught in the boy's chest—and also a fury. For a split second, he thought to rush out on the grass, crow his defiance, and attack the naga with its own knife!

Yet, he knew such an action would only result in his own destruction. Instead, he watched the naga as they crept through the park and tried to keep the rising tide of dread from flooding him.

Meu backed out from under the tree and pulled Claiten out after her. Standing, she took the boy’s hand, and they bolted through the park—but they didn’t get far before the boy’s foot snagged a root. As he fell, he threw the bag of coins, which rang like a hundred chimes.

The naga turned toward the noise. The chase was on!

Claiten gasped and cursed. He jumped to his feet and grabbed the purse—abandoning the rounds that spilled. He caught Meu’s hand and on they ran! They crossed a street and disappeared among a row of houses into the city proper.

As they took their second turn, Claiten glanced back. He couldn’t see their pursuers. Neither could he hear them—though he swore he could feel them…

After several blocks, Meu and Claiten came to an inn with the front lights still burning. Meu smiled and pulled Claiten into the building. There were two men behind a high counter, standing several feet over the entrance. One was massive, though he smiled amiably. He was also young enough to blush when Meu gave him a wink. The other was an older gentleman, kindly and well mannered as he stared at Meu, Claiten, and the dirt on their clothes. Claiten couldn’t tell what the old man thought, and his steady gaze unnerved the boy.

For several seconds, the old man and Meu simply stared at each other—which confused both Claiten and the large young guard that protected the entrance to the beautiful inn. Finally, the old man broke the silence, as if answering a bevy of questions that Meu must have asked in some invisible way. Hey spoke congenially, then waited while Meu stared at Claiten. The old man also began to stare at Claiten—so Claiten stared back at the old man.

Why were they staring?

With a grin, and a tilt of her head, Meu poked Claiten’s pocket, about where' he’d tucked the coins. She stared in his eyes and he realized she wanted him to pay the man. He relaxed and pulled several coins out of his pocket, then held them in his hand that Meu might take what she needed.

Meu pushed aside the larger coins and selected the smallest gold coin among them, then handed the single coin to the clerk. With a gracious smile, the clerk took the coin and gave a congenial bow, then turned to a board with keys hanging from it. He selected one from the top row, turned and gave it to Meu. He pointed up the stairs and said, “Go to the top. The Daisy Suite.” He turned and pointed down the hall, “and that is the way to the dining room.”

Claiten didn’t understand any of this—but when she turned toward the dining room, he did too. There was conversation and the occasional clank of dishes down the hall. Meu turned to the boy. She stuck her fingers to her mouth and made a biting motion. Suddenly aware that he was quite ravenous, Claiten gave an emphatic nod. With a glance at the front door, Meu took Claiten's hand and led the boy into the common room.

The large room was nearly empty, except for several tables near the bar which were occupied by large, intimidating, and well-armed men—as they laughed and sang and spilled their beers. Indeed, it didn’t register with the boy that it should be weird to find so many Ministrian shocktroops in the room. Instead, it seemed downright normal and settled the boy’s jangled nerves. He knew how to behave around these men.

A half dozen wenches encouraged the intemperance of the men and tried to contain their mess simultaneously. The roar of the party was dulled by the newcomers—but as the young boy and woman only gave them a slight nod, and the faintest touch of a smile, the party remembered itself.

One of the wenches peeled away from the party and approached. “Hi there…” she began, then simply stared at Meu attentively. They stared for several seconds, then the wench smiled and said something that sounded an awful lot like, “sure thang, sweetie!”

She was halfway to the kitchen, when a hefty voice called from the entrance. It was the young guard, and it was a sound of alarm! Once again, the party was shocked to a halt, only this time it did not resume. Instead, the gathering of Ministrian shocktroops broke into a flood of drunken soldiers, half out of their shirts, as they tumbled into the hall. They grabbed anything handy as they stumbled and swaggered and swore at the door.

The yelling and calls of alarm only increased. More and more people came down the stairs, and for a time, Meu and Claiten sat in the corner and wondered at what was happening. They had a good idea that it involved nagas, but beyond that…

Although most the men were military, they were all officers of either rank or money—and often both. For fighting men, they tended to be rather round and soft—yet they were still men, bolstered alcohol and number. The commotion swelled as it drifted out onto the streets—but only for a few minutes, after which they started to return to the bar, their drinks, and the startled wenches. They told of a couple naga had poked their heads in the door, as they swore and complained about the beasts.

Among the officers was a Grandus. He wore the pin of a Baradha. Claiten didn’t knew all that it meant—indeed, he didn’t even know the word for it—but he knew that the man was powerful. With an air of self-importance and a puffed-up demeanor, the Grandus approached Meu, intent on assuaging any fear caused by the alarm.

He was kind enough, as he sat and stared at the strange woman. There was a one-sided conversation were only he spoke. He was quite boisterous, as if Meu engaged in sparkling and lively conversation. Instead, she simply sat, smiled, and made eyes with the man—all to the amazement of the others.

Sitting in the large dining room, Claiten felt safe as the officer began to flirt with Meu in a shameless manner. It was the sort of flattery men gave to his mother when they petitioned for her attentions, so it made Claiten squeamish in a manner, but also seemed rather normal, even a bit fascinating after his dream—and it was certainly much better than running from naga! He breathed easy as he stared at the other men all about the room. They were armed to the teeth, and he smiled as he listened to their familiar braggadocio. Indeed, the conversation seemed so ordinary that Claiten forgot himself and called the Grandus on one of his bluffs, “Why did the dragon not eat you?! Why did it only want a conversation?!” the young boy asked in perfectly clear Ministrian.

The Grandus stared at him in amazement. Meu caught Claiten’s eye, and gave him a glance that spoke volumes. Careful now, she seemed to say, and reminded him of the long day they’d had.

Claiten recalled the events of the previous day. He remembered the shaman, the giant judge, the meteor, the collapsing roof, the ensuing confusion. He thought he should always remember it all as it happened—and yet his day had spiraled so completely out of control that he had forgotten all of it!

Among the details of yesterday, Claiten remembered the Jay, Meriona, as she snapped at his mother. He realized among the consequences of the long hard day was the fact that his kind was no longer his own. His mother was banished—and since he would be with his mother, he must consider himself banished with her.

Claiten frowned as he remembered his troubles, then turned away from Meu. Confused, tired, and sullen, he stared at his plate as it was delivered. For a minute, he only picked at his breakfast—until his body remembered its hunger. Then he ignored Meu and her company as he gorged on the strange delicacies set before him.

With the boy occupied, Meu was able to brush past his indiscretion. Indeed, the Grandus was little concerned with the boy. No. He was far to enraptured by this elegant and enchanting woman that sat before him.

Claiten ate, and as he was satiated, a fatigue overcame him like one he'd rarely known. His head lulled toward the table and his eyes begged to close. Several times he thought to lay his cheek on the soft remains of a sweet spongy bread; unconcerned that they were drenched in a sticky syrup.

Aware that the boy might fall asleep with his face in his plate, Meu gathered Claiten into her arms, left several coins on the table, then half-carried the groggy boy through the halls of the hotel as the Grandus followed them to their room. Meu thanked the Grandus for his escort, and promised to find him the next night, then proceeded to lock him out. Finally, she gave a silent prayer and thanked Acad for a sturdy lock and a thick door.

The room was large, although there was only one bed in the suite. Meu pulled back the covers and stripped Claiten down to his skivvies, then slid out of her sundress. He turned away, and when he looked back at her, he was grateful, and yet strangely disappointed to see that she was in her serpent form.

As the boy drifted toward sleep, he felt Meu's scales press against him. He wrapped an arm around the thin coils of her tail, then quickly lapsed into a deep sound sleep. As he slept, the dreams of serpent women returned once more—but this time Claiten knew he would not escape them—nor did he intend to.

The House of Leaves

Polished — 24m06s — 2023/12/12

In the year 1122, the judge clerics began recording the number of Ebertin’s people killed or abducted by naga, and also the number of naga killed by the people. In that first year of record, there were 181 humans killed or abducted by naga, and there were 23 naga killed by men. In 1336, the last year for which there are numbers, there were 1427 men killed or abducted by naga, and 393 naga killed by the people. Both these numbers may seem dramatically increased, but one must remember that there are far more people in Ebertin these days, and it is believed that there are far more naga in Beletrain—so it is not surprising that there is such an increase in losses on both sides.

Indeed, the current marks may look high when compared to that first year, but over the centuries the numbers have seen much greater peaks. For example, in the year 1306, the judge clerics recorded the abduction of 6,438 of the people, of which most were children; and in the year 1127, a total of 25,423 were killed or abducted, most of whom died during the Long Night—as the fourth of Somerlie turned to the fifth. This tragic battle is also known as the Revealing, the First Fight, and the Night of the Fang—among other titles given by the various militias that fought in the action.

The years 1309 and 1310 saw the most naga die by human hands, as the Two-Year War, also called the Low Burning culminated in 12,190 naga deaths in the first year, and 13,761 naga deaths the second. This action involved 68 militias and over 150,000 men, of which a total of 17,753 died—though their sacrifice more than doubled the territory that men controlled under the city.

Still, these large numbers are dwarfed by the greatest calamity of this long running conflict. In 1189, members of the Ebon Star Militia poisoned several of the underground waterways, aqueducts, and canals. At the time, little was known of the complex waterworks that ran through Beletrain—indeed, little is still known—though we know far more than before. Most men dared not mess with the miraculous system, as it feeds both cities clean water and also removes their wastes—yet the Ebon Star proceeded with the poisoning anyway. The hope was to cripple the naga—but it is believed that the action killed almost exclusively humans. According to the judge clerics 108,242 people—nearly one in every ten people of the great city—died as a result of the ‘Bad Drink’, as the incident is commonly called. Once their actions came to light, the Ebon Star militia was forced to disband after Muaha Dalinfoers declared them negligent in the extreme. Sixteen men and women were hanged for their part in the crime, and another thirty-one suffered years of imprisonment.

— On the Bloody Shores of Kundilae: A History of the Long War between the Men of Ebertin and the Naga of Beletrain, by Wybrow the Wanderer. Page 32

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 6.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

The first night at the House of Leaves, Baet witnessed the brothers Homoth and Komotz play cards as they maintained the first watch. He studied the game, fascinated by the strange style of their cards, and itched his palms. The second night, the brothers played several games against Baet, who proved to be a fast learner. The third night, the brothers broke out the copper and began to play each other for money. They tried to tempt Baet into playing with them again, but this time he refused.

On his way to bed, Toar happened past the friendly game, and since he could interpret for the group, the brothers asked why the guard refused to play for mere copper. “You must remember,” Toar replied for Baet. “We were quite recently prisoners, and all our stuff was taken, including our money,” he shrugged. “He has nothing to bet.”

Homoth and Komotz stared at each other for a long second, surprised that they had not realized this on their own. With a nod, Komotz pushed a small stack of copper at the Saot. “It shall be quicker for me to take money from two men instead of one," he smiled.

“Well I simply have too much of it!" Homoth declared and pushed more copper bits toward Baet.

The two small piles stared at the Saot, and a stupid grin spread across his face. Figuring the hours would be long and tedious if he only watched the game from afar—and since the brothers made such a demonstration of wanting him to play—he allowed himself to be persuaded. Besides, it was just a few copper!

The three men whiled away the hours as they played card games that were new to Baet—yet, the Saot was a consummate gambler, and he quickly divined the mechanics of their foreign games. With Lady Luck on his side, Baet lost little and gained a great deal. He collected bits and bots from the generous brothers as they scratched their heads in disbelief and introduced the Saot to some of their favorite curse words.

But the games would not last forever. Deep into the fourth night, as the next guard approached, the front door smashed open. Aim appeared with Elpis over one shoulder and Wenifas leaning on the other. “Coming through!” he bellowed as he stepped into the room, and immediately handed the priestess off to the first available hands, those that belonged to Baet.

The Saot guard stared at the entrancing foreigner, her face a mask of trepidation and askance, as she held a fussing and irritable Evereste. The beautiful priestess was not her usual dour self, but seemed sapped and completely lost. Baet took her in hand, and Wenifas was all too happy to accept his support, a fact that both excited and concerned the guard. With a flutter in his heart, Baet led her to a couch and had her sit.

Wenifas flounced on the couch and almost spilled her babe. She was covered in grime, her hair was a tangle, and her right hand was wrapped in a soiled bandage. She had developed quite a smell as she hushed her daughter. She moaned and sighed as she settled against the cushions of the couch—and even though it came from exhaustion and frustration, Baet found the sounds to be quite erotic.

The house woke and bodies started to pour down the stairs—but not before Scurra, Duboha, and Apulton entered the house. Apulton closed and secured the door behind them, then Aim proceeded up the stairs with a heavily bandaged Elpis on his shoulder—as he struggled against the rush of traffic coming down the stairs.

Celesi appeared among the others. “Weni!” she called, then ran down and joined the priestess on the couch. She wrapped the older lady in a hug.

“Oh!” the priestess said, and slowly put a reciprocating arm around Celesi. “I missed you too,” she squawked, and looked as if she would cry.

Evereste squirmed and chirped. Celesi frowned as Wenifas hushed her child once more, then leaned back on the couch, all but defeated. Celesi took hold of the child and gingerly pulled the girl from the priestess.

Wenifas tried to protest.

“My sweet sister, you must relax,” Celesi kissed the priestess as she took possession of the babe. "We can all see that you have suffered something dreadful, and I have had too much time to rest! Let me see to your child. I shall care for her as if she were my own.”

Wenifas relinquished Evereste. “She needs changed,” the priestess confessed. “She needs food.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I’ve had nothing to give her,” she collapsed back into the couch.

Celesi soothed Wenifas and stroked her hair. “I will see that she is tended. Sit, relax, and know that we are here for you.”

“Where's Meu?” Wenifas asked.

Celesi frowned and shook her head. “She is not among us,” she said, as there was still no sign of the old slender redhead.

Wenifas buried her face in Celesi’s shoulder, and began to bawl. “There are so many of us missing!”

Celesi turned toward Baet with a critical eye. “Get some food,” she ordered the myopic guard. “Get fruit and soft things for the baby.”

More than happy to be of assistance, Baet went into the kitchen and searched through the pantry and chill box. He assembled a plate of berries, a soft pear, milk, honey, and a bit of cheese; the light sort of fare he preferred when he was sick. He returned as Celesi finished with the child's diaper. Wenifas was slumped to the side, her eyes closed as she breathed even. Was the beauty asleep so soon?

Celesi took the plate from Baet with one hand and gave him the spent diaper with the other. “Thank you,” she said with a smile, as she figured he should be encouraged for his good behavior. Then, she forgot about him and turned her attention back to Evereste.

“Thank Jeiju!” Traust stated as he arrived in the room, with the duke and his captain behind him. He was all too happy to see Scurra and Wenifas; and to know that Elpis was also home. They may be in a sore condition—especially Elpis—but that was much preferred to being lost. “Where have you been?!” He asked his cousin, Scurra. “We heard of what happened to Yandira, and we feared the worst…”

“Yes,” Scurra began. “We were ambushed at the Lady’s estate. We fought our way back to the road—but during the fracas, Elpis was struck. It was a shallow strike, but it nicked the artery, and he bled something fierce. For a time I thought he'd bleed out—but he humped that hill,” she continued. “Anyway, we were chased from the Lady's land and managed to lose them as we approached the slant streets.”

Traust frowned. “We were right to think they would go after our friends—but I did not expect them to be so immediate! I should not have sent so few to go to the Lady's house. Then we may not have lost her.”

Scurra shook her head. “Even if we all went, it wouldn’t have been enough. There were at least fifty soldiers there.” She glanced about the room, then asked her own question. “Have you seen the wanted posters?”

“Wanted posters?” Traust began. “I haven’t been off the property since we arrived.”

Scurra shrugged. “We saw a couple yesterday though I cannot say they look much like us.”

“What are we worth?” Andrus asked.

“You’re a hundred chit,” she informed.

Andrus frowned. “A hundred chit barely seems worth it.”

“The ones they really want are the foreign duke, and my brother,” Scurra said. “It seems to be accepted that they orchestrated Kezodel's death. The two are worth five thousand chabling a piece.”

That impressed the room—at least, most of it. “It's fake money, no matter the amount,” Andrus snorted, “It's like they don't really want to catch us at all.”

“Even if their money is a lie, it is a generally accepted lie,” Traust noted. “And since it is accepted, five thousand chabling would see a frugal man through many years. But enough of the price on our heads,” he continued. “You were running from Degorouth and Ministrians near the slant streets. It took you four days to get from there to here?”

Scurra gave a nod and continued with her story. “We got away, but we were going the wrong direction. We decided to backtrack through the tunnels of Beletrain—which got us away from the Degorouth and Ministrians—but brought us other problems.”

“No!” Homoth's eyes grew wide at the suggestion. “You saw a naga!?”

Scurra bobbled her head about, shaking and nodding all at once. “I wouldn't say I saw it,” Scurra admitted, “But we certainly had a run-in with one of the bastards.” She leaned close to Traust. “You'll notice the priestess is missing her boy,” she whispered.

Celesi's eyes went wide as she heard the hushed statement. She glanced about room—though she knew she would not find the lad. No wonder Wenifas was so distressed! The others shook their heads. Celesi thanked their stars that Wenifas was oblivious to the conversation. With a lump in her throat, Celesi cradled Evereste a little bit tighter.

“Well, there is some good news,” Traust replied. “Your brother is awake—or should I say he is out of his coma. How he sleeps through all this noise is beyond me.”

Scurra gave a nod. “If he is well, then we should wake him. I would like him to see Elpis.”

Traust shrugged. “He’s sore with scarring about his face and chest, and his hands are as thin as twigs. Saleos can see to Elpis—unless you think it is truly necessary to bother the shaman.”

“If Saleos is up to the task, I suppose we could leave it there,” Scurra replied. “Either way, I should like him to see after the priestess. She’s—well—its mostly emotional, but someone should take a look at her hand too.”

“It’s an awful lot for one man,” Apulton said as he stood. “Perhaps I should wake the shaman after all?” With a nod from Traust, Apulton proceeded to take the stairs two at a time.

“Figures you'd be the one to see a naga,” Homoth complained.

“The naga,” Scurra repeated. “Damned thing tried to take my head off with a mallet! I just heard it and managed to dodge—but I lost my footing and fell. Lucky for me, the beast turned on the others, or I’d be dead. Still, it was not so lucky for the others. The beast was more than a match for Elpis since our cousin has just the one good arm. Then the beast turned on the priestess,” she continued. “The priestess saved us all. She found a black powder bomb in the folds of my brother's cloak and jammed it into the naga’s face—which is how she managed to burn up her hand.”

“So the beast screamed and disappeared back into the murk with it’s face on fire—but it had sense enough to take the boy with it,” Scurra hanged her head. “What were we to do? We could not search for him,” she began to choke up. “After the naga, I wrapped another rag around Elpis, and we limped for the exit at full hobble,” she shook her head. “We came out of the tunnels at Fowler's Auction. Fowler promised to send word and asked that we stay until you could come get us—I assume you heard nothing from the man?”

“Not a peep,” Duboha confirmed. “We received no word from anyone, and we’ve checked all our drops religiously.”

Scurra huffed. “At first, I thought nothing was wrong at Fowler’s and managed to sleep for a bit. Then I suffered a nightmare, and when I woke, I could not shake a sense of dread—so we left and made for the apartment in Peverly. There was no sight or sound of the Ladies of the Daffodil, still we stayed there until noon—which was the only decent sleep I’ve had in days. Last night, we stayed in some ditch among the homeless, then continued along our way as the sun came up. About sundown, your sneaks found us down by the Church of the Muaha Dalinfoers.”

“That’s a slow trek indeed,” Andrus noted.

Scurra snorted. “I had to drag a half dead man and escort a woman lost in her sorrows. Each time I turned around, the priestess was wandering off and Elpis was doing his best to die on me! We were forced to take a lot of breaks, and this city is way too big!” she finished with a dramatic wave. Her anger didn't last. It melted into a smile as she stared at the worried faces all about. “By Jeiju, it's good to be among friends!” She said as she hugged them one and all. “I’m gonna sleep well tonight!” she grinned.

Apulton returned, and since there was a lull in conversation, he spoke. “Your brother will be down in a bit. He means to see Elpis, and he says he has something for the priestess if she should want it.”

Celesi turned to Baet, who was oblivious to the conversation since it was all in Trohl—until the apprentice Jay turned to him and spoke in Ministrian. “Will you see the lady up to my room?”

Baet nodded and gently picked Wenifas off the couch. To the Saot's delight, she laid her head against his shoulder. He carried the priestess up the stairs as the others continued to converse. Despite the dirt and wear of her misadventures, she was still a sight to see, and since the babe was changed, she didn't smell near as much as before. His heart soared.

At the end of the hall, Baet shifted Wenifas so he might open the door—and felt a familiar lump press against his chest. it was Cloud Breaker! He knew it immediately!

The musket was tucked somewhere among the folds of the shaman’s cloak, as the cloak was wrapped about the priestess. Baet glanced down the hall. Sure that they were alone, he shifted the woman in his arms and felt about her person, in hopes that he might retrieve his weapon. With a moan and a whimper, Wenifas protested his touch. Baet shushed her as he continued to dig about the layers of her clothes.

The door across the hall popped open. Krumpus stepped from his room looking haggard and worn. The angry scar about his face and neck no longer smoldered as it had in the Great Court—but it still added a ghoulish element to his scowl—as he noted the Saot’s hand buried in the priestess' clothing.

Chagrined, Baet pulled his hand out from under the folds of the cloak. “It's not what you think!” he defended with the offending arm in the air.

With a snort, Krumpus grabbed the man’s ear; then pulled Baet into his room and ordered him to set the lady on the bed. Once the priestess was down, Krumpus pushed Baet out of the room and down the stairs, all while the guard protested his innocence.

Pursuit

Polished 7.1 — 15m35s — 2023/12/14

Polished the whole shebang — 1h05m44s — 2023/12/18

The first night after his death, Brankellus thought to sleep. He found a hollow, and since he was neither warm nor cold, he laid against the trunk of a tree and closed his eyes. Since the time of his death, a deep and profound tiredness had washed over his spirit, and he hoped to cure his exhaustion in the way he always had. He settled among the debris of the forest, rested his head, and tried to relax. He listened to his breath as the night sounds drifted in the background and hoped for sleep—but the cool night air chilled him to the edge of chattering, and the pressure of the small needles under him never let up.

Despite his irritations, Brankellus persisted to try and sleep. After a short time, his hands and feet shook—almost of their own accord—as a jitteriness overcame him. The scent of death, both rancid and sour, gathered and grew in his mouth. He felt like he’d struggled to sleep for days—struggled for what felt like an eternity—but it was just a few hours. Finally, he realized there would be no sleep. In a fit of disgust, he gave up on rest. He rolled to his knees and hands, got up on his feet—grunted with the effort of standing fairly straight-ish—then, grudgingly, trundled back out into the road. He concluded there was only one rest for the dead; the eternal rest, and though he knew how to enter that blissful realm, he was unwilling to take that step. Not yet, anyway. Not until he caught his quarry.

Brankellus sloughed along the road as the stars continued their call. The lights overhead lit the faintest hope deep in the dead man’s chest. They pricked at his heart, as they stared down from above, and begged him to take his eternal sleep—for they were the way home. All the spirit had to do was look up and let them take him.

But he would not.

On and on, he trudged. The night slipped away and the sun crept over the horizon once more. The drudgery of the day was no less and no more than the torture of the night. He felt he should be strong and capable of a steady march; but his pains and ailments shifted and overlapped, always causing his gait to be slow and jumbled. If it was not the heat of the day, then some strange nausea overcame him, or an extreme exhaustion that sunk bone deep. If not one of these calamities, then he was limp with a sore foot—or perhaps his breath would catch, and he’d struggle for air, gasping and hacking as it finally came. His discomforts and aggravations were as numerous as they were arbitrary.

Sometimes his weakness completely overcame him. He’d stumble and pitch into the dirt. There, he’d lie for several minutes, doing nothing, overcome and given the respite of knowing he’d done all he could do. Then, the slow creep of the earth came upon him. He remembered the deep chill of the night, as he itched and burned with vengeance. Teeth clattering, he grumbled to his feet, and shuffled after the scent of his enemy once more.

In such a manner, Brankellus drifted south and east through the forests, blessed with a sixth sense for his prey. He did not understand the sensation, only that he was called south and east, as if by the voice of a sad and suffering people. He imagined these cries came from the many victims of Petaerus—and others of his ilk. These dirges helped fuel his rage as they pulled him after his prey.

The days blurred together. How long was Brankellus on the road before he arrived at the north wall of Rynth Falls? Was it two days, or a week? Once, in his living years, he’d visited the small Trohl settlement—but the little town was not as he remembered it—mostly because Rynth Falls was no longer little. The wall was built up, more than double what it was before, and the buildings beyond it were much taller.

Even at its old height, Brankellus would not have been able to pass the wall, and so he trudged along the rough stone exterior until he found a small service gate, then waited. Sooner or later, the door would swing open. A scout, a hunter, or perhaps some spy would come scurrying out…

Impatiently, Brankellus waited. He itched as he tugged at the door with no effect at all. He paced and howled and cursed as his impatience grew. He convulsed and shook as his body demanded it return to the relative comfort of his shambling pursuit. It was late—or rather early—and he was forced to stand and wait at the wall for what felt like several hours—before the door finally opened.

Eventually, the door did open.

Brankellus stepped into the doorway, and the first man out stepped right through him. The man slowed and made a face as the other two rushed past. The first man turned all about, trying to find the source of the funk that crept across his senses.

“What is it?” the second said.

By this time, the ghost of Brankellus was several steps inside, and the first man was unable to find the creep that had bothered his so. He shrugged. “It was like the reek of a thousand dead,” he began, obviously bothered. “It was like the smell of Tobias, after he ate that questionable fish he caught about a week back.”

“Keep your piece, brother, before I make you eat it!” the third man, Tobias, threatened—as the second man laughed, clapped the other two on their shoulders, and led them into the forest.

Brankellus lurched into the city. Beyond the unfamiliar wall, the town was much bigger and more established than he remembered. The houses were larger and pressed close together. Now their were no fields and few gardens. The only open space was the parade grounds at the far edge of the city.

The parade grounds were the size of several city blocks and cleared down to the very rock. There were a few triage tents, empty and all but disassembled, before the rock gave way to open air and several hundred feet of vertical drop. Cutting through the middle of the parade grounds, the Kundilae River swept off the cliff, and soared out over the valley below—the falls for which the town was named. Near the edge of the cliff, the locals had built an ingenious bridge with a protruding platform, so they might look out over the plains below.

Standing at the edge of the cliff, Brankellus looked down on the land below, dotted with more human dwellings and another wall, before giving way to a forested wilderness checkered with large swaths of chest high grasses. Past the edge of his vision was the strange Noeth lands of the Saot.

Brankellus turned to the waters of the Kundilae River as it soared out into open air. The roaring plume of the river turned to thin ropes as it fell. These ropes of water frayed, tattered and blew in the wind, as they drifted to the earth—mostly to falling in a great pool—and once gathered, twisting back and forth across the Noeth Plains. Around this pool, the second part of the old town stretched out, larger than Brankellus remembered. He stared at the sprawl of new buildings, another wall, and a flood of tents that stretched into the patchy forest beyond.

Brankellus was drawn to the tents. He was suddenly quite certain that Petaerus was among those tents. He wasn’t sure how he knew—but he knew it all the same. He turned, trying to remember where he would find the road leading down. He turned in circles about the parade grounds and was distracted by the ghosts of those that had picnicked here and frolicked with their families. At one time or another, most of them approached the edge, so they might look out at forever. Some of the revelers stepped so close that Brankellus could not believe it! A few dangled their feet, legs, hands, and even their heads over the edge! He could hardly stand to see these others acting so cavalier around such a mighty drop—especially the children! It made his hair stand on end and gave him a bad case of nerves.

But that was in the past. That was when he’d visited as a living man. Now things were different. In the dead of night, there was no one else around, just Brankellus, as he stepped along the rock—until there was nothing but air before him. And what if he should fall? Was he not already dead? It was not as if a fall could kill him—or so he thought. He knew Petaerus was below, close at hand, among the many tents beyond the wall. He could not take any of the lifts, since there were no men or horses out at this hour to work the pulleys. He dared not wait for that. There was the road down, but it was long and winding, with the drudgery of switchbacks, going on for miles. Brankellus didn’t have the patience for all that—especially since it would be so much quicker to simply step into the air and plummet like the waters. Perhaps it’d prove to be pleasant to simply let gravity pull him, instead of having to slog along, step after painful step—and so he dropped with the care of a feather in the wind—and impacted with the seriousness of meat hitting rock.

His spirit mashed through the vegetation as if it were still flesh and bone. He hit the earth, bounced once, rolled a bit, then flopped onto a large piece of granite, and finally slid to a stop. The pain of it was excruciating—but only for a split second—and then he thought he’d died for a second time, as everything went black.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

The night was getting on. Having been relieved of their guard and asleep for several hours, the brothers Komotz and Homoth rubbed their eyes as they stepped into the dark room and peeked out the window. The younger, Komotz, leaned toward Duboha and whispered. "How long have they been out there?"

“Long enough,” Duboha shrugged. "I suspect they arrived when our friends returned."

"Will they attack, or...?"

Homoth lumped his younger brother. "They're not sneaking around for the fresh air, you dolt!” He said in a harsh whisper.

Komotz grumbled under his breath as he pulled on his tabard.

Homoth turned to Duboha. "How many are out there?"

Duboha shook his head, "We've spotted at least a dozen out front and maybe that many more out back. Given the ones we can’t see… forty? Fifty?” He shrugged. “However it goes, it’s quite likely to be far too many.”

Komotz blanched. “So we’ve lost before it starts?”

“Would you not bring an overwhelming number?” Duboha asked.

The younger man looked to his brother. "How can we fight that many?!”

Homoth grinned, lifted one arm and flexed, then lifted the other and flexed it too. “However you have to, little brother.”

Duboha gave a nod. "I go to gather my stuff and to make sure that the others are waking. You’ve got the watch,” he said and stepped from the brothers. He gave a nod to Traust as the commander came down the stairs.

Traust wore a plate shirt over chain with a tabard of the Oak and Beast. He set his pack on the floor and an ornate shield next to it. "What do we see?" Traust asked as he stepped between the brothers and gazed out the dark window.

“Degorouth and Ministrians," Homoth shrugged. “Duboha believes there may be as many as a hundred.”

“That many?” Traust replied.

“I wouldn't bring any less,” Homoth shrugged. “What do you think? Do we wait for their attack? Do we slaughter ‘em as they try to get in?”

“If we hole up, I imagine they’ll just burn us out,” Traust shook his head. “Once the others are ready, we'll push through the back garden and fight our way free. We’ll make for the wall.”

Komotz gulped. “How long do you think we have?”

“A few minutes, maybe a couple hours…” Traust shrugged. “Let's just hope we're ready to leave before they're ready to come in—otherwise we'll have to start the fighting before we start the running.”

“Simple enough,” Homoth said.

“I should think it is too simple,” Komotz complained.

“Don’t fret, little brother! Plans tend to go right out the window once the swords start swinging! We’ll stay simple, and let their plans be complicated. Then, once we disrupt them, they can fall all over themselves while we march on by,” Homoth grinned as he stroked the long handle of his war mallet.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Andrus rushed into the room as Saleos and Toar rested in their chairs. Elpis lay in the bed, heavily bandaged and completely out. Saleos stirred, and Andrus pointed at the injured man, “He’ll live?”

“I'm a touch concerned about the eye, but given a good couple weeks, I think he’ll be right as rain,” Saleos gave a nod. “Of course, that says nothing of his emotional state—but then, we won’t have to worry about that until after the drugs wear off.”

“And what if we have to move him?” Andrus asked.

Toar rubbed sleep from his eyes. “Like, to another room?” he asked.

“More like out of the city,” Andrus answered.

“You mean, now?!” Toar sat up in his chair, suddenly concerned.

Andrus nodded.

Saleos shook his head. “He's drugged to the gills. If he has to move, we have to carry him. Why? What's going on?”

“We’re discovered,” Andrus said. “Traust means for us to make for the wall.”

“The wall?!” Toar stood. “What good 'll that do?! The gates won't open 'til dawn!”

“That's, what, maybe an hour away?” Andrus noted. “If they put up half a fight, it'll take us that long to get there.”

Toar didn’t like the sound of that! “You expect us to run and fight for an hour?!” He was about to complain further when Aim stepped into the room—a massive intimidating beast of a man. At the sight of him, Toar swallowed any further objection.

“I hear we have to go,” Aim said as he looked about the others.

“That's the word,” Andrus said to the massive man.

Aim pointed at Elpis. “I assume he's not going to carry himself?”

“Not a chance,” Saleos answered.

“Well then, I suppose I better bring our friend,” Aim said as he gently scooped Elpis from among the covers and placed the man over his shoulder.

Saleos helped settle the injured man, then arranged a thick blanket to cover the comatose warrior. “It'll have to do,” he shrugged at the light padding.

“That it will,” Aim grinned. “Get what you need and get downstairs,” he said as he left the room. “We leave immediately.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

“Not you too!” Scurra fussed as Duboha stepped into her room. “Why won't you people just let me sleep!” she bawled as she leaned from her bed, picked a shoe off the floor, and flung it at the man.

Duboha brushed the flying shoe aside. “Andrus says you threw a cup at him.”

“I'd have thrown a knife if I had one close!” Scurra complained as she buried her head in her pillows.

“Wish I didn't have to bother you, cousin, but we have company,” Duboha noted. “Degorouth? Ministrians? Either way, I doubt they mean to bring us breakfast.”

Aware of the implications, Scurra stared wide-eyed at the man. “We were followed?”

Duboha nodded. “That's what I was thinking.”

“We led ‘em right to you…” Scurra noted. “Argh!” she huffed as she rolled over and onto her back. “Dear Jeiju! I was finally comfortable!” she complained in a loud whisper.

“It isn't meant to be,” Duboha pointed. He pulled a small leather pouch from his pocket. “Your brother gave me this. He told me it is for anyone that might want it,” he held up the small leather pouch. “If it’s what I think it is, I wouldn't mind having a pinch myself,” he noted as he offered the small pouch to Scurra.

Scurra opened the pouch and removed a slight spoon, then sniffed its contents. Her eyes went wide as she identified what was offered. “Fio,” she said, as she sat up straight. “So it’s gonna be one of those nights. Alright then,” she said as she stuck the spoon into the pouch, removed a bit of fine green powder, and ate it. She wiped the spoon clean with her fingers, then passed the spoon and pouch back to Duboha.

Duboha took a dose himself. “Invigorating,” he grinned as the fine herb lit up his veins.

“Never been a fan of the stuff. Makes me jittery,” Scurra noted. “But if there ever was a time to take it,” she threw off her covers and peeled off her nightgown.

Wide eyed, Duboha turned from Scurra as she wore nothing but her small clothes. He fought the urge to take another glance at the athletic woman in her near-naked glory.

“Where do you want my bow?” Scurra asked as she pulled on her travel leathers.

“Apulton is up on the roof. Andrus is headed there if you care to join them,” Duboha said. “Otherwise, the rest of us gather in the main hall.”

“The roof it is,” she nodded. “So what's the plan? Do we stand and hope to outlast a siege, or do we make a run for it?”

“We run,” Duboha said. “We make for the wall. If you get separated, make for The Copper Kettle and Rooms, six hours on the main road east.”

“Six hours, eh? That's not so bad,” Scurra noted.

“It's six hours on horse,” Duboha shrugged. “It’s easily a day on foot—at least a day—more like three or four the way you’ve been traveling.”

“Then you can expect to see me by weeks end,” Scurra mocked.

“There might be fifty men or more out there,” Duboha noted. “They don't mean to see us go peaceful. If you don’t find us at the Copper Kettle and Rooms, I do hope to see you in Hearthstone some day.”

Scurra studied Duboha with a critical eye. “Have a little faith, my friend. You never know what might happen.”

“May Jeiju step from the clouds and deliver us,” Duboha shrugged as he turned from the room. “Until then, I’ll pray for the best and prepare for the worst.”

~!@#$%^&()_+ 7.5 +_)(&^%$#@!~

In the main hall, as the party crowded around in the dark, Celesi stepped close to Toar with Evereste in her arms.

"Why do you bring the baby?" Toar asked her. "Why don't you give her to her mother?”

"That one is still a bit of mess," Celesi whispered.

Toar caught sight of the priestess. Wenifas leaned heavily on Krumpus as the two navigated the stairs. “I'm just happy to see her on her feet again,” the former Jay mentioned.

“That bad, eh?” Toar stared at Wenifas. A wicked looking dagger dangled from the priestess’s hand. Toar turned back to Celesi. “Do you want a weapon?”

Celesi lifted the hem of her dress, that he might see a set of blades attached to her thigh.

“Throwing knives,” Toar smiled.

“And I don’t intend to throw a single one,” Celesi shrugged. “If I need to fight, we've already lost. Besides, I’m not very good with them. Instead, I'll care for the babe and let the mother handle a weapon. She looks like she'd enjoy cutting someone.”

"Let's just hope it's not one of us," Toar muttered. He shook his head. “I'm not much better myself,” he said as he eyed the sword at his waist.

“There are a few fighters here. We'll be alright,” Celesi said as she looked about the others. The fighting men all wore the colors of the Oak and Beast, varied armor, and a wide array of weapons. Saleos carried a bow in hand, a quiver at his waist, and two short swords on his hips. Despite his smaller frame, Duboha was heavily armored with a shield and a long sword. Homoth was also armored, but had no shield. Instead, he had a long mallet in his hands that was nearly as tall as he was, and a two-handed sword that he carried on his back. Komotz wore chain mail as he carried a shield and a sword. Aim carried his cousin’s war axe—and so many additional weapons about his waist that Celesi felt she’d be hard pressed to count them all. On top of that, the large man had Elpis on his shoulder.

The Saots also wore the green and silver of the Oak and Beast. Creigal carried a long sword in one hand and a small shield in his other. He wore chainmail and a metal helmet, and cringed as he declined whatever it was that Duboha had in a small leather pouch. Carringten had a long spear, a large shield over his back, and Bence's short sword on his hip. Baet had Derris's sword and a long knife in his other hand. Even the shaman was armed. Krumpus was draped in his dirty travel cloak and carried his staff with a metal point on the end. His other arm was looped around Wenifas.

Of all of them, Celesi thought Traust looked the most formidable. His armor shined as he brandished his extravagant sword with a sculpted black hilt in the shape of a beast's gaping maw. The shield bore a great tree of silver and jade with a large onyx beast beneath it. Celesi smiled at the regal look of the man and thought nothing could happen to the party with such a leader at their front.

Toar looked about the room. “We're missing a few,” he frowned. “Where are Apulton, Andrus, and Scurra?”

“They're on top of the house. As soon as we start running, they'll cover us until we get free," Saleos whispered. "Once we're free of the house, they'll cut loose and follow.”

“And then?” Celesi asked.

Saleos shrugged, unconcerned.

“That's not a very deep plan,” Celesi frowned.

“If it’s simple, we might actually manage it,” Saleos replied. “Now here’s the bit to remember: if you get separated, make for the Copper Kettle and Rooms. Its on the road to Hearthstone, maybe thirty miles.”

“Thirty miles?!” Celesi stared.

“It’s probably best if you don’t get separated,” Saleos continued. Strange shadows began to grow and dance on his face. He glanced past them and pointed at the front room. "Fire," he noted in a calm manner, he leaned toward Traust and repeated the word, “Fire.”

Celesi turned and saw flames as they crawled under the door and climbed the closed drapes.

“We go now,” Traust ordered. He stepped to the back garden door while the others pressed close and pulled the door open. A barrage of arrows screamed out of the night. They shattered against the armored form of Traust and fell away harmless—all but one. One slipped just above the edge of his shield and buried itself in the slit of his visor. With a jerk, Traust floundered, fell to the floor, and convulsed—as death overcame him. Celesi watched in horror as blood poured from under his helmet. She took half a step toward the man—but Toar shook his head and pulled her away. It was already too late. There was nothing anyone could do for the man.

With a curse, Duboha stepped over his dead friend and pushed his way out of the door. Several arrows slammed against his shield and armor—though there were significantly fewer missiles. This time, none of the arrows caused any damage as Duboha surged into the garden, followed by Homoth and Komotz.

In the middle of the rest, Celesi left the house and entered the maelstrom. There was screaming and fighting all about her. Thankfully, the only arrows that fell happened to drop off the roof sideways. She looked up to see arrows zip to and from the top of the house as Andrus, Apulton, and Scurra exchanged missiles with their enemies.

Celesi cradled Evereste as she ran toward the sounds of conflict, with her stomach in her throat. Panic rose in her chest and threatened to overwhelm her as Toar pulled her forward, toward the growing mayhem.

“Yargh!” A figure toppled over the edge of the carriage house with an arrow stuck in his neck. He landed with a sickening crunch a few feet away. Another slipped from view over the edge of the roof—an arrow caught in his leg as he bellowed and cursed. The long form of Homoth’s mallet flashed from the surging crowd and struck the dangling man, who promptly fell to the ground and disappeared under the feet of the Jindleyak militia. Celesi refused to look as she stepped over his bloody body.

A third man leaned over the edge of the carriage house and aimed his bow among the fleeing men—but someone in front of her threw a hatchet and caught the man in the chest. He toppled off the roof into a hedge of roses, which must have lashed him in a thousand places before he slumped to the ground in a awkward heap. Celesi couldn’t help but stare at the man’s form, twisted and uncaring, as the roses swayed and snapped.

Ahead of her, metal banged against metal. Curses, yells, and screams were quick to follow. If not for Toar, Celesi would have hid in the first convenient patch of shadow. Instead, she kept her eyes on the brave, young Trohl and gripped his arm as tight as she could. This is the way forward, she told herself. This is the way to a new life.

Toar led Celesi through the back garden gate as they chased after the others. She passed Saleos as he aimed his bow back the way they came. She glanced back and saw his arrow impale a shadow as it rushed to catch up to them. The attacker jerked back and flung his sword as he gurgled and died a short distance away. His weapon crashed to the ground, slid, and clattered to a halt near Celesi’s feet—and then she was running again.

Toar pulled Celesi along. They passed a number of dead and injured enemies. One man sat against a fence with a rough gash across his stomach. Shock and horror danced across his face as he tried to put the ropes of his intestines back where they belonged. Celesi felt sick. She pressed her mouth into the screaming form of Evereste and gagged.

Celesi followed Toar into a thin alley at a breakneck pace. She turned her focus to Evereste and did her best not to jar the child as she ran. They turned a corner. Toar stopped suddenly, and Celesi ran into the back of him. He turned, wide eyed, and pushed her away. Off balance, they reeled away from each other. Celesi fell backward—as something heavy and metal split the air between them.

An axe looped end over end through the space Celesi just occupied. She backpedaled furiously, but couldn't keep her feet. She lost balance and was careful to cradle Evereste as she crashed to her ass, then flopped on her back. Thankfully, her head landed in a soft patch of flowers. Her breath caught as she tried to ignore the pain that rang through her rump, spine, shoulders, neck, and head. Tomorrow, there'd be bruises for sure.

A large form appeared from the side. Celesi screamed as a Ministrian pulled a sword and sneered at her. She figured it must be the axe-thrower.

Toar appeared over her and ran at the attacker. He slashed at the larger man—but the shock trooper turned the strike aside and countered. Toar deflected the blow, but was forced to step back.

Celesi hobbled to her feet and tried to get away—but the Ministrian grabbed her and nearly pulled her off balance as he yanked her in the other direction. Celesi fumbled Evereste and almost dropped her—as she thought to get at the blades buried under her dress. Instead, she clung to the babe and barely managed to keep the child from falling.

Toar stepped up again and slashed at the attacker. The shock trooper turned the blow—though he was forced to let go of Celesi. She dodged behind Toar and looked about for the others. Where’d they go?!

Toar swung again and again—but was turned aside each time. He took a step back. Now that he had the Ministrian’s full attention, he realized he was outmatched. They both knew it. With a knowing grin, the Ministrian advanced.

Suddenly, a long thin form with wide angular wings dropped out of the sky and wrapped about the Ministrian. The shock trooper screamed and tried to throw the beast off as it bit him again and again.

Toar took the opening and attacked—though he wondered if he should go for the beast or the man. The tip of his sword pierced the Ministrian between his heart and shoulder. The shock trooper gaped at Toar, horrified by the sudden turn of events. He backed away, dropped his weapon, and stumbled to the ground as he continued to wrestle with the winged beast.

The serpent separated from the Ministrian—though the man continued to fight—only now he fought himself. He clawed at his own throat as he screamed in terror and panic. Blood streamed from his neck as he buried his nails into his own soft skin. He jerked and convulsed, and his screams turned to a gurgle. A few seconds more, and the attacker slumped to his back as blood pooled all around him.

The winged serpent turned toward Toar and Celesi, fangs bared. Celesi screamed as Toar lifted his sword and stood between them. With a hiss, the beast spread its wings and launched itself into the air. Wide eyed, Toar and Celesi stared after the creature—but it disappeared just as quickly as it came.

Scurra and Andrus appeared from out of the dark as they ran down the alley with bows ready. They glanced nervously after the unexpected beast. “What the bloody hell was that?!” Andrus asked as he took Celesi by the arm and pulled her along.

Celesi shrugged and wondered how half the city wasn't awake with so much screaming and fighting! She looked about the nearby buildings to see that many windows were lit. Now that she thought to look, she noticed much of the neighborhood was awake! Indeed, people streamed out of their houses, most with weapons in hand! Panic gripped Celesi as she realized they’d never fight through all of them!

“Let's go,” Toar urged and pulled Celesi down the street. There were several more bodies. She only looked long enough to see that she didn't recognize them, then turned away from the pooling blood.

Celesi noticed others running in the streets. To her left, a shout went up, “Ministrians!”

“Ministrians!” The call was repeated, then started to sound all around them. “Ministrians!”

The sounds of fighting erupted everywhere instead of just ahead of them—but as the fighting intensified, it also drifted away. Slowly, the tension eased from the air, and Celesi felt she could breathe. For the first time since she stepped from the house, she thought she might live through the night.

A crowd gathered before them. It was the others! Celesi was happy to see they no longer fought. Nor did they run. They were all stopped in the middle of an intersection as they stared down both streets. Celesi glanced about her gathered friends. There was a good deal of blood among them, though most kept their feet. She began to count heads—then noticed the armed shadows that gathered about them—shadows that were slowly closing in. She stared as a crowd of men advanced from every direction. A knot of dread formed in the pit of her stomach.

The warriors formed a ring, and Celesi found herself pushed to the center of her companions. She came eye to eye with Wenifas. The priestess looked just as harried as Celesi felt.

“Oh, my sweet baby!” Wenifas exhaled. She dropped her bloody knife and claimed the crying child. “Thank you!” the priestess sighed her relief as Celesi handed her over. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” Although Evereste whined, she seemed no worse for the wear.

"So much for making the gate,” Celesi said as she leaned into Toar. He wrapped his arms around her, and she thought that although she might die, it was a nice consolation to die in his arms. Indeed, she hoped for death over a return to servitude, and feared she might still end up in Tikatis, sold to some old Baradha, for the occasional indulgence.

“Who goes?!” Duboha called to the men that gathered all around them.

“We ask the same!” Came a reply. “Put down your weapons or perish! We are the Pan Iskaer, and you have broken our peace!”

Duboha let out a sigh of relief, then set down his sword, and sat in the street. The others sheathed their weapons or set them on the ground.

Celesi stared at the relaxing Jindleyaks. “Do we know them?!”

“We know 'em,” Duboha nodded. “It's their neighborhood after all.”

“Wait,” Celesi began, suddenly suspicious. “You expected them to intercede—and you made me think we had to run all the way to the wall?!”

Duboha shrugged. “It was always a possibility,” he admitted. “But we prefer not to rest on the efforts of others.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Claiten woke from his sleep and sat up in the luxurious bed. He considered the room as a light haze poured through the windows. The sun was about to come up.

Despite the early hour, Meu was missing.

Claiten was unconcerned. The serpent came and went as she pleased and kept strange hours—but she always came back. Besides, he didn't want to distract her from the task at hand. She was looking for his mother, and nothing could please the boy more.

Over the past several days, Claiten saw Meu with the GRadnus of the Ministrians several times, but the boy was forbidden to talk with any of the men. She stared into his eyes and warned him of the harm that might come to himself, his mother, and even his sister, if they were found out. Claiten kept his distance and remained silent. Instead, he went about during the heat of the day, when the nagas were least likely to be slinking around. He took several coins and often treated himself to sweets while he looked for his mother—or possibly any of the others—among the endless streets and shops.

Once he noticed a man with black skin and thought he must be the dark warrior—but he was not the first to find him. Several guards marched the black man away; then, as he passed, he got a good look at the midnight foreigner. For a long moment, they stared at each other, but there was no recognition in the stranger’s face. Besides, he had a different shape and a sad hollowness about his expression, quite unlike the serious, self-assured, and daunting manner of Carringten.

Ahh, but that was yesterday. Today, Claiten planned to wander the streets some more. He pulled on his pants and went to the balcony door, opened it, and stared off to the east. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon. There was a chill in the air and it made Claiten feel alive to face the light morning breeze. For several seconds, he listened to the birds chirp as the world was painted red. He breathed in the new day as a defiance surged through him.

“ERRR-AY-ERRR-AY-ERRRRRR!” He crowed, as he’d done each day since he’d escaped Golifett, long and loud, like a proud rooster should. He turned this way and that to see if anyone cared—but if anyone minded, they kept it to themselves. Again, he gathered his breath and gave another call, “ERRR-AY-ERRR-AY-ERRRRRR!” He felt he sounded a lot like the other crowing cocks.

Claiten stared out over the waking city streets. He was about to crow a third time when he spotted Meu, as she flew straight at him. Claiten pushed the balcony doors wide and stepped out of the way. Meu shot into the suite and swirled about before she settled on the bed. A darkness swallowed her and Claiten turned away. As soon as the darkness faded, he knew she'd be naked. He didn’t want to see it. He didn’t want to think of the strange serpentine women that complicated his dreams.

Meu stepped from the bed and whipped on a sundress. She ran to Claiten. She grabbed his hands and pulled him inside as she said the only thing she ever said out loud. "Druss meu!" She said excitedly and stared into his eyes. She’d done it! She’d found the others!

Claiten forgot about his crowing. “Where are they?!” he pleaded as he turned, gathered his purse, and snagged the naga knife from off a low dresser. “Where is my mother?!”

"Druss meu!" she exclaimed again. She took his hand. They ran out of the room, and from the inn altogether, then fled down the street as Claiten laughed long and loud.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.7 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

A limp child hung from Golifett's arm. He'd gone through a great deal of trouble to secure the young girl and hoped it’d live just a little while longer—just another day or two. He was not interested in the slave trade, so the children he stole never needed to live for long. Still, they were always better fresh.

This child was smaller than the last and didn't come with a surprisingly large bag of coin—but it was a worthy prize and should do as the centerpiece of his feast nonetheless. To think he'd found the other child almost by chance in the very halls of Beletrain—only to have him stolen away! Indeed, Golifett found himself dawdling as he continued to think of the child that had escaped him several days before.

The light of day grew, and Golifett was still above ground. He was in a patch of wild growth, and approached a pool in a stream that was much deeper than it looked. On the northeast side of the pool was a bolt hole that would carry him down into the safety of Beletrain. The cold of the water would shock the girl awake—but then he'd be in Beletrain—and all the screaming and struggle in the world wouldn't save the child!

Still, this was a strange night for the naga, and he’d be quite happy to get home. The normal quiet of the morning was shattered just after he grabbed this child from her bed. At first, Golifett thought he was discovered and might have to fight his way free—but then he saw a nearby fire, and knew there was other trouble afoot. He turned in the opposite direction, and was more than happy to hear the fighting and craziness drift away, toward the wall of the city. He slipped among the shadows and wondered if the rumors were true. Were the men once more fighting amongst themselves? He certainly hoped so! Let the humans fight! He thought. With luck they’ll reduce Ebertin to ash—and then we’ll return to the surface once more!

As Golifett thought his cruel thoughts, another note caught in his ear and sent a jolt through his spine—though it was a most pleasant and appreciated sound! Indeed, he liked it more than the sound of the fighting! It sounded as if a cockerel crowed—but he knew it was no rooster! Indeed, it was a just a young boy that mimicked the sound. He stopped and listened intently as the crowing sounded again. A grin split his lips. He was sure it was the boy he’d caught before—the one with all the gold!

He listened for a third crow, as the magic often caused the subject to call again and again, as long as they still suffered his spell. The smile curled into a frown. Two crows meant that although the magic stuck, it was not nearly as strong as he might have liked. He should hope for three, four, or even five calls. Still, as long as the chicken spell lasted, the child would be easy to follow. Eventually, the boy would slip the curse altogether and think no more of proud roosters caught by sinister snakes—of courage and cowardice—but for a month, a week, or maybe just a few days, he’d always identify himself as the sun rose and fell.

Golifett licked his lips and wondered if he might get the child, the rest of the gold, and perhaps the woman's infant to boot! He touched the burn on his face and thought it proper to take both of the witch's children. She deserved no less for what she did to him! Indeed, he hoped to kill the witch too—and the strange winged serpent that helped her rescue her boy!

What was he to make of the serpent, he wondered? Aside from stew? Not that he thought the serpent would be that easy to catch. It’d snuck into his home and strangled him—then seemingly disappeared as the naked mother took her child back. Where did the winged serpent go?

But that was for yesterday and tomorrow. Today, Golifett had yet to secure his current catch. For now, he'd go home, prepare a feast, and gather his friends. Then, as night fell, the hunt would commence.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.8 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

The spirit of Brankellus lay at the base of Rynth Falls as if he were dead. Yet, the ghost had sworn a pact with the gods of vengeance and strife, and these gods meant to have him about his work. Slowly, they stitched their acolyte, weaving in scar tissue that could only add to his ache and misery. They pulled him back together, as easily as a mother darns a cloth doll. The howl of the dead rushed across the valley and ignited the secret purpose deep within the ghost. There was a living man that deserved a gruesome end!

Brankellus coughed and spit dust as he rose from the earth. He picked himself back to his feet and noticed it was no longer night. Now, it was day. Still, Petaerus was near at hand, among the tents at the edge of the city.

The tents would not be there for long. Indeed, they were being removed, as soldiers prepared to march. They were thick as hornets as some loaded provisions. Others simply waited, ready to go, or simply scoffing off as they might. There were a good number of Trohls among them, with some few Saot and Hebronese mixed in, even a Gressian or two. It was a mixed force, though they all wore Trohl garb—including the bulk of Ministrians. Only a few of the Saots wore anything else, another uniform altogether, one of red and black, adorned with the sigil of a bird. To dress as Trohls and Soats without a single soldier dressed in the iconic black of the Ministrian shock trooper… Brankellus could tell the purpose. Yet again, the Empire waged war under false pretense.

As Brankellus slogged along the road. A knot of officers meandered down the street in front of them, a high commander at the center of the knot. This officer inspected the soldiers—and just happened to match the unseen ghost stride for stride—and who should be among the High Commander’s escort but Petaerus himself! Brankellus swung at the man—and went right through him.

The knot of officers moseyed down the road. The ghost stood and followed after them as quick as he could. A weather worn runner stared up at the commander as a knot of lesser officers pressed in close. “How far out were they when you left them?” the commander asked without looking at the runner.

“Eight days,” the runner answered.

“And that was…?”

“Four days ago.”

“In what condition did you find them?”

“They were in good health; body, mind, and spirit,” the runner said. “If they are late at all, I should think it will only be a day or two.”

“No troubles? No sign of Waokie along the south road?”

“No, sir. Not by me or any of the men I met.”

For several seconds the Lord Commander stared at the runner as he continued down the line of soldiers. Word carried on the wind before the approaching knot of high ranking men, and the common troops engaged themselves in a flurry of activity—then watched the officers pass—relieved to see the Lord Commander took little notice of their busywork.

“Is there something you’re forgetting?” the Lord Commander asked and stared at the runner once more.

For a second, the runner simply stared back, terrified and dumbfounded. Then he remembered the letters in his bag. He retrieved them and handed them to the Lord Commander with a crisp salute.

“Right,” the Lord Commander said, then reached into his own bag and handed several letters back to the runner. “That’ll be all,” he said and turned away from the runner.

The Lord Commander continued down the street as he opened the first letter and read it to himself. He spoke to no one in particular as he wore a pleased expression. “It seems that we’ll have two more legions by the end of the week, and three more to follow before the end of the month, with another four to follow by the end of summer!”

The gathered officers hanged on his every word. A swell of cheers and glad-handing broke out among them—but the Lord Commander’s grin quickly turned to a frown, as he continued his general commentary.

“We shall need them all, since we must now fight on two fronts.”

“Then we pursue the waokie after all?” asked one of lesser officers.

“In time,” the Lord Commander nodded. “I should think the waokie are properly thinned and satiated for now. They will not attack again for some years. They will retreat to their tunnels, to Valcovour’s pass and the ruins of Salyst; and for the time, we shall let them be. Nonetheless, we shall keep half a legion here to watch the town, and also a few hundred Trohls,” he answered. “When the first legions arrives, we shall split the men equally. We need to clear the north road—especially Valcovour’s Pass. We’ve left that nasty nest to fester for too long. Then we shall rebuild and reopen the dueling forts, so we can continue our work among the Bouge. Indeed, we will rebuild them, larger and stronger than before!”

The Lord Commander stopped and turned on the gathered men.

“This is how we’ll retake the mountains!” he charged. “And this time we take them for good! We’ll control the Bunderhilt from Wibbeley to Ebertin, from the plains of the Noeth, to Crestone Ridge! And we shall do it for the Empire!”

The other officers cheered.

“Ready the men!” Gliedian commanded. “We make for Solveny, immediately!”

Brankellus tried to throttle his enemy, but his hands went right through the man! Petaerus brushed at his shoulders and ears—as if bothered by a fly. Having his orders, he turned and stomped away from the Lord Commander.

Brankellus tried to follow, but the Copal moved fast and quickly out-distanced him. He saw the hated man mount his horse, then lead a troop south, leaving nothing but dust for the spirit.

Brankellus approached the far edge of the army and left those that still tarried behind. He trudged after Petaerus, chagrined that he should see him only for a moment before the man should slip away. He wondered how long he was out after his fall from the ledge. Was it just the remainder of that night, and the first part of the next day? Had he lost another rotation, or maybe two or three? Would this have been enough time for the spirit to find a way to destroy his enemy? He remembered nothing of the episode except an impossible pain, followed by a stretch of oblivion and a vague sense of bliss; only for burning, itching, dreadful discomfort of his quest to rise through his spirit and wake him once more.

Brankellus shuffled on. The sun rose and slowly approached it’s zenith. A column of Ministrians and Trohls appeared behind him, as they marched from Rynth Falls, on their way to Solveny. Brankellus didn’t know the town, though he’d heard rumor of its grace and hospitality. These were Noeth lands and he knew them only by reputation.

Brankellus did not notice the trail of mounted troops as it appeared behind him and slowly proceeded to catch him. He did not notice the shake of the earth until the first of the horsemen was immediately behind him. The beast brushed him, then spooked to find a spirit in its way. The horse reared and almost threw its rider. Brankellus stumbled aside as he feared the pain of a trampling.

The horse stared at the ghost and did everything in its power to avoid any further collision—as the rider tried to settle the animal and coax it forward in a neat line. The mount pressed to one side, into its neighbor, and took several quick steps away from the spirit before it finally calmed under the veteran hands of its rider. Once it had passed the ghost, it gave its neighbor an appropriate amount of space—but then the next horse stamped and fussed as it veered and also gave way to the spirit.

"What's up with ‘em?" this rider asked, as he too struggled to calm his mount.

"Dunno," another shook his head. They stepped around the unseen ghost, giving him an ever increasing berth.

Intrigued, Brankellus stepped close to one of the horses and held out his hand. His fingers brushed the animal's coat and an electric jolt passed from him to the beast. The horse jumped at the touch and gave a panicked whinny. It collided with the next horse and caused several more mounts and riders to jumble—though none fell. Well trained, the riders managed to stay on top of their horses and slowly returned them to a semblance of order.

Now, the flow of soldiers stepped off the road to either side of the ghost for a good twenty feet. Aware that something was up, several horsemen eyed the spot where Brankellus stood with out and out suspicion—though they invariably looked straight through him. Whispers and murmurs flowed from the soldiers. A call went up. "Voressa! Voressa! See what cannot be seen!" they shouted back along the train of men.

A young page appeared. He led a donkey into the clearing with a withered old woman upon it. The page brought her into the circle and stopped at the old woman’s signal. Slowly, she dismounted, held out a hand so the troops would stop, then stepped from the beast and approached the spirit before her. Her eyes were cloudy and Brankellus wondered if she could see anything at all—until she stopped maybe a foot in front of him. She stared up and locked her gaze on him. "Why do you trouble us?" she asked, her voice shrill and weak—though her manner was familiar and her question unafraid.

Brankellus noted the pin she wore with two fangs, one of silver and one of gold. He did not need much encouragement to treat this old woman poorly, and the fact that she wore a mark of privilege sent him over the edge. A snarl curled over the dead man's lips. He glared and growled at the old woman, and even tried to strike her.

Voressa frowned as she raised a weathered arm at Brankellus. "Do you challenge me?!" She croaked as she pulled a charm of fine metals and delicate crafting from under her sack cloth cloak. She pointed the pendant at Brankellus, flowers and stars all knotted together. "You will learn that this is a world for the living, first and foremost!" she screeched.

Brankellus could feel a strange power radiating from the five-point forms of the relic. Caught in a wash of hate and vengeance, he thrashed and wailed at the old woman, in hopes of somehow causing her damage—but his strikes went right through her. Strangely, his hand caught the sharp edges of the metal charm, and he almost pulled it from her hand!

"By Gairfitz, begone!" Voressa yelled as she twisted the amulet.

A wall of air crushed into Brankellus. The spirit shot backward into the trees, flung like a rag doll. He caught among the thick undergrowth, a good forty or fifty feet from the road, disoriented and confused.

With a snort, Voressa waved the soldiers on as she stepped to the edge of the road and continued to glare at Brankellus. Assured there would be no more trouble, the column of soldiers proceeded once more, as the half blind woman stared through the trees at the vengeful Trohl spirit.

Caught by the old woman's uncanny gaze, Brankellus didn't dare move. He simply watched the troop pass as he wondered at the old woman’s power.

With the page’s help, Voressa struggled back on top of her donkey. Then, the page led the weary beast and its rider after the troop. Two mounted men with armor and weapons stayed back with her, and flanked her protectively as she followed the others.

With their supernatural protector at the van, the troop disappeared among the trees. Brankellus began the wearisome process of standing, though he realized he was able to straighten his back a bit more, and the pain of his shuffle was somehow improved by the rude treatment he’d received from the hands of the old witch. He slogged after the soldiers, though they progressed quite quickly. Soon, he could not even hear the clomp of their hooves.

The day stretched on. Brankellus continued his trudging walk. The trees took on the red hue of evening for several minutes before the blue of the sky finished its transition and became black as pitch. Stars peeked out of the night. Once again, thin pricks of hope shot down from these far distant lights and begged the ghost to surrender—but he ignored them, and stoked his anger, as he focused on the earth under his feet.

Near midnight, Brankellus hobbled past the same troop as they rested at the side of the road. Not wanting to run into the old woman, he kept his distance, which was easy, since he simply had to keep the road. Indeed, Voressa was awake and near the center of camp. There was no sneaking past. She turned and glared at the spirt. "Trouble us again, and I will send you through the veil!" she yelled, as Brankellus kept his distance. He wondered if she could do such a thing and thought it best not to test her. He skirted around the troop as Voressa continued to glare.

Near morning, he caught glimpse of another troop. He was sure that Petaerus was with this one—but arrived as they were breaking camp and did not even see the man.

For two days, Brankellus played leapfrog with Voressa’s column of Ministrian shock troops. Each day they passed him earlier, and each night he passed them later. Although he never stopped, they traveled at a faster clip, and Brankellus realized he would only catch his quarry if Petaerus stayed in one place. The spirit needed something to bog the man down, some obstacle, some army… These soldiers must all be going somewhere, the ghost concluded. Eventually, they would get where they meant to go—and then Brankellus must surely catch his quarry—though he feared the destruction, the senseless carnage he was sure to find, when he should finally arrive at wherever they were going.

Mourning

Polished — 52m25s — 2023/12/20

There is a reason they are called the Broken Legions of Tronde and Rigel and never the Broken Legions of Rigel and Tronde. Tronde is named first as he led the fabled exodus with his diplomats, scouts, scholars, and such—of which only a few were fighting men. He needed few warriors since they fled across friendly lands, and were often embraced by the scattered towns and villages of the western Tallian plain. On the other hand, Rigel and his fighting men defended their van from the Waoernok hordes. His was a desperate delaying action, and he needed every body he could get.

Both generals were masterful fighters, though they had opposite styles and strengths. It might be hard to imagine the two came up under similar circumstance, met at an early age, and were fast friends for decades despite—or perhaps because of—their contrasting personalities. Tronde was a charismatic leader, a silver-tongued diplomat, and negotiator of pomp and flourish; while Rigel was a hard-scrabble tactician, with few words to spare (which were always forward and forthright). Both were highly decorated and accomplished leaders, even before the Great Betrayal, even before they turned against their duplicitous superiors and rescued a great many of their countrymen from impending doom.

Tronde’s work at the head of the exodus was diplomatic and logistical, as he needed to convince more and more to join their long march, or else they should perish. JamJoarie was the last great city before the people thinned across the marginal Tallian plain—and there were no great fortresses left in the kingdom to which they might retreat. The Waoernok invaders were far too numerous and offered no quarter to those they overcame. Once the charismatic Tronde had convinced these outliers to join the exodus, he then incorporated them into his long train and salvaged anything that could be salvaged.

At the far end of the exodus, Rigel was tested in a very different way. He was always under pressure, and constantly fighting to keep the Waoernok at bay, with trappers, sneaks, and assassins galore. Rigel lost a great number of men, though he bled his Waoernok pursuers and consistently slowed their crawling advance. Those under his command often touted his brilliance. They frequently swore many more would have died under any other leader.

From the day Tronde and Rigel abandoned their posts on the outskirts of the ancient city JamJaoarie and took many of the city’s occupants with them, their slow march across the Tallian plains took five hundred and twenty-eight days until the blended forces of the Broken Legions beat back the last of their pursuers at the Pass of Stoens, upon the ridges of Mount Victorie, at the eastern edge of the Bunderhilt mountains.

After the exodus of the Broken Legions, Tronde settled in the valley of the Heartflow and continued to train as a warrior and diplomat near Hearthstone; while Rigel went north and west and settled half a day’s journey from the village of Melmorahn. Unlike Tronde, Rigel was determined to live a quiet life. He hung up his sword in favor of a shovel. He took a young bride, and kept to his home as she gave him babies to raise. He lived quite apart from others and was known to refuse the occasional visitor.

Despite their divergent courses and what one might expect of their continued experiences, Tronde’s later years were fairly easy, as an age of peace and prosperity settled over the mountains. Yet, in the wilder north lands, Rigel was involved in a number of violent confrontations. Although Rigel was forced to defend himself on several occasions, his sword never left its place above the door. It was always enough for the man to have a rake, a shovel, or nothing but his hands to fend off his enemies. Indeed, despite the great difficulties of living at the very edge of the wild, Rigel always claimed it was the squirrels that gave him the most trouble.

— The Nine Tribes of the Trohl: A History of How the Yak of the Bunderhilt and The Broken Legions of Tronde and Rigel Forged a New Nation, Aogostua Veribos, p. 82-84

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 8.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

A skeleton of flame-scarred timbers tenuously hung in the bright morning air. Flames stretched from the top of the House of Leaves, but no longer spread, as zealous citizens of east Ebertin flung their buckets of water at the last few hot spots that remained.

Several blocks from the embers of the house, Celesi did her best not to think of Traust, buried somewhere in the ash. She glanced about her companions, happy that so many of them had made it out alive, yet anguished by the amount of blood on their clothes.

Saleos and Duboha parlayed with officers among the Pan Iskaer as the others rested under the watchful eye of their captors. A Pan Iskaer guard, a slight and weaselly man, caught sight of Wenifas among the surrendered party. He nudged a friend as he pointed at the priestess and whispered, “Ministrian.”

At his word, the other Pan Iskaer turned. They stared at Wenifas, then approached to get a better look at the unsuspecting priestess. Several other Pan Iskaer leaned in as more and more noticed the foreigner. The one that discovered her stood just in front of Celesi as he pointed at the beleaguered Ministrian, then motioned for her to stand up.

Wenifas turned and stared back at the slight guard, dumbfounded and unsure of his language.

“Git up,” he told her again—though he spoke a language she didn’t understand.

All emotion and raw nerves, Celesi’s anger boiled over at the curt command. She lunged at the accusing Pan Iskaer and struck him with her balled fists before he could do anything about it. "You will not touch her!” she snapped. “She is exiled! You hear me! She is no more a Ministrian than you or I, and YOU WILL NOT TOUCH HER!" She struck at the slight man again and again.

Quite surprised by Celesi’s attack, the Pan Iskaer flinched and shrugged aside her assault, then caught her hands and wrapped her in a restraining hug. “Easy now,” he growled. “You don’t really want to fight me,” he told her.

Despite her fury, Celesi could do no harm. Although the combatants were similar in size, the Pan Iskaer was well muscled and seemingly made of wood. It was likely he could break the young woman with nothing more than a hard squeeze. Still, she struggled. “Let go, you brute!” she yelled, as she squirmed and fussed. She kicked at his shins, though it seemed only to hurt her heels.

“Stop striking, and perhaps I will,” the Pan Iskaer replied between gritted teeth.

A dark hand gripped the Pan Iskaer’s shoulder. The guard turned to see the serious face of Carringten. With a bit of a bow, the captain imposed himself between the two. “Apologies, Squirrel,” he said to the Pan Iskaer guard, as the dark man took hold of Celesi and pushed her toward Toar.

Squirrel bowed back to the dark foreigner, happy to back away from the red tempered Jay. Celesi started yelling at all the gathered Pan Iskaer. “Do none among you speak Ministrian?!” she snarled. “If you wish to be sure of what she is, why don’t you ask her?!”

Another of the Pan Iskaer stepped toward the frightened priestess. “Is it true?” he said in her foreign tongue. “Are you exiled?”

Wenifas shrank from the man, but the others encouraged her response, and so she gave a nod.

"Is it because of you that they attack?" he continued.

Wenifas shook her head.

“Then why has this trouble started?”

Carringten answered for her. “The Degorouth and their Baradha allies believe we had something to do with Kezodel’s death—though I can assure you it was nothing more than a cosmic accident.”

Squirrel gaped as he looked about the group with new eyes. “It was you!” he half-accused as he looked about the captives. “You were the ones that confronted that cretin and brought about the vengeance of Jeiju!”

Carringten shook his head. “We cannot cause meteors to fall. Still, we knew the Ministrians and their Degorouth allies would blame us all the same, and so we have been hiding. Last night, they discovered us.”

“You got a good distance,” Squirrel smiled. “You had a good number behind you. Indeed, we caught half a dozen, and chased off several dozen more. I’d guess there was half a company after you.”

“You have captives?” Carringten noted. “What do they say about all this?”

“They say they are after fugitives. After that, they simply demand their release,” Squirrel shrugged. “Wait here.” He turned and stepped over to where Duboha and Saleos continued their conversation with several of the Pan Iskaer captains. Initially, the Pan Iskaer officers were upset by Squirrel’s revelations, but they quickly realized that although Duboha and Saleos may have been keeping information from them, they were still in the right.

They continued to talk as the crowd of onlookers grew, interested in the militia’s activities. Noticing the growing jumble of busybodies, the Pan Iskaer came to a quick decision. Squirrel left their midst and returned to the dark captain, as the commanders gave orders among their own to push a path through the growing throng of rubberneckers. "It is evident to us that you were defending yourselves and should be free,” Squirrel smiled. “However, since so many take such an interest in this morning’s mess, we think it is best if we escort you into the countryside—and since we travel with you, we hope that perhaps you will tell us more of your story,” he smiled.

Carringten nodded. "Before we go, we would like to collect our fallen," he said.

Squirrel shook his head. “We will see to it. For your own safety, it is best if we take you from the city with all possible haste. We may control this quarter for the time, but the Degorouth and their Ministrian allies still hold sway over the city. They will gather a force we cannot oppose. Already, my captains are forging the apologies they’ll offer when they finally release the men that were pursuing you.”

With that, the Jindleyak and their associates gathered their weapons and were pointed toward the nearest city gate. As they walked, Scurra leaned between the brothers Homoth and Komotz. “What happened to Traust?” she asked under her breath.

Komotz shook his head. “He is lost. We are lucky he is the only one.”

“No,” Scurra replied. “Apulton didn’t make it.”

“Oh,” Komotz frowned.

“He caught an arrow in the back and tumbled from our perch,” she revealed. “What of you?” she turned to Homoth. “That’s a fair bit of blood.”

Komotz answered for him. "It is superficial, very much like my brother. But you know Homoth; he must be the best at everything, even bleeding.”

Homoth took a swipe at his little brother, though Komotz dodged away with a wicked grin.

“How many of the enemy did we claim?” Andrus interjected.

“A dozen on the ground?” Komotz shrugged. “We injured at least that many more. What of you?”

“We got at least a dozen from our perches,” Andrus said. “We might have killed twice that many.”

Scurra sighed. “Not to entertain this ghoulishness, but I doubt we killed half that many—though I suspect there are at least a dozen that won’t sleep comfortable for weeks to come.”

How many were there?” Komotz asked.

Andrus shrugged. “A lot. We were lucky. Those stuck at the front were cut off and slow to follow, thanks to the fire.”

“A fire they set,” Komotz noted.

“Once they started the fire, I think they expected we'd come out naked, unorganized, and easy to arrest,” Homoth sneered. “It must have shocked them to see a dozen men crash out of the house in full battle gear at the very beginning of it all.”

“Still, Apulton and Traust,” Scurra shook her head. “And what happened to Aim and Elpis? Did anyone see what became of them?”

Andrus and the brothers glanced about the rest of the party. They shrugged as they realized that the big man and their injured cousin were nowhere to be seen.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 8.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Aim lost his cousin’s fancy pole axe. He buried it in a Ministrian's ribs, the weapon caught, and since he couldn’t take the Ministrian with him—though he tried for the better part of a block—he was forced to let the dead man keep it. After that, he pulled his long sword so he might fight his way clear, but he lost that weapon when he threw it at a fleeing Degorouth. The blade almost cleaved the man’s head in two—before it carried another twenty feet down the alley. Having felled the man, and since he wanted to go the other direction altogether, Aim left the sword. Besides, he still had his other weapons—and unlike the axe, he wouldn’t have to explain any further losses.

Aim was running a touch hot under the collar after seeing Traust, his friend and mentor, die in such a violent manner. He might have been a bit careless as he charged a knot of men. But then, perhaps not. Of the four that once stood against him, only a single Degorouth remained. Having witnessed the juggernaut take apart several of his friends, the much smaller Degorouth soldier took the prudent course. He turned heel and ran down the cobblestone alley as fast as his feet could carry him.

Aim chased a half dozen steps, but was quickly outpaced, as he was still weighed down by the unconscious form of Elpis. With the disappearance of this last opponent, Aim checked that his cousin still breathed, then turned back to the others—or where he thought they should be. With a frown, he realized they were nowhere to be seen. He listened to the distant mayhem and hoped they were doing fine without him. He knew he should not have allowed his anger to get a hold of him—but in the heat of battle, what was a man to do?

The streets were suddenly full of men running in every direction. Calls and screams filled the air. Aim turned to the south and west, fairly certain his friends were somewhere in that direction, and barreled his way through the early morning crowd.

Most of those on the street took immediate note of the burning House of Leaves and turned to battle the blaze, so it might not spread into the city proper. Though many of them noticed the giant man—how could they not—they prudently passed him by. Aim pulled the horse blanket over his own head. He hunched over, affected a hobble, and acted malformed. Many stared as they passed, and those that stared too long were met with Aim’s own gaze, which was quite unnerving.

Aim turned a corner and stepped into a larger street. He found several armed men facing him. He had no weapon in hand—though he had several more upon his body. The armed men turned and blocked Aim’s path. "You ain’t no Pan Iskaer,” one of them said. “You Degorouth?”

Aim shook his head. He wore a doltish mask, as if he was as dumb as he was big. His hands slipped to a pair of short swords, and he prepared to kill the lot of ‘em, should they answer unkindly.

The Pan Iskaer shrugged since the large man denied being a Degorouth. The first of the Pan Iskaer turned back to Aim and pointed his sword. “These streets belong to the Pan Iskaer, so clear out, or be arrested!" he ordered, then sidestepped the large man altogether. Another of the Pan Iskaer thought better of it and turned to the giant yet again. “Would you care to join the hunt?” he asked.

“For Degorouth?” Aim asked.

The Pan Iskaer nodded, “and Ministrians.”

Aim grinned, then shook his head. “As tempting as that is, I shall do as you ask, and make myself scarce.“

With a disappointed nod, the Pan Iskaer turned and followed after his colleagues.

Aim smiled as he watched them go. The Degorouth were about to have a bad morning of it, what with the Pan Iskaer chasing after them! He resettled Elpis on his shoulder, and made for the gate once more.

The crowd grew. Aim drifted among it. Most of the gathered rabble were simply curious bystanders—but there was a thick ring of Pan Iskaer militiamen—and at the center of it were his friends. Happy to see that most of them had survived, he kept his distance and watched as Duboha and Saleos pleaded their case to the Pan Iskaer officers. There were far too many Pan Iskaer to fight—but if they tried to hurt his friends, Aim figured he could cut down several before they realized their mistake—and then he should have his friends fighting with him. At that point, at least a few of the others might get away and return home to tell of what happened. For his own sake, Aim didn’t care if he ever made it home or not, as there was still a bloodlust upon him; and above all else he simply wanted to do damage.

Yet, it was the Pan Iskaer militia, and Aim knew them to be a level headed bunch. They had little love for Kezodel and his Ministrian allies, so it was just as likely his friends would be let free once it was realized they were attacked in cold blood. Though the Degorouth had the general run of the city, the various militias did much of the peacekeeping in their own enclaves—which was a big reason the Oak and Beast kept their safe house in Pan Iskaer territory. The militia was big, powerful, and quite suspicious of the Degorouth. Thus, Aim was not surprised when his friends gathered their weapons and began toward the nearest city gate, under the watchful eye of the Pan Iskaer militia.

Slowly, the growing crowd made its way to the gate. As they walked, Aim counted his friends. He frowned as he came up short. He must have counted them four or five times before he realized Apulton was missing. This made his heart heavy—though he had to admit they were incredibly fortunate that only Apulton and Traust were lost. Then he realized Apulton might not be dead at all, and wondered if perhaps his good friend was simply missing, like himself, simply somewhere in the crowd. He searched for Apulton among the growing sea of people as more and more gathered to witness those at the center of the early morning disturbance.

As the crowd grew, so did the number of Pan Iskaer. They appeared everywhere with their red and gold emblems, at least a hundred obvious men—and there were bound to be a number of subtle agents about the crowd. He spotted several spies, though they seemed to ignore Aim and his mask of doltishness.

Of all the spies, the one that caught and held Aim’s attention was a strange woman. He knew she was a spy because of her familiar look. He’d seen her before, though he couldn’t remember where. There was a young boy with this red-haired woman, undoubtedly a Ministrian. It was confirmed by his foul tongue as he asked questions that the woman never answered. Aim glared at the angular woman and imagined the worst as he followed. He considered grabbing her from behind and squeezing the truth from her—but there were still too many people around for such a direct approach. For now, it was simply best to follow.

The strange lady and the young boy continued past the city gates. Aim kept his distance. He knew he was not inconspicuous—especially as he carried Elpis—yet, he knew a few tricks when it came to blending into a crowd and stalking a target.

Soon, his friends arrived at a stable, and the Pan Iskaer proceeded to outfit them with mounts. The crowd had thinned and Aim decided it was time to be seen. He confronted the redhead and the boy as they snuck toward his friends. He grabbed the woman by her shoulder.

As he touched her, the woman turned on Aim and tried to bite him! Aim let go and brushed the redhead away before she could sink her teeth. He pulled a knife and stared her down—but the woman stood her ground. She hissed as she stood in front of the boy, though she had no obvious weapons.

Despite her protective stance, the boy would not be coddled. The child pulled a dagger of his own and crowed at the large man.

“You’re a bit of a spitfire,” Aim glared at the boy. “Put down the knife, before you hurt yourself.”

The horse blanket slipped, revealing his injured cousin. The boy’s gaze turned quizzical as he stared at the injured man on Aim’s shoulder. “Elpis?!” the boy began, though his words trailed off into Ministrian goobledygook—it was far too quick for Aim’s tenuous grasp of the foul language. Still, the boy regarded his cousin with a look of concern.

Confused that the boy should identy his ward, Aim took a step back. “What’d you say?” he stared at the child.

The others turned and stared after the commotion. “Aim!” Komotz beamed. The younger brother waved and took several steps forward—though he also turned and stared—as squeals of excitement erupted from the priestess.

Sitting on a wagon, Wenifas pushed Evereste into the shaman’s hands, then jumped from her perch with such abandon that she nearly ended up face down in the dirt—only to right herself and rush at the boy with outstretched arms. She gathered the child in a rough smothering hug, and also the strange lady, as she berated them both in her foul foreign tongue. From there, she proceeded to kiss them and stroke their hair, as they all giggled and cried in each other’s arms.

Embarrassed, Aim turned to the others who smiled and laughed at his bewilderment, then wrapped him in their own hugs, and asked his story, as several checked to see that Elpis was still okay.

So it continued for several minutes.

Eventually, the party rode from the stables. As they left, Aim continued to stare at the silent woman with flame red hair. He couldn’t help a sneaking suspicion. There was something odd about her, almost alien. It was obvious that she harbored secrets, but he had no idea what they might be.

Several miles down the road, as Aim continued to stare at Meu, Andrus noticed his cousin’s preoccupation with the strange older lady. He leaned close to his cousin. “What is it?” he whispered.

Aim shook his head. “Something ain’t right with that one,” he began. “Weird, in the weirding ways, like the shaman, I think,” he suggested, then shrugged as he had nothing solid to offer.

Andrus stared at Meu. With a nod, he held two fingers to his eyes, pointed them at the strange woman, then back at his own eyes in a gesture that said: I’m watching.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 8.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

The Jaded Blades scoffed and shook their heads as they watched the locals put out the last embers that devoured the House of Leaves. “It is your fault we are late!” Grunther snapped at Meriona. “If you had not insisted we chase rumors and ghosts in Edgewater, we would have been here for this!”

Meriona recoiled. “I didn’t suggest that! I said it was only a few of their new Trohl friends, and not the duke at all! You took us to Edgewater!”

“But you are in charge,” Grunther reminded. “And since we went to Edgewater, you must have taken us there.”

The other Jaded Blades chuckled and nodded in agreement.

Exacerbated, Meriona glared at her new companions. “Not only do you pay me no mind, but now you mock me for your own bad decisions?!”

Naiphan raised a hand. “Your complaints are not making this trip any easier. Just accept your failings, and let us follow after our quarry,” he concluded with a sneer that revealed discolored and misshapen teeth.

The others laughed as Meriona glared at them in turn. Initially, she thought they might be friends—or at least friendly—but they had banded against her almost immediately and treated her as a burden. They mocked her for her civility among the commoners, and repeatedly told her to shut up.

Still, she was not all grace and niceties. She had a long memory and her own ways of getting even. But first, she would tend to the duke and his priestess. Once that was done, she’d worry about these Jaded Blades and their absolute lack of civility!

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 8.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Thanks to the Pan Iskaer, the duke had an escort of a good fifty men. After arriving at the Copper Kettle and Rooms, other friendly militias appeared to speak with the Jindleyaks. Few, if any, bothered the foreigners at all—which made Baet’s job an easy one.

Most of those that came to visit did not even look at the duke. They were far too interested in the crinkly old shaman and how he’d predicted—or possibly caused—the death of Kezodel. They stood, enraptured by the strange man’s story, and heaped praise upon the unsettled Krumpus as he blushed prudently and accepted the compliments in a graceful manner—though he mostly tried to avoid the Jindleyaks telling his story, and also those listening. Still, they occasionally cornered him, that they might stare at his scarred countenance, shake his withered hands, and wish him well.

The poor bastard.

And since the grumpy old wizard was busy hiding, he had no time to glare at the Saot guard for seemingly fondling Wenifas. Baet huffed as he remembered that. To think that he’d almost reclaimed Cloud Breaker from the morose priestess!

Creigal was resting in his room, with Carringten undoubtingly close, and so Baet was free to do as he liked. The inn boasted several small pools, fed by a hot spring. Baet sat in the heat of the water. He occasionally shifted to one of the warmer or cooler pools, depending on his mood. The sun dipped in the west as he rested his eyes. There were still so many hours until dark, when Baet would take the watch with Homoth and Komotz. He smiled to think of the cards that would fly between them, of the silver he’d win.

A shadow crossed over the undressed man-at-arms and brought an uneasiness with it. Baet reached for the sword he kept with his towel, only to relax as he realized it was Carringten. “Silent as the night,” he said with a forced smile.

“Apologies,” Carringten replied. “The Pan Iskaer have retrieved the bodies of Apulton and Traust. The others mean to light a pyre and mourn their friends.”

“Ahh,” Baet bowed his head. “The others have gathered?”

“As the sun sets,” Carringten answered. “For now, they gather wood.”

Baet gave a nod and relaxed back into the water. “I shall miss these pools when we leave.”

Carringten smiled. “Then you will be happy to know that our friends mean to stay another day. Elpis is still quite weak, and I think everyone is a bit weary. They all seem quite certain we are safe, even if we are just beyond the city’s limits.”

Baet nodded emphatically. “I don’t know about you, but my tiredness goes to the bone,” he began. “It's been a long—what? Has it been two months since we left Gaurring Heart?” He stared at his captain. “Do you think we'll go home any time soon? Does our master still mean to search for the thief?”

“Do you prefer one over the other?”

Baet frowned at the question. “I should very much like to go home,” he nodded. “I would have liked to stay in the first place,” he admitted.

“You did not have to come,” Carringten replied with a quizzical eye.

Baet wondered if that were true. He suspected if he had refused, they would have thrown him in a cell. But then, he wasn’t sure if they knew of his betrayal or not. He wondered if it was possible they asked him to join the hunt simply because he was a talented and dangerous man. He felt a tinge of guilt as he remembered why he came, and how the whole fiasco had started. The duke and Carringten gave nothing away, and so Baet was forced to wonder what they might know—and to speak nothing of the truth.

After a long second of nothing, Baet turned and looked Carringten in the eye. “I am honored to guard the duke,” he claimed.

“Well, when we eventually get to Land’s End, who is to say we will find Humbert at all?” Carringten shrugged, as he stared off into the distance. “Who is to say he has not lost himself on the road; to brigands, or sickness, or some other calamity?”

“And who is to say we won't find him running further afield, perhaps for Gramgoar territory, or even New Tallia?” Baet interjected. “Who is to say this isn’t just the beginning of our quest?”

“Who is to say Humbert hasn't turned west and lost himself somewhere in Ebertin? Indeed, it is impossible to know,” Carringten continued. “Perhaps it is best to leave the unknowable future for the days to come.”

Baet agreed. “It does not matter anyway. The duke will say what he wants, and I will do as he says. I will serve as I always have.”

For a long second, Carringten stared at his junior guard; then he turned and glanced at the sun, determined to change the subject. “Tomorrow, I go with Saleos and some of the others to get supplies. You’ll stay upon the grounds of the inn, and you’ll know where the duke is at all times.”

“Oh course,” Baet smiled. “Care to join me? The water is warm, and this pool is big enough for a dozen of us.”

“Later, perhaps. For now, I shall help gather wood,” he said, then turned and stepped away.

Baet closed his eyes that he might forget his troubles and concentrate on the warm water as it rippled across his skin. He certainly didn’t want to think about mourning more dead. He felt guilty enough about Haddleton, Vearing, and the loyal guards of Creigal.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 8.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Baet approached the bonfire to find the others already there. Even the injured man, Elpis, sat at the edge of the fire—though he looked pale and drawn as his injured eye stared off at a strange angle. Indeed, Baet had a hard time telling which eye was the one that was wonky, and wondered for a while if they might both be bad.

The fire licked higher and higher into the fading darkness. Sparks rose to mingle with the first of the night's stars. The crowd was reverent and sedate. There were only two sounds: the crack and roar of the fire, punctuated by squeals of delight as Evereste stared wide-eyed at the dancing flames, as she leaned out of the priestess’ arms.

The various members of the Oak and Beast stared into the fire, a morose and somber lot. Occasionally, they spoke. “Apulton was like an older brother to me,” Homoth began with gathering tears. “We used to swim the waters of the Heartflow. He was with me on my very first hunt.”

“Traust was the best men I ever met,” Duboha stated in a flat tone.

“It is a shame,” Aim noted. “It is a shame indeed.”

The mood became increasingly despondent and sullen as the Jindleyak drank and spoke of their friends in heartfelt snippets.

As they continued, Creigal's mood became increasingly dark. After a short time, there was something of a scowl upon the duke’s face. For nearly an hour he remained quiet—as the Trohls mourned their losses—so it surprised the natives when the duke stepped on the trunk of a fallen tree and looked about the group with a commanding eye.

Although the natives were surprised, Baet and Carringten realized immediately that their duke meant to deliver a speech—and he meant to do it the only way he knew how: in a grand and dramatic fashion. Creigal waited for the others to be quiet. He began slow, and with a low voice as he directed his words at the Jindleyaks. “I barely knew them—your brothers. We met only a few days ago, as I was to be hanged for sins I did not commit,” the duke began with a grim smile. “Despite the serious charges against me, Traust escorted my men and I to the safety of his own home. At great risk to himself, and to all of you, we were seen through the streets of Ebertin, and tunnels of Beletrain. He even lent me money and supplies.

“Like the rest of you, Apulton was agreeable, and when push came to shove, he put his life on the line," Creigal hanged his head. "And now the deal is done. We have paid our enemies, tit for tat, and my loyalty is bought with the most precious of coin: life’s blood.

“But these are not all the men that have died of late,” Creigal continued, as he stared about the gathered militiamen. “My men in Wibbeley died that I might live: Vearing, Marik, Haddleton to name a few. These are not names you know, but they were loyal to me, and I have not had the time to mourn them proper. I have not had the opportunity to inform and comfort their families. I hope they will forgive me for such short shrift,” Creigal bowed his head. He gave his dead men a moment of silence. Tears welled in his eyes as he began again. “One day, Abra will take us all, righteous and wicked alike!” He said with a booming voice. “She gave us life, and one day she will claim us, each and every one. You and I are but food for her worms. Our friends simply go before us, their bodies settled in the deep dark earth, their sprits drifting in the great beyond!” he roared. “Despite our inevitable endings, I celebrate what our friends have bought—for they have bought our lives, our hopes, our ambitions!

“And that is not all, my friends! Oh no! That is not it at all! For giving me yet another chance, I vow on their graves that I will not go lightly to my death!” Creigal scowled as he stared about those that had gathered. He shook his head. “We do not honor the dead by following a deadening path, with sad and pitiful platitudes! We honor them by living full and courageous lives! We honor them by clinging to our values, tooth and nail!

“I will not go lightly!” the duke boomed. “Indeed, I will be as potent as I can! I will be a boon to friends—and I will be a terror in the face of my enemies! I shall cling to my precious life with a tenacity! I will do all that I can for all that I love!" He lifted his arms and turned his face to the sky. "Sweet Abra, receive the spirits of our fallen friends! Remind them of our love! Do not let them be forgotten, for one day the earth will claim us all; and that day we shall know our friends once more!” he finished.

Realizing that he had finished his impassioned speech, the others stood and cheered. For several long seconds, he encouraged their cheers, then gave a nod and turned to sit.

"Let us be worthy!" Saleos called.

Duboha nodded. “Praise Jeiju!”

"Praise Jeiju!" Komotz repeated.

"Praise Jeiju!" the others took up the call. "Praise indeed!"

The men stood and crowded around Creigal. They patted him on the back, hugged him, and thanked him for all his kind words. In exchange, he was allowed to see their tear-streaked faces.

An ethereal sound began—a high-wailing moan, otherworldly, and strange. The group turned and realized the song came from Meu. The silent redhead sang a haunting ethereal song, a dirge of her kind, inhuman and otherworldly. Krumpus caught the melody and hummed along, grounding the song with baritone notes, as the others stared on in marvel.

The song ended, and as it did, Krumpus shifted it and changed the tempo, that he might hum his favorite song, written to memorialize the Broken Legions of Old Tallia. The song started slow and sad, as the people suffered greatly on their march, hounded and hunted for hundreds of miles across the plains of Tallia, with only the 'traitors' Tronde and Rigel and their 'criminal' men to protect them.

During the exodus, countless men died; in battle, of fatigue, of sickness, of hopelessness. Yet, so many lived, and in the mountains of the Bunderhilt, the survivors of Old Tallia found a friendly people, warm and welcoming. The song swelled and became hopeful as the Tallian refugees met the various Yak tribes. It took on a joyous tone as it turned to the mingling of these peoples. The native tribes of the mountains took in the beleaguered survivors of Old Tallia and helped them establish themselves. They gave freely of their surplus, and shared vital stores. They saved so very many those first few months—and the Tallian refugees were thankful for such kind treatment.

Indeed, the Yak and Tallians found each others customs to be rich and endearing. There was much knowledge and wisdom shared between them. Over the years, the refugees and their rescuers mingled and melded into a single people—and the nine tribes of the Trohl were born.

Smiles overcame the company as the glad sound of the shaman continued. Others among the Jindleyak took up the song and filled the air with words.

All this continued as Wenifas thought of Derris. Emotion overcame her. She wanted to sing the sad parts of their songs, but she could not. She did not know the lyrics. Yet, the priestess could dance. She was a master of rhythm. Indeed, music was sacred to Ministrians, and dance was one of the primary ways that her people worshiped. Despite her tears, Wenifas stood and began to stir. She gave Evereste to Celesi. Tonight, she would mourn her lost love with soft steps and the sway of her hips.

The movements came naturally as Wenifas weaved and snaked around the bonfire. The song shifted and became joyous as the Tallians and the Yak exhanged customs. Wenifas allowed her expression to shift with it—though it belied her devastation and grief.

Celesi placed the babe in the lap of Elpis and joined in the dance, trained in the ways of Minist, and knowing the style. Although she mourned those that were lost, the former Jay felt boisterous and alive. After all, she was free! Thank the gods, she was free! On top of that, she had a man to impress! Her dance took on a seductive edge as she lingered near Toar.

Meu followed their lead as she very much loved to dance. Her serpentine nature was wise to the fluid shift of song, and she performed well. The shaman stood and took steps with her.

Scurra also joined, though she was a novice compared to the others. Still, she managed to keep time just fine, and was a beauty in her own right. Indeed, Scurra received boisterous applause as she stood to join the others. In comparison, her steps were simple—but the others cheered and whistled to see their cousin move in such a womanly fashion. They knew her to be a tomboy and were most surprised to see her implement such feminine wiles.

Several of the other men stood and joined the dance. For some time, much of the party weaved in a circle about the bonfire as the long and ancient song continued. Creigal was one of the few that did not dance—though he clapped, smiled, and encouraged the others.

Evereste screeched and laughed to see them dance, and for a time, Elpis let her down—until he thought he saw her grab an errant ember that popped out of the fire. He reached out for her, expecting a scream—though she smiled at him with ashy teeth and a cool chunk of charcoal that he fished from her mouth.

Baet danced among the others. Though he mourned his friend, Haddleton, he found himself mostly thinking of the man’s cute wife, Emia. She must be heartbroken.

And then the guard found himself dancing with Wenifas. It happened by accident—though he was glad when he noticed. He stared at the priestess as she stepped, bounced, and waved all about. She was beautiful in an exotic way, her dress and features so very foreign, as were her manners and attitudes. She was a vision, in part because of the tears that streaked her face.

Baet realized that the priestess was not mourning Traust and Apulton—but the guard at the fort—her lover. He stopped in his step as he remembered how they had wronged her. He stared at the woman before him and wondered if there was any way he might possibly win her heart. Would she ever forgive him for what he’d done? If he could not forgive himself, how could he hope of such a thing from someone else?

For her part, Wenifas did not notice the guard. He was just another man, and he could never be the one she cared for. Then, as he stood stock still, she took the time to wonder why. Only then did she realize who it was that leered at her. It did not matter that Baet’s face was stained with grief of his own—only that he stared at her with an obvious longing. Despite the goodwill the Saots had engendered over the last several weeks, the anger of the priestess flared. She stumbled in her step. She swayed to a stop and stared at the man with murderous intent in her eyes.

Now that he had her full attention, Baet collapsed to his knees. He took the priestess by her hand and pressed it to his forehead. After the heartfelt speech of his duke and the emotional song and dance, he felt the keen sting of his own betrayals and shortcomings. He longed to be forgiven.

The priestess continued to glare, then her free hand shot out and caught Baet's cheek with a resounding slap. The dancing and the singing stopped as the others turned toward the odd couple. There was no sound except the crackle of the fire—and the happy babble of Evereste.

Baet made no move. He only touched his stinging cheek as he stared wide-eyed at the priestess.

Rage surged through Wenifas. She screamed and lunged at the Saot. “Die!” she roared, as she struck him again and again. She pushed him to the ground and continued to yell her fury as she lashed out at him.

Baet curled into a ball and took his punishment. Wenifas was not terribly strong, and despite her eagerness to do damage, her bare hands were not up to the task—then Wenifas spotted the knife on Baet's belt. She yanked it from the sheath and swept her hand back. She aimed the blade, and would have stabbed the man—but as she swept the blade down, Scurra caught the priestess by the arm and held it. She stared at Wenifas, shocked that the Ministrian might try to kill.

Wenifas turned on Scurra with a scowl and shrieked at the Jindleyak “Let me do it!”

"No," Scurra said to the priestess, her voice calm but authoritative.

Wenifas roared. She turned and tried to strike the Trohl woman, but Scurra deflected the blow and twisted the knife out the priestess's hand. With a gasp, Wenifas dropped the knife.

Having disarmed the woman, Scurra picked the blade off the ground. “Whatever happened between you, leave it in the past,” she said to the priestess.

Wenifas screamed and bawled as Meu and Celesi restrained her. At first, the priestess struggled against her friends, then she crumbled into their waiting arms. The priestess bawled as Celesi and Meu led her from the crowd.

Everyone thought the drama was over—until Claiten pulled his naga knife and lunged at Baet. He crowed and took a swipe at the man—but the guard was no longer frozen. He managed to dodge the boy; once, twice—then caught the child’s hand.

Meu left Wenifas and returned to the bonfire in a flash. She pulled Claiten away, then took his naga blade from the guard. She led the boy away as she scolded him with her eyes. Still, Claiten dragged his heels. He turned and snapped at the guard. “Stupid spearhead!” he cursed as Meu pulled him along, then crowed in defiance. “ERR-AYE-ERR-AYE-ERRRRR!”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 8.7 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

After the fracas between Wenifas and Baet, the mood of solemn reverence was broken, so Creigal took the opportunity to slip away. He disappeared from the light of the fire and proceeded to the bank of the river.

After a short time, Carringten appeared at his elbow. "Quite the speech," he assured as they moved away from the fire.

Creigal nodded and smiled at his captain. "I spoke from my heart."

“Yes, and in a grand manner too,” Carringten smiled. "I appreciate your words for my fallen brothers. I believe Baet feels the same—though he has a peculiar way of showing it,” he shrugged. “Anyway, I think our new friends are quite taken.”

Normally, Creigal was quite happy to hear Carringten’s pragmatic evaluations, but tonight he was uninterested. He turned to his adopted son and stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “I thank you for your candid observations, but might I be alone with my thoughts for a while? I do not feel any danger around us, and it has been such a long time since I have been alone.”

Carringten stopped and gave a bow. “Yes, my liege," he said. “If there is need, I shall be among our new friends.”

“I thank you,” Creigal smiled and watched as Carringten disappeared back toward the fire. The duke walked to the very edge of the river, then continued along its bank. He checked to see if Carringten followed, and although he saw no trace of the bodyguard, he knew the man might easily stalk nearby. Creigal decided it was enough. Whether he was alone, or simply thought he was alone, there was little difference. Either way, the duke was quite alone in his thoughts. Haunting thoughts. Thoughts of his daughter. Thoughts of a thief. Thoughts of his sons. Thoughts of his people. Thoughts of the duchy…

There was certainly enough to think about.

Being so far from home, Creigal knew it could do no good to worry over the duchy—and yet he could not put it aside. His ministers were good and capable men, and the duchy was largely in their hands, even when he was around. He simply hoped they did not feel abandoned. He hoped they would not forget how powerful they were all on their own.

He also hoped his sons would be denied any power. He cared nothing for his boys, whom were disinherited after it was proved they killed their sister. Oh, Daphne! Did they really think they could get away with it?! Now, his sons would get nothing from their father—except his holy wrath. Now, the duchy would fall to his nephew, Varius; a solid and weighty diplomat with a serious demeanor and outlook, and very much one of Creigal’s inner circle. The duchy would prosper under his nephew. There was no doubt of that.

Not that Creigal wanted to consider the politics of the duchy. He had little passion for his position anymore. There was just an endless war before him; cold and bitter calculation. Perhaps that is how passion and sentimentality could send him after his daughter's necklace, in a fit of rage, with the thief’s accomplice in tow—and as they traipsed across an unknown land, not an assassination attempt, a poisoning, or the threat of hanging could give him pause! There was nothing Creigal wanted aside from a base and simple necklace—his daughter’s remembrance. There was no other lust in his life, no other zeal. There was only a small, enduring ember that he could stoke into a rage simply by thinking of his daughter.

It was the only death he remembered. He felt a fraud as he remembered his words to the others—even though he knew his speech was good for his new friends, he could not feel the death of his guards anymore. There were too many such deaths to consider. How many strong capable men with glaringly bright futures had lost their lives in his service? If it were not for the infernal King—for Gred duReb’s incessant plotting—how many might still be alive?! It was a colossal waste of life and talent.

Creigal sat at the edge of the lapping water and pondered its flow. The water would never run east, never uphill. There was no undoing what was done.

So much was already done.

Why should he worry that he might lose his sweet daughter, when she was already gone? Was it not an irredeemable debt? Retrieving her necklace would do nothing to bring her back!

Yet, endless dreams of her spurred him on. Indeed, he was more adamant than ever about finding Humbert and retrieving the trinket—though he thought it quite unlikely that he’d ever see hair or hide of the man. What were the chances he might find the thief's trail when he should finally arrive in Land's End? Another city that hated him. More than likely, there’d be nothing to find. He’d eventually return home and resume his duties, his heart cold and calculating once more.

He would do the job. Creigal loved his people, but it was a passionless love struck from a sense of duty and honor. In all honesty, he wanted to be free of it. He preferred the open road. He preferred the company of these kind strangers and their ambivalence to his status.

And what if he should die in the wilds, so far from home? He was not eager for death, but unlike many of his Baradha cousins, he did not cling to immortality in a cruel and vain way.

As if such a thing was ever desirable.

Creigal had met some of the long lived; those that managed two, three, even four hundred years. He did not envy their tortured and frail forms—and especially not the unending cruelty necessary to maintain their shallow lives. They robbed the most innocent of their youth and vitality for their twisted blood magicks. Selfish and resentful, their lives were no boon to their people. Indeed, they were the cancer that sucked at the very marrow of their society; a creeping sickness that threatened to destroy the Ministrian Empire from within—and with such a perfection that Creigal doubted anything would remain, whenever it should finally happen. He was convinced of the Empire’s eventual demise—though he imagined it'd be years, decades, maybe centuries before it might finally implode under the bloated weight of their exalted Baradha masters. Such an end was inevitable, and likely it would be a sudden and bloody end.

Of course there were also such men among the Saot, among the Politico Superiore—but they were not so accomplished as their Baradha cousins. Too much of their evil science was stolen or corrupted so very long ago by the sabotage and betrayal of the dark prince, Lasitus; a fact that saw the political class subsume itself to the Ministrian elite, and thereby made the Saot Kingdom little more than a vassal state of the Empire. With the best of the Kingdom’s grammars and magical artifacts in tow, Lasitus had destroyed all pursuit as he fled north into the Bunderhilt, several hundred years ago. And then what? He disappeared, and with him, much of the dark science he’d stolen—and good riddance, as far as Creigal was concerned!

Creigal stared up at the night sky. He tracked the Children of the Broken Moon and tried not to think of such vicious things. It was important to remember the low character of his enemies—but it was also important that he did not dwell on it. Indeed, he thought his study of the subject so many years ago only helped turn his sons to the dark path. While he was horrified and dismayed by the study of these ‘exalted masters’, his sons were fascinated and engrossed. Still, it was their choice to continue down the easy path, the selfish path, the destructive path; and they did so despite the best efforts of their father to turn them back.

With a heavy sigh, Creigal turned from the sky and stared out over the river. He skipped stones across the silent water as far as they might go, and told himself he'd think no more about the duchy, about his sons, about his daughter.

Plock, plock, plock.

Who was to say everything wouldn't turn out for the best? Who was to say he wouldn’t return home to find Gaurring as strong and stable as ever before? Let the people continue on without him for a time! For such effort, they'd be less dependent and all the more free!

Creigal smiled to have such bright thoughts crowd his mind. He picked another stone and skipped it across the water.

Plock, plock, plock, plock, plock, plock, plock.

For a time, he thought about nothing, nothing at all. He simply stared across the rippling surface of the river and threw another rock.

Plock, plock, plock, plock, plock.

He threw another.

Plock, plock.

And another.

Plock, plock, plock, plock.

And as the darkness grew, he threw one last stone, before he leaned on the soft moss of a maple, just to rest his head for a bit…

Plock.

..and then the darkness overcame him, and brought with it no end of dreams.

Eyes Abound

Polished the entire chapter — 39m26s — 2023/12/20

Embarrassed at the bonfire, Baet begged off and decided to soak in the hot springs. He would bathe until his watch. At midnight, he still had to stand guard with the brothers—but at least he was likely to win a bit more coin. From the pools, he could see the bonfire. He sighed and shook his head as he considered the others, then turned and looked away.

Shortly, Carringten appeared at the pools with a towel in hand. Carringten proceeded to strip down to his skivvies, then stepped into the next pool. “Hey Baet,” he said—and since neither was up for conversation—this was just about all they spoke to each other.

From certain pools the two Saot guards could see the rest of their company gathered on a slight hill a couple hundred yards behind the main cluster of cabins. On top of the hill, in the light of the fire, the others gossiped.

Of all the Jindleyak, Komotz and Homoth spoke the least Ministrian—though Aim wasn’t much better—and so the three had missed the words that passed between Baet and Wenifas. They’d caught only a bit of the language—just a few of the curse words that the priestess had screamed—and so they were left to speculate.

Homoth glanced at his brother. “Why was the priestess so mad? Why was Baet on his knees? Were they friends before? Did he betray her?”

Andrus joined in their conversation, though he sat on the other side of Toar. They wondered that Baet had bowed and apologized, so they figured he must have done something wrong. If so, how much did he deserve the attack? Did Wenifas go too far? Indeed, she did pull a blade on him. Their questions only compounded.

Duboha joined in the discussion with Elpis and Saleos soon after—though they mostly tempered the wilder considerations of their younger countrymen. Before long, their was no conversation about anything else, at least not among the Jindleyaks.

Despite his hesitation to talk of other people’s business, Toar thought it might be best to give a little history. They’d probably get it from Baet and Wenifas eventually, but those would both be tinted versions of the truth. He thought that perhaps they ought to hear it all from someone a bit more impartial—and so he spoke. “It’s not as you imagine,” he stared. “But please, let me start at the beginning.”

“We haven’t known each other for all that long,” Toar explained. “I came across the Saots less than a month ago, and I’ve known the ladies and the shaman for about half that—and where I got along with the Saots immediately, as soon as we met the priestess there was animosity. We only got along later, as we were pressed to get along.”

The others turned to Toar, curious to hear how he might continue.

“Let me go back before we ever met the priestess. Let me first start with the duke,” the young wanderer apologized. “I first met Creigal and his guards as they were about to be ambushed. I spoiled the attack, and after that, the duke took me on as his guide. Since he was poisoned, I took them east, and we dodged Ministrians and bugbear—until we were captured in Woodring.”

“We were taken to the dueling forts, but our capture didn’t last long,” Toar continued. “The neighboring camp was attacked, and most the prison guards left to prevent its destruction. After the battle began, after the alarm was raised, Carringten was spotted. Thankfully, it was just one guard. We overpowered him, and he died during the conflict. It is unfortunate that the man was killed—but the worst of it was that the priestess saw what we did,” Toar shook his head. “She knew him and was very distressed by his death.”

The militiamen whispered of murder.

“I would not call it murder,” Toar replied. “A man was certainly killed, yes, but he had no right to keep us locked up. We simply tried to leave, and he tried to stop us. How is that murder? How is that not simple self defense?”

“Self defense does explain both the animosity and silence about the grievance,” Saleos noted. “We would not be sympathetic to slavery.”

“Yeah, but why does she hate Baet so much?” Aim asked. “She didn’t go after you or Carringten.”

“He does seem to court it,” Duboha muttered.

“He drove the knife,” Toar told them. “And this isn’t the first time she's tried to kill him. The night we met, she used his own musket, though I am happy to say, she missed.”

“How’d she get his pistol?” Homoth wondered.

“No idea,” Toar shook his head. “We were in prison. Our weapons were stripped from us the day before.”

“If she hates you so much, why did she not stay with her own people in Falderfallen Hovey?" Elpis asked.

Toar shrugged. “I don’t know that one either. Nor do I know why she was banished.”

“That adds to it,” Saleos noted. “What did she do that so offended the Jay?”

Celesi had returned but just a short while ago. She sidled up to Toar and beamed at the young Bouge while the others gossiped around her. For a time she thought to keep her silence—but since Toar was ignoring her rather obvious attempts to steal his attention, and since she could provide insight, she decided to insert herself in the conversation. “Wenifas had command of the guards on the road, and she refused to relinquish it, which upset Meriona greatly,” she noted.

“That makes even less sense,” Toar began. “If there was animosity between the two, why would the priestess join us at court?”

“Meriona doesn’t operate like that,” Celesi explained. “She wasn’t openly mean to the priestess. Indeed, she was quite ingratiating. She promised Wenifas that she'd see the lot of you hanged—though I’m happy to say that fell apart!” she noted with a chuckle.

Toar recoiled. “She meant to see us hanged?!” He turned and stared daggers at the absent priestess. “That sneaky cuss!”

Celesi attempted to calm him. “Meriona always meant to betray her, just as she meant to betray you. She was always petty and vengeful. Besides, Wenifas has good reason to hate you,” she noted.

Toar recoiled. “She has good reason to hate me?!”

Celesi shrugged. “You did kill her man. Do you expect her to just forget about that?”

“So, this is actually the third attempt she’s made on us?!” Toar sputtered and stood. “Well, that does it! We must cut her loose! We don’t need such deviousness!”

Celesi grabbed his arm. “You killed her man! Can’t you forgive her for trying to return the favor? Besides, she’s done nothing since her plot with Meriona fell apart. And did you not see the way that Baet antagonized her?! As she was deep in her feels?!” Celesi shook her head. “He was wrong to approach her in her mourning!”

Toar stared off into the distance. “All that time on the road and she still harbors this hatred,” he noted.

“All that time!” Celesi huffed. “She lost her lover, what? Just over two weeks ago?! That’s a pittance!”

“Oh, like we should simply forgive her and allow her along?!” Toar replied. “What is to stop her from turning on us at her earliest convenience?!”

“Earliest convenience!” Celesi sneered and glared back at Toar. How could he be so unreasonable?! “Think about what you say, man! What is so convenient about her circumstance?! Without a people?! Running from the law with only a handful of strangers to guide and protect her?! Or is it having two children to watch while she does it?!” the young lady retaliated.

“More reason to leave her here, now that it’s safe,” Toar answered.

Celesi crossed her arms. “If it’s so safe, why don’t you stay?”

“Because the duke means to move on,” Toar answered.

“And would you say that safety is one of the reasons he’s moving on?” Celesi replied.

Toar frowned, stung by her sarcasm. “That’s not what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” Celesi snapped. “You mean to turn her away, because she planned revenge, back when revenge was in the cards! Well, it ain’t in the cards no more! And she hasn’t tried anything!”

Toar waved, “Didn’t she just try to stab Baet?!”

“That’s not fair,” Celesi replied. “You think she wants to cross you—and all of us—just to get back at the tea drinker?! Beside, he instigated tonight’s little drama! Maybe we should leave him instead!”

Duboha cut in and attempted to turn down the heat. “Little in this world is ever so simple,” he began. “We’ve all suffered a great deal of late. I feel this is an understandable outburst—especially if both Baet and Wenifas remain quiet about it afterward. The priestess has done nothing else to jeopardize us. And the guard seems to be fine with a bit of abuse from her pretty hands. Unless this becomes a regular thing between the two, I see no reason why she shouldn’t continue in our company.”

“Fine,” Toar gave up with a huff.

“Fine,” Celesi agreed, which was easier since she’d won—but still a bitter pill since it upset Toar so much. Why was he so upset? She thought he’d be happy to have the whole story! Instead, he was mad that Celesi had sided with the priestess.

But there weren’t sides! They were all on the same side!

Duboha turned to Toar, that he might clarify some of his story. "So all of this occurred as the bugbear warred on your prison?"

“That's how it started,” Toar nodded.

Komotz turned to Saleos. “Didn’t you fight bugbear? In Salyst?”

“Salyst?!” Toar stared at Saleos. “Well, tell us about that!" Toar beamed.

Saleos shook his head. "You haven’t finished your tale yet.”

“But that is the end of it,” Toar protested. "We escaped the prison, dodged a bullet, rescued Celesi and Meriona, then met Wenifas, Krumpus, and Meu among with so many other survivors on the road to Ebertin. Although Wenifas had control of the guards, we traveled with the protection of the Jay, so Wenifas could not deny us. We marched a good week, stopping in Falderfallen’s Hovey, then trudged another couple days, until we arrived in Ebertin, where we met you in Kezodel's court,” Toar shrugged. “After all that time, I thought the grudge was gone. Little did I know what the priestess and the Jay were planning to do,” he glared at Celesi.

Celesi shot back at him. “And then Meriona betrayed her, and left her with her lover’s killers—and yet she’s done nothing—until Baet egged her on!”

“If you should like talk of ancient history,” Saleos began in a loud voice. “Perhaps I shall tell you of mine.”

Toar stood, and rolling his eyes, went and sat away from Celesi, then turned his attention back to Saleos.

“It was a long time ago, some twenty years,” Saleos glanced about his audience. “A war of bugbear stormed out of the Cloud Mountains and fell upon the mines, farmlands, and villages north of Salyst. The bugbear continued their assault for the better part of a week, marauding and ravaging outside the city walls. They did not have the numbers to attack the city proper. Still, they did their damage—only to slink back into the mountains, satiated with blood and treasure.”

Toar nodded. “Bugbear make the worst sort neighbors.”

Saleos smiled. “After the war ended, the various Salystian militias decided they could not leave the vermin to proliferate and cause another war some twenty years distant. They formed up, intent to clear the buggers from the near side of the Cloud Mountains.

“When I first caught wind of the attacks, I was still in Gramgoar,—but I knew immediately that I wanted to go help my brothers in their troubles. It took me a year and a half, but I finally arrived—as the Salystians chased the buggers through the canyons and along the ridges. I joined the campaign to eradicate them, looking for glory and adventure—only to find blood and hardship. It was a crash course in fighting on uneven terrain, in bad weather, and also underground. We chased the bugbear into their caves, and through thickets of needle thorn, poison sycamore, and the ever-present strangle vine. We wore thick leathers with interwoven chain; gloves, and full masks to defend against the bugbear poisons. Indeed, by the time I arrived, the deadliest of the bugger poisons were in short supply—but we still saw them all, maddening wyrmbite, lightdrinker, itchy-creepy. The worst of it was slugsalt—but it was rare to see a man get stuck with a dart, or step on a spike, only to drop dead in seconds. Most of what we saw was the rot, slow, insidious, difficult to heal, and in ready supply.”

“You encountered a lot of rot?” Toar asked.

“Constantly. They make it from strangle vine and poison sycamore, both of which they grow in massive thickets about the entrances to their warrens. it seems to me that they never suffer a shortage,” Saleos rolled up his sleeve and revealed a webbed scar on his upper arm, maybe twice the size of a lune. “Needless to say, we got really good at treating the rot. By the end of the war we were losing less than one out of twenty men infected. I dodged that arrow twice,” he noted, and showed them another small patch of rot on his left foot.

“The duke got the rot,” Toar noted. “Indeed, I saw him get poisoned.”

“You managed to heal him?” Saleos asked.

“No,” Toar admitted. “I kept him alive a good week before he was taken and healed by some stranger at the camp. None of us met the man. Indeed, not even the duke knows who healed him—and his recovery was remarkably quick,” Toar stated. “I wish I knew who did it—and how—but I fear whoever did it perished in the bugger war.”

“He had the rot for a week?” Saleos whistled. “How’d you keep him alive that long?”

“I had a fine ointment made by a friend of mine, and I gave the duke lots of fio to keep his energy up,” Toar shrugged. “Still, he barely pulled through.”

“Yeah, but a week! I should like to know what was in that ointment,” Saleos noted.

“Unfortunately, I lost what was left of the bottle when we were taken prisoner,” Toar claimed, not wanting to share any of his new supply, not simply for this man’s investigation. “If you ever return to Ebertin, my friend in Edgewater can inform you. She is the one that made it.”

“Still, sick for a week,” Saleos shook his head. “He must have been a mess.”

Toar nodded. “He was on a litter at the end, and rot covered his entire right side. When we were captured, the Ministrian surgeons refused to even try. Indeed, they turned him over to some native they’d locked away from the others.” Toar turned and stared at Krumpus, suddenly suspicious, as the shaman poked the fading fire with with a long stick, seemingly uninterested in their conversation.

“Enough of your medicines!” Komotz cut in. “Saleos, tell us more of the fighting!”

Homoth and Aim agreed, and since Toar was also interested in that, Saleos began again. “It was a slow and persistent grind to chase the bugbear from their warrens. If you know buggers at all, then you know they are talented diggers. Still, we persisted. Slowly, we pushed then over the mountain, and deep into their caves. There were plenty of pitched battles, both under and above ground. It didn’t matter if I faced a bull, bitch, or pup; the buggers fought tooth and nail to the bitter end.

“Eventually, we pushed them so deep that we were in the caves for days,” Saleos continued. “Sometimes we came out on the other side of the ridge, while other times we wondered if the tunnels would ever come to an end! Indeed, bugbear weren’t the only things we found deep in the earth. After a few battles with indescribable beasts, we decided it might be best to simply destroy the tunnels on our side of the mountain and leave it at that.

Saleos shook his head. “Needless, to say, the victory was short lived. As the militias warred against the buggers, another threat approached from the south. Ministrians began their infernal work, pretending to be interested only in trade. Two years later, they managed to clear out the Salystians, just as we’d cleared out the bugbear. Then, once the people were gone, the Ministrians left. They wanted slaves, not a ruined city,” he shrugged.

“You were in Salyst when the Ministrians invaded?!” Toar could hardly believe it. “What was that like?!”

“We should have seen it coming,” Saleos shrugged. “The Ministrians overpaid for everything, and quickly involved themselves in local politics. They were a disruption from the outset—but the militias were focused on the bugger problem—and many allowed themselves to be soothed and sweet-talked by the silver-tongued Ministrians.” He shook his head. “The situation deteriorated rapidly. Salyst was small for a city and it wasn’t long before the Salystians were heavily outnumbered. Bouge militias came to help—though just as many helped the wrong side. Those that refused Ministrian blood money were attacked and harried for interfering. The siege continued and the city suffered. More and more Salystians escaped into the Red Desert, hoping to find refuge in the wilds. When that started to happen en masse, I realized I had to make a choice: chance it with the Salystians and go live beyond the desert, or sneak east and go back home. Though it was uncharacteristic of me, I decided to go home.”

“What was it like to live among the Salystians?” Toar asked. “In the early days, before the Ministrians?”

Saleos shrugged. “They were nice people, though they were different than the other Trohl tribes. They were almost completely of Yakkish decent. While the other tribes welcomed the Tallian refugees with open arms, the Salystians remained cool and distant. Some few Tallians settled among them—as they were not totally heartless—but these Tallians were forced to forgo their own customs and adopt the ways of the Yak entirely. That is how some of their Bouge brethren justified turning against them—that and a little blood money.”

“It is said they possessed wild magics and ancient wisdoms,” Toar noted.

A knowing smile overcame Saleos. “Secrets and talents like none other?!” He leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. “Powers beyond your wildest imagination?!” He whispered with wild fervor, as the rest leaned in.

Toar stared, intensely interested in what the man might say next.

Saleos leaned back and shook his head. He threw up his hands and shrugged. “Although the world certainly lost a heavy measure of ingenuity and goodness when it lost Salyst—they possessed no special magics or talents that might make them the envy of the world,” he shrugged. “I will say that they baked a good number of delicious pastries unequaled by anything I've tasted before or since, but after that, they were much like the rest of us,” he claimed.

Toar frowned. “You mock their memory,” he accused.

“I most certainly do not!” Saleos shook his head. “Indeed, I knew a good number of them, and counted them as friends. But despite my undying affection, I will not pretend they were more than plain men and women with common failings—just as you find in most quarters of the world. Besides, if they were such powerful and talented magicians, why could they not repel the armies of Minist?”

“They were heavily outnumbered,” Toar justified.

“And what are numbers compared to magic beyond imagining?” Saleos asked.

Toar glared at the man as he measured the statement. Though he did not like what the old man said—he could not fault the logic.

Duboha prodded Saleos. “That is not where it ended for you. After Salyst, you went to Saot lands. Indeed, you were a post runner for their king,” he prompted.

Saleos nodded. “First, I went to Hearthstone, where I studied the Saot language among their traders. Then I went south, and spent a number of years crisscrossing the kingdom.”

“You know Saot?” Toar asked. “You never speak it with the duke—nor with the others.”

Saleos shrugged. “There was no reason. They speak Ministrian, and we speak Ministrian—except the brothers.”

“You spied?!” Toar half-accused. He glared at the lot of them. “It seems we are surrounded by enemies!”

“I simply never bothered to mention it,” Saleos replied. “If it comforts you, I've never heard anything suspect from the duke—or his men—not in any language.”

Toar glared at the man for several more seconds, but since the others only snickered and grinned, he let it drop.

“Enough of such gossip! Tell us of your time in the Saot Kingdom,” Komotz insisted. “I’ve not heard any of this!”

Saleos shrugged, happy to entertain. “I returned home for a while, until wanderlust gripped me again. I went to Land's End, then followed opportunity to Solveny. I continued to learn Saot as I worked as a post runner for the Silver Service. We wore thick chainmail coats, burnished to a shine, adorned with the standard of the post: a running horse above the King’s own seal. For nearly a decade I traveled throughout the Saot kingdom as part of the second largest army in all the Saot: the post-runners.”

“But running post is a monotonous job,” Saleos revealed. “I grew bored and eventually left their ranks after I chanced upon a consortium of minor nobles that hoped to win favor with the Empress Seviticah. They had special charter from the king to solicit in Minist; and since they wished to appear more cosmopolitan, I joined their ranks as an adviser in Trohl affairs. Admittedly, I knew little of our politics at the time—but I certainly knew more than foreigners—so I made for Minist among their company.”

“Why would you meet with the Empress, especially after what she did to Salyst?” Toar asked.

Saleos shrugged. “A love of travel is in my blood. I have no real interest in the Empire—but I thought I should like to see the country, that I might understand it for myself. Besides, I thought our request should be denied. After what happened in Salyst, I thought the Empress would have no reason to back our efforts, and I thought this because I thought our efforts were noble. Still, I liked the idea of trying. I’d met other Trohls that had visited the kingdom. Some even liked it. Besides, I didn’t know anything of those people. What if the Empress did give us favorable terms?

“In the end, my suspicions were proved right,” Saleos continued. “Though we did meet a number of fine people, they rarely had any real power. As for the Empress, well, we did not even meet her—though we did see her from afar. Instead, we met too many of her ministers and advisors; all quite eager to meet us and our money—and even more eager to get away, once they heard our cause—once they realized that our investments would not be spoiled with drugs, women, or influence,” he noted. “In my estimation, Minist is ruled by a truly vicious and sinister lot that wants only to ruin others—and they often mark themselves with a set of fangs: one silver and one gold.”

“The Baradha,” Toar nodded. “I've met some number of them.”

“Is that what they call themselves?” Saleos shrugged. “They were quite tight lipped about the true form and function of the Empire—though they often wore those ubiquitous pins. Still, I enjoyed the opportunity to see Minist, even if it was not much to my liking. The place has a natural beauty about it—but the people are sick. They turn everything into war. Even their love is tainted with hostilities. The villages are empty of husbands, but full of soldiers,” he shrugged.

“After that, our company split,” Saleos continued. “Some returned to Danyan by boat, while the rest of us returned to the kingdom through Wibbeley. From there, my friends dispersed, and I came to Ebertin. I initially meant to go home once more, but I chanced upon Traust and these others among the Oak and Beast. They investigated the Bouge and tried to understand what had happened in far-off Salyst, so I shared my insights. We became friends. And since my intelligence proved useful, I was invited to swear an oath and take their colors. That was, what? Four years ago?” He looked about the others.

Aim and Homoth both gave nods—while Komotz counted the years on his fingers.

Saleos shrugged. “I’ve been here ever since.”

“You’re not a Jindleyak,” Toar realized.

Saleos nodded. “I'm Grammish by birth, though I've served the Oak and Beast longer than I ever served in any Grammish militia—mostly because I never served in any Grammish militia at all—and that makes me more a Jindleyak; as any of these men will attest,” he grinned. “I was never really one of Gramgoar. My upbringing was painful. My mother was poor, estranged from my father, and not particularly suited to raising her children—though she certainly had enough of us. It was a tumultuous youth. By the time I was grown, the open road was more of a home than any of the cities or villages of Gramgoar.” Saleos leaned back and shook his head, “But that is another story altogether, and I grow tired of my own voice. It is time for someone else to speak,” he said and stared about the others.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 9.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Meu slept in her serpent form between Claiten and Wenifas. She shivered as the night grew deep—but not for the cold. Her dreams turned to her daughter, a clutch of grandchildren having managed an arduous hatching. Now it would be up to their mother to raise them.

Meu woke as a feeling stirred within her. She felt she must not remain too long among these humans—though she hoped to stay with them a bit longer. She wished to see the shaman’s home, as he’d promised to introduce his wife and kids. It was supposed to be a week long journey and generally on her way, so she thought it’d be nice to spend a few more days with her newfound and hard-fought friends. But this night was not easy on the skin-walker wyrm. Unsettling thoughts crowded her dreams, and Meu found herself waking ahead of the sun. Perhaps she had gotten too used to being up at all hours—though it had served her well over the last few days—as she monitored the Ministrian shocktroops, and played a bit of kissy face with their greasy Grandus. How else could she creep about his thoughts? Still, the kiss was too kind. He deserved the fang—and nearly got it a time or two.

But that was then. Consumed by concerns for her daughter, Meu shifted into her human form, crept from the cabin, and made for the edge of the woods. She stepped under the obliging boughs of a weeping willow and summoned the shadows.

Despite her discrete manner, she did not go unobserved. Andrus was on guard, walking about the inn when he caught the faint creak of the door as Meu stepped from her cabin. Then, because Aim had made him suspicious, he followed the slight redhead as she stepped to the edge of the trees. When Meu didn’t turn toward the privy, Andrus knew she was up to something sneaky. He followed her as she slipped under the branches of a weeping willow. He saw the shadows gather and slip about her as she shifted into the form of a winged serpent.

Shocked to see such witchery, Andrus stared after Meu. Now a wyrm, she crawled up the branches of the tree, opened her wings, and flew toward the river. Amazed to have witnessed such a transformation, Andrus stared after the strange beast for quite a time. He’d heard of skin-walkers and often wondered if such magic was indeed possible—and now he’d seen it and knew it was real! He smiled and muttered to himself before he turned and walked away. “So that’s how it’s done.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 9.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

It was a night for strange dreams. Oblarra rose over the waters of the river and cast the landscape in an eerie crimson light. Creigal remembered sitting late into the night, skipping rocks over the river, as he allowed his thoughts to wear themselves out. He laid back in the shade of a maple, and thought only to rest for a bit—but a weariness overcame the duke, and sleep came quick.

Creigal suffered a strange vision as he slumbered next to the river. He had Aerindoun on a rack and stretched him for his crimes. The eldest screamed, wailed, and wept as he was pulled beyond his limits. Creigal was pleased with the sound—until the voice turned feminine. Suddenly, it was no longer Aerindoun that he tortured. It was his second child, Daphne, upon the rack. His heart lurched at the cries of his lost daughter. He undid the binds and gathered her weak form into his arms. Holding her close, he sobbed for the rough treatment he’d placed upon her and begged her for forgiveness.

Creigal hugged Daphne, and as he did, she morphed into his third child, Samaraut. The boy was confused, as was often the case, and for some time the duke tried to make sense of his third child’s ramblings—though there was little sense to be found as he cried and stammered. Then the figure was Samaraut no more, but now the youngest in his place, Jeppith; the most devious and manic of the lot. Before Creigal could stop him, Jeppith pulled the dagger from his father’s belt and stabbed the duke in the stomach. Creigal gaped at the blood gushing between his knuckles and felt his strength ebbing away. Jeppith stabbed him again and again, and chortled as he did so; then danced and skipped about with the blood-soaked blade held high. Creigal laid on the ground as life slipped between his fingers. Blood pooled at his mouth. His vision blurred, and the world went dark...

He woke with a fright and immediately checked himself for wounds. The dream was too real!

He sat up among the trees, somewhat shocked and confused to find himself next to the river. It took the duke several seconds to remember why he was here, under the canopy of a large maple.

It'd been some time since Creigal had slept out in the open. The darkness of night was beginning to lift. It’d be morning soon.

Slowly, Creigal sat against the trunk of the tree. He shivered as he checked to make sure he wasn’t stabbed and wondered at his strange dream. Was the wrath and suspicion he had for his sons somehow poisoning the love he had for his daughter? Might it be best to offer his sons forgiveness for their multitude of crimes—including Daphne’s murder? Was this not the best way to honor his lost daughter?

The duke found himself offended by his own musings. The thought of forgiving his sons was beyond repugnant! If not for them and their plotting, he'd still have his wonderful Daphne at his side! She was born to lead: intelligent, kind, and brave. In addition, his sons had mocked their mother, his loving wife, as she grew sick and died. They celebrated the fact that there could be no more siblings to usurp their ambitions. That was the fealty and worthiness of his sons! They murdered their own sister, danced on the grave of their mother, then mocked their father's loneliness—and he was to forgive them?! He would not do it! He could not do it! There was nothing the gods might offer—unless they should reunite him with the dead! How could he forgive his sons for their unbelievable cruelty?!

A sudden call shattered the quiet as it rolled through the woods. "ERRR-AY-ERRR-AY-ERRRRRR!"

The duke’s spitting, sputtering rage was cut short as he turned in the direction of the inn.

"ERRR-AY-ERRR-AY-ERRRRRR!" The cry of the rooster sounded again. It was a defiant call, angry and aggressive—and behind it was a fear that made Creigal think the bird called mostly to make itself feel better. It had suffered a scare, and now it was overcompensating.

He sat and waited, quite sure the rooster would crow again. If he knew roosters, they tended to crow and crow and crow…

Creigal stood and began back toward the inn. Thanks to the rooster, he was quite sure of the direction he wished to go—but as he proceeded, he heard another song, a thin and high-pitched mew.

It was a strange song indeed, the type of song he had not heard in years. The last time he heard such a song was in a quiet corner of the duchy, among a strange and powerful race. He slowed in his step, searched the trees, and wondered, could it be? Could it possibly be?!

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 9.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Claiten was about to crow a third time when his mother’s voice caught him off guard. “What is this about?!” She leaned against a wall and stared at the boy with a pained expression. “Why are you strutting like a cock?!” the priestess asked, bewildered.

For several seconds, the two simply stared at each other; then Wenifas doubled over, heaved, and spilled gross on the ground.

The smell of it caught in Claiten’s nose and for a second he thought he too might retch. He suppressed the urge to purge; then, worried for his mother, he ran to her side and put a hand on her back. "Are you okay?" He asked her.

Wenifas gave a weak smile to the child. "These native foods don't agree with me," she claimed—though she didn’t think her sickness was caused by the food at all. Indeed, the food was about the only thing that was agreeing with her these days. Even well fed, she was all nerves and anxiety. She was apprehensive about being in a new place, among people she barely knew, and customs she didn't understand.

She’d also tried to kill one of their company! She’d tried to kill the lustful Saot—and after barely escaping Ebertin! She’d repeatedly wondered how she’d managed to get Evereste through the entire ordeal without a scratch—until she remembered the several times when Celesi took responsibility for the baby—and she would have lost her blessed boy if not for Meu’s daring rescue! No! It was all too much! All the tension and worry was giving her headaches! It was making her nauseous!

But there was no reason to worry the boy with such adult concerns. She thought it best to let him think it was just a bit of bad food. “Everything will be fine,” she smiled, and tried to believe it herself. They seemed to be safe. She had money, and good people around her—or so she hoped. She also suffered the company of men she despised—and one of them simply refused to stop staring at her. She'd known men like him before, men of an obsessive nature. She'd bedded men like him, despite their neediness. At the time she thought it was good coin.

Then again, Derris needed her, especially at the end. He had looked at her in a similar fashion. Indeed, in that small way, the one reminded her of the other—and that made her hate Baet all the more!

Wenifas shook her head and turned her attention back to Claiten. She frowned, “How are you, my brave boy?”

“Fine,” he lied, but Wenifas knew better. The boy was more reserved, more stand-offish, more angry of late. He was no longer outgoing and carefree.

Or was it simply that there were no children his own age to distract him?

No. Ever since Beletrain, he was different. In most ways, Claiten seemed to be relatively unscathed by his experiences among the naga—but something dark and sinister was still about him. Perhaps she’d have the shaman take a look at him…

All the worry made her stomach knot. Wenifas turned from her son and spilled more sick. "What are they feeding us?!" she complained as she wiped her mouth. She stared back at her boy and wondered if he could spot her lies as well as she could spot his. "Come here," Wenifas said, and wrapped Claiten in a hug. He hugged her back and she held him for several long seconds. "We're going to be fine," she claimed as her worries began to play through her mind yet again—then, despite her claim, she pushed her boy away and held him at arms length, so she could be sick once more—though there was nothing more to purge.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 9.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Creigal stopped and listened to the odd song as he moved away from the inn once more. The song was rich and clear, and he knew it’s subject the same way he always knew what all birds were singing. The song was of bittersweet longing, of absent family and friends. It was a song that anticipated a homecoming. He wondered that her anguished song should be about a missing daughter—the very thing that tortured his own soul.

Still, this was more than a mere bird. Creigal knew the voice. He’d heard such beasts many years ago. It’d been so long ago, and such a rare encounter, that he could barely believe he was hearing the same song in this strange country! He crept among the trees on soft slow feet, scanning the canopy, looking for the source of the song. Finally, he spotted her near the top of an ancient oak; feathers splayed, as she sang with her whole body. His jaw dropped as he gaped at the majestic beast. He had not seen a wyrm in many years, since the last time he ventured through Haltbrush.

He distinctly remembered the day his father introduced him to a council of wyrm folk. When he was young, he doubted the existence of such beasts and thought they were simply figments of men’s imaginations—until he witnessed a good dozen turning in lazy circles above him as they regarded the boy and his father’s entourage. On that day, oh so long ago, one of the beasts wrapped about his father’s shoulders. His father talked as if he knew the creature’s thoughts, which convinced Creigal that his father was also a bird-talker—until he learned about their venom and the strange effect it had on one’s mind. Creigal stared at the creature. The coloring was close to those he knew in his own duchy.

Eventually the song ended. Still, he watched as the strange beast preened. Finally, the serpent leaned from its perch, spread its magnificent wings, and lifted into the air. Creigal watched as it turned a few lazy circles over the tops of the trees, then disappeared back toward the inn.

He ran after it, curious to see where the creature might be going. He almost lost the strange beast and was sure it would soon disappear over the cabins and various buildings of the inn—but just as he thought it should fly out of view, the creature settled in a willow at the edge of the woods. He crept forward and watched as the creature made its way down through the branches and to the ground. He waited to see if the creature might come crawling out—but it did not. Instead, Meu stepped from under the willow. She adjusted her slight sundress and Creigal stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. Not only was she a wyrm, she was a skin-walker!

As the duke stared, Meu felt eyes upon her. She lifted her eyes and caught sight of the duke—then promptly stared back at him. The initial shock of being discovered passed over her. A glint of mischief lit her eyes and a curious smile bent the edge of her lips. Meu raised her hand and beckoned the duke to come out of the trees.

Self-aware and still entranced, Creigal smoothed his rumpled clothes, then stepped from his cover with a foolish grin glued to his face. “Hi,” he smiled, as if he were always addressing skin-walker wyrms.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 9.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Their eyes were not the only ones about the woods. Indeed, there was another set that followed the duke from the edge of the water and saw the shape-shifting wyrm. As the duke introduced himself to Meu, Maligno turned and slithered back to the water’s edge, away from the inn full of waking men. The naga crawled into the river, slipped through a submerged tunnel, and arrived in a cavern above the level of water. Several other naga were already there—and there would soon be several more!

Maligno turned to Golifett with his burnt and useless eye. “The boy still crows,” he nodded. “There is indeed a winged serpent that stays among the men—but you will not see her unless you know what to look for,” he smiled. “She’s a skin-walker.”

“A skin-walker,” Golifett grinned. “What of the boy’s song? How long was it? How true is the curse?”

“He crowed twice,” Maligno answered.

Golifett gave a nod. “It may be weak, but it is sticking,” he smiled. “Good. Good.”

Maligno shook his head. “They are far too many. We cannot hope to take them,” he said.

“I do not believe they mean to stay here,” Golifett said. “Is this not one of their travel houses, where strangers stay? You will see. They will continued, and when they do, they will thin. Eventually, an opportunity will arrive. We will grab the children and kill the rest.”

“Let us hope so,” Maligno replied. “We are fierce, but we are few.”

“I will even the odds,” Golifett smiled. “I have been studying the signs, and I see a storm coming—one of such proportion that it will shake the earth as it passes! We only have to wait!” He grinned.

The others cheered to hear this—but not Maligno. He simply stared at Golifett and wondered if it might be true. Sometimes he was right about these things—and sometimes not so much. Indeed, a time or two, Golifett was right in such a big way that it almost spelled calamity! Sometimes his cousin was too right!

Solveny

Polished 10.1, 10.2, and 10.3 — 27m07s — 2023/12/20

Polished 10.4 and 10.5 — 17m31s — 2023/12/22

Crea lived on the roof of the finest building in all of Solveny. At six stories, it topped even the Keep of the Silver Service. She kept a garden on the roof. She had hutches for her birds and planter boxes for herbs. There was even a small hut where she slept, and also a shed for tools and seed. The hut was large enough for her bed, a dresser, and a looking glass—so she knew when she had too much dirt on her face.

Her landlady was a great aunt, and had offered her the place after the previous occupant—a distant cousin—unexpectedly passed. The rent for such a fine space was a tenth of everything she brought in with the birds and herbs—and she was happy to say that rent was more than ever! Last month, she paid 6 diems, 4 bots, and 3 bits!

It was just a fraction of her money. Crea had a fair deal of coin buried in the corner of one of the herb boxes: several socks wrapped around a fistful of mostly silver. She was saving for a cottage of her own and hoped for a fine garden with a large barn to house a good number of hutches for her birds. In her spare time, Crea knitted blankets for the market, studied history among the clerics, and batted her eyes at a local cobbler's son. It took a good month to get the boy's attention, but now that she had it, he smiled and waved whenever she passed. Sooner or later he'd muster the courage to approach—and then she'd have the cobbler's son too!

Before gods and monsters such bliss can not last. The screaming started at the north edge of town. A few moments later, there was fright and panic from the east. Shortly, there was yelling and shouting from a dozen different directions. With a frown, Crea lifted her head from her herbs, wiped the sweat out of her eye with a dirty glove, then blinked and squinted into the distance. At least the commotion was at the far end of town, thank Abra!

Crea returned to her weeding—until she realized the ruckus was only gaining momentum—at which point she abandoned her plants and stared out over the city. The ring of metal on metal carried above the streets. Panic spread. Crea thought to set messages to her pigeons. She gathered her pen and paper though she didn't know what to write.

Dolimerea, an old widower from the third floor, appeared on the roof and hugged Crea as the sounds of conflict continued. “What are we to make of it?” she asked her young friend.

Crea shook her head and stared out over the city. Though her brothers had taught her a bit of how to defend herself, the reasons for violence often escaped her. Unsure, the younger lady held the elder as they listened to the ebb and flow of the tumult in the streets.

Soon, there was a crowd on the roof. Among them all, Crea felt safe. Other occupants, servants, and caretakers of the fine building looked out over the city with a variety of weapons in hand: swords, bows, knives, meat mallets, fire pokers, rolling pins—anything hard and handy. Women clutched at each other as the men frowned, solemn and serious. They called down to passers-by and asked after the screaming.

“It is chaos!” the men on the street called back. “Foreigners have stormed the courthouse and barricaded themselves in!”

“They've taken the north gate, and sacked the armory near Folcant!” another revealed.

Many of Crea’s neighbors went downstairs, some to help, others to pack. Crea thought it a good idea to pack her own bag—but like many of the others, she simply waited and worried. She thought of her family and their farm, two days walk to the south. Two days of hard marching was a commitment she was not yet willing to make, though her heart begged her to go.

The commotion in the streets rose and fell as hard news continued to pour past. “A posse forms to liberate the north gate!” A strong man called. Half a dozen men from the building went with him.

“Members of the watch are held hostage on top of the court!” Another said. “The villains are threatening to throw them off!” Several more men went off with them.

“They set fires!” A growing crowd called out. “Help us battle the flames!” Dozens of men, women, and children followed with buckets and shovels.

More and more of the building’s inhabitants ran to assist. Crea thought to go with them—but she still hadn't written any messages. She took up her pen and scrawled a half dozen notes. Solveny is attacked!—she wrote, since she knew no more. She attached notes to go to an abbot in the next valley, to a minor official she knew among the court of High Plains, to several other bird lovers in nearby towns and villages, and of course the lady that taught her to raise and train pigeons in the first place—even though she was at the edge of town and must already know of what happened.

“Look to the Silver Keep,” Dolimerea said to Crea as she released the last of her birds. “They have locked the gates and keep the door,” she sneered. “Those fish will guard their precious post and nothing else!”

“They cannot be so selfish,” Crea reprimanded. “Surely, they will help.”

“No,” Dolimerea shook her head and snorted. “The silver fish care nothing about us! They only swim for currency! Oh, they will watch and swear witness in the king’s court, but they will not ‘interfere’. They will do nothing, unless they are attacked directly,” she spit.

Crea stared out over the city and suffered a sinking feeling. Things were not going well and she was suddenly convinced it could only get worse. She took a step toward her hut. She meant to gather her bag and be off while she might still escape.

Dolimerea grabbed her hand. “Where will you go?”

“Anywhere,” Crea shook her head. “This city burns.”

“Don't be so cynical!” Dolimerea pleaded and wrapped the younger lady in a desperate hug. “Let us stay here and be quiet, that the angels might protect us!” she continued. “We will hide and our enemies will be blinded by their own smoke!”

For a moment the roar of violence was a mere din in the distance, sporadic and far away. Crea let the old lady hug her as the city seemed to calm. For a time, she focused on her friend’s warmth and nothing more. Then Crea opened her eyes. She gasped and cried out as she noticed a wall of dust billowing toward the city from out of the north—from the direction of the Trohl settlement, Rynth Falls. She knew immediately that the dust was caused by a number of riders—a very large number!

Crea wasn't the only one to notice the fast approaching cavalry. Screams, shouts, and curses seemed to catch in the air all at once. The racket raised to a fevered pitch as the locals realized they must regain their defenses or find themselves quickly overrun! Fighting intensified as the locals threw themselves at the north and west gates in a last ditch effort to reclaim them. Dolimerea clasped at Crea, though the younger woman now felt as if she were being smothered.

“It is closing!” Dolimerea pointed at the north gate. Indeed, the gate dropped several feet—only to stop and hang partially open. Individual riders were now visible on the distant road. The rider's seemed within spitting distance of the gate when suddenly it dropped and locked them out!

Relieved, Crea turned to the west gate to see if it still hung open. The fighting was intense. Local militia pressed the invaders into the guardhouse and did everything they could to clear them out. Figures dropped to the dirt, writhing and squirming, only to hold still in the end.

The townspeople were inside the gatehouse! Crea couldn't breathe! The gate dropped as riders appeared on the other side of the arch—but it was too late. Half open, the invaders poured into the city proper. They secured the gate, then rushed up the streets, cutting down everyone in their way!

Crea grabbed her bag and also the dirty sock full of coin she’d pulled from the strawberries. “No!” Dolimerea cried and clung to her. Crea allowed herself to be convinced, and thought that with any luck a certain cobbler’s son would come by and rescue her.

But it was not the cobbler’s son that appeared. In short time, Trohls approached the base of the building. They kicked in the door, grabbed one of the doormen, and threw him into the street. The other doormen poured out of the building to protect their brother—but the six men were heavily outnumbered, and quickly surrounded.

One of the guards yelled as he fought. “You fools! They come for us all!” He called back at the building—before the invaders struck him down. Crea did not pity him. She surmised that most the brave men of the city were already dead. She felt a pang of guilt as she had not helped—but what could she hope to do? She was no fighter!

“Don't leave me!” Dolimerea shrieked as Crea finally came to her senses and shook the old woman off.

“Come with me!” Crea shouted back. She grabbed her bag then rushed away with an outstretched arm. Dolimerea chased Crea for several steps, but did not go down the stairs. Instead, the old lady fell to her knees and wailed as she knelt among the grow boxes full of herbs.

Crea took the stairs two at a time as she cursed herself for a fool! She hoped it was not to late to save her own skin. Down and down she ran. On the second floor, she came around a blind corner and caught the sight of two feathers. They danced above a strange military helmet that sat on a gruesome individual with a terrible scar where the right side of his face should be. She put her arms up in hopes of defending herself, but a rough hand caught the side of her head and smashed her into a wall. A sudden sharp pain rang through her head—and then there was nothing—as she blacked out.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 10.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Creigal approached Meu as she stood under the willow, curious to know what she cared to say. Would she mention the song, perhaps speak of being a wyrm, or would she’d simply accuse him of snooping?

Before now, Meu took little notice of the old gentleman, other than his proper and cautious ways. Indeed, he was as new to her as these other Jindelyaks—and a bit less interesting. From what she’d seen, he was a calculating and tight-lipped noble, aloof and dispassionate—except when it served his purpose (oh, what a speech he gave!).

But Meu was not so easily manipulated. She was nearly as old as he, and wise to the ways of the powerful. Not that her suspicions mattered. What mattered is that he’d caught her as she shifted shape—and although she had little reason to fear such a revelation, she preferred to keep her secrets—and so she blushed as she asked him what he saw.

Creigal marveled to see that Meu could speak with nothing but her eyes. She did not try bite him, nor did she use her song. He smiled as he considered the high skill of her magic. “I apologize. I didn’t know what I was seeing until I saw too much.” He showed his hands and hoped to alleviate any fear. “I have met wyrms, and I have met skin-walkers, but I believe that you are the first I have met that was both.”

I prefer that you do not mention this to the others, Meu replied.

“I wouldn’t think of it,” Creigal said with a bow. “But if I am to keep your secrets, I must ask a few questions. Shall we break fast away from the others, that we can talk some more?” he asked and offered the slight lady his elbow.

With a wry smile, Meu took his arm, and allowed him to lead the way.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 10.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Waves of sensation ebbed and flowed from Crea’s core. Slowly, she came to, as a burning that hovered on a knife's edge between extreme pleasure and excruciating pain drew her away from the ache of her bruised head. A mad hope filled her heart that a certain cobbler's son was doing his best to make a mother of her—as happened occasionally in her fantasies. She opened her eyes to find that the man that crushed into her was a blood-soaked foreigner, with an ugly webbed scar on his face, and murder in his soul!

Crea screamed and tried to push him off—but he was well muscled and more than a match for the petite youth. In a flash, he grabbed her neck and squeezed. She choked against his brutal hands, as he ignored her striking fists. He snapped at her, curt violent words that matched the crushing force of his indelicate fingers. Though Crea couldn't understand his language, she got the message all the same: struggle and he might just kill her.

Still, she persisted. The ravager’s hands continued to squeeze. Crea’s mind unraveled and edged toward unconsciousness. She could fight no more. Her hands dropped and for a split second she felt far away as the darkness came upon her.

His hands relaxed, and the carnal pushing returned. Crea coughed and choked. She gasped for air as he held her down and squeezed her tits far harder than they deserved. Aware that she could do nothing about the assault, Crea tried to turn her mind to anything else. She stared at the extravagant feathers that decorated his helmet. Tan, with red and green highlights—who had ever seen such a bird?! They waved back and forth in a mock salute as the mad foreigner drove himself into her again and again—but she was not thinking of that. Instead, she wondered where this brute got such beautiful feathers. She wondered what sort of creature had such brilliant plumage, and was simultaneously quite happy that she should never see it, since it was quite likely the man got the feathers by violence.

The assault continued. Crea wondered if it was better to fight and die, or go limp and live to see another day. Tears burned her eyes. She closed them so she did not have to see her attacker's manic pleasure. Although she knew better, she imagined it was indeed the cobbler's son. He didn’t mean to hurt her, she thought, as an endless flow of tears streamed from her eyes.

The rape seemed to go on for an eternity before it finally ended—though in all honesty it lasted only a few minutes. Her attacker pulled away and she grabbed at the covers of the strange bed. She cowered as far from the man as she could, as shame took the place of pain.

With a huff, the scarred attacker dressed in his Trohl rags. He turned the garments this way and that, as if he did not know them. Finally dressed, the foreigner proceeded to ransack the room.

Whenever the foreigner turned to her, Crea looked out the window. She looked down, where the door guards lay in pools of their own blood. Among them was the corpse of Dolimerea. Was she thrown from the roof or did she jump?

Crea wondered if death would be easier. She fought against more tears as she asked herself why this was happening. An answer was not forthcoming. Instead, she was forced to watch her beloved town burn as her own bruised body ached.

The foreigner turned over tables and rifled through drawers as he jammed the occasional bit or trinket into his pocket. Crea thought she'd only have to wait until he left, then she might pick up the pieces of her life as best she could and proceed however she might. For a second, she hoped he had not noticed her own bag, but then she saw that it was already ripped open. Her good comb was broken and the dirty sock full of coins seemed to be missing.

Outside the window, a company of invaders decided it was time to stop yelling at the Keep of the Silver Service and employ the battering ram they made from the trunk of a nearby tree. Crea watched the escalating drama unfold, and hoped every last one of the invaders would die by the potent swords of the silver fish. She knew there were forty, maybe fifty men in the keep, but she also knew some of them were as green as dandelions, and a few were as old as time. Besides, there were easily a couple hundred invaders all about the keep, waiting for the doors to come down.

Before the drama outside could unfold any further, another man burst into the apartment. This man wore a Saot uniform with decorations in black and red. There was a kite insignia on the man’s dress, a mark that Crea knew. This man was from Gaurring. He stepped into the room and stared at the web-scarred foreigner. For a second, she thought the two men must fight. She thought she was saved—as the two men turned on each other. Her spirits soared as she hoped the Gaur officer would run him through. Indeed, the Guar was quite handsome. Perhaps he would rescue her and carry her far from this place!

But the Gaur officer did not attack, he only asked questions. He did not speak Saot, and Crea knew it wasn’t one of the Trohl dialects either. She realized although this new man wore a different uniform, these two men were in league.

What was an officer of the Kingdom doing among these foreign invaders?! She considered this fact as the Gaur's eyes settled on her. The foreigner with the brilliant feathers gave a nod toward the bed and grinned a wicked grin as the Gaur officer approached with hungry eyes. A devious smile split the officer’s lips and a shiver ran up Crea’s spine. The foreigner left with a smirk as the Saot approached the bed and began to undo his belt.

Crea pointed out the window and hoped she might distract the man with the commotion below.

“Don't mind that mess,” he began in perfect Saot. “You and I have other matters to attend,” he leered.

Crea knew what was coming. He meant to take her however he must. A rage enveloped her—though she hid it deep and kept a calm demeanor. He was a good deal larger, and she was already sore and worn from the rough treatment of the scar-faced foreigner. She could not hope to take this Gaur officer in an honest contest. Instead, Crea hanged her head and begged him to be kind. "If you are gentle, I promise not to fight you," she said as she bit her lip. "There’s no need for violence."

“Well then,” the Saot grinned. "Pull up your dress," he ordered, as he set his weapons aside and stepped out of his pants. With bloody hands all over the blankets, he crawled across the bed. He licked his teeth and leered at the battered young woman as she lifted the edge of her dress. She pulled it up over her knees and thighs, that he might see her bloom. She offered her free hand, that he might take it with his own. “Be sweet,” she begged.

"Can't lie," he said as he crawled over her. "You're the prettiest thing I've seen all week."

He put his hand in hers and pressed his tongue to her lips. Crea allowed the kiss as she focused on his hand. She turned her fingers until she held nothing but his pinkie. With sudden force, she bent it back and snapped it in several places, as she crushed it with all her might.

"YEEAARGGHH!" He screamed as he felt the delicate bones of his little finger snap, snap, snap. Rage filled his eyes, and he pulled back to hit her.

But Crea was already moving. With her other hand balled in a fist, she slammed it into the man's chin, as her brother’s had taught her. The attacker's jaw popped and the man went limp. He rolled off the bed with a blank expression on his face and crumbled to the floor in an awkward heap.

Crea didn’t waste a second. She grabbed her shoes off the floor and the Saot officer's sword as she ran from the room. She bolted down the stairs as quickly and as quietly as she could.

By the time she reached the front door, the commotion outside the Silver Keep had developed into a full blown ruckus. The gate was down, and a tight knot of men from the Silver Service fought in their own courtyard against an increasing crush of invaders. No one watched her building as Crea ran and ducked into a thick hedge between the tower and keep. She dived among the brush and looked back as the branches settled over her.

She could hear the Saot swear and cuss as he came to the front door of her building. He cradled his pinkie and massaged his jaw as he looked about for any sign of her, a rage in his eyes. But Crea lay among the soft deadfall below a thicket of lilac, chokecherry, and juniper. She held still as she stared through the branches at her second attacker. The Gaur turned the wrong direction and stepped to the far end of the building.

As Crea huddled in the bushes, something touched her leg. She nearly jumped out of her skin as she kicked and turned to this new threat. She tried to get the fancy falchion from its scabbard—but stopped when she realized it was two of her own countrymen that crept among the bushes. One was older than her own father, while the other was nearly the age of her youngest brother. Both wore armor, large packs, weapons, and the simple insignia of a running horse over the King’s own seal.

They were silver fish. Men of the Post.

The older man wore a look of grim determination as the younger was obviously frightened. The elder held a finger to his lips, a plea to Crea to keep her quiet. She wondered how they escaped the keep though she quickly realized it didn't matter. They were out, and so was she.

As the remainder of the silver fish were slaughtered in their own keep, Crea and the two men slipped into the park beyond. Slowly, deftly, the old silver fish led Crea and his squire through the burning town. Near the city wall, they came to a small hut. The old man had a key for it. Not that it mattered. The lock was smashed.

Crea saw nothing of interest inside and was confused that they bothered to go into the hut at all. There was a table, a few chairs, a plain dresser, and a bed, along with a dusting of personal effects that were strewn across the dwelling. Still, the old man closed the door then collapsed to the floor. He threw aside a rug and began examining the boards in earnest. For a second, Crea worried for the man and thought that maybe he’d lost his wits.

With a sigh, the old man pulled up a board, then with a great effort he pulled up an entire section of the floor—to reveal a ladder that disappeared into the deep dark earth below. Excited that she might escape, Crea willingly followed the squire inside. The older man passed a torch down, then set the trapdoor back in place as he followed.

The tunnel ran south under the wall. It ran straight, without deviation or branch, and seemed to go on forever. As they continued to walk into the dark, Crea began to think they'd never come up out of the dirt. A part of her wasn’t bothered by the prospect.

Finally, a ladder appeared. They came out of the tunnel in a fallow field with trees all around, at least a mile from the wall. It was secluded and far from any house or barn. The old man closed the trap and immediately began on his way. The squire followed without hesitation. Despite a deep fatigue and a need for rest, Crea continued after the two men. “Wait,” she called.

For several hours they marched south with barely a dozen words between them. Crea was sore and incredibly tired as she pressed forward—but she was also determined to get as far from Solveny as she could. Though she cried, she offered no complaint.

The old man set a brutal pace, constantly turning on his young companions and impatiently waving them on. The squire was equally tired, but also refused to give up. Crea caught the sight of tears in his eyes and was comforted by the fact that her pain and torment was shared.

Their stumbling escape continued apace. Long after the sun had dropped. They were maybe a half dozen miles from town before they finally stopped. On top of a hill, and among a collection of boulders, the old man led them to a cache set up by the Silver Service for just such emergencies. The three set about making a camouflaged camp by the red light of Oblarra, and ate a hasty meal of cold rations.

As Crea lay in her ad hoc bed, she cried once more. Her hopes and ambitions were all in Solveny, burned up by filthy invaders, along with her dignity. Though she could not speak the words out loud, she begged death to take her.

Utterly exhausted, and finally out of tears, Crea fell into a deep, dreamless sleep that didn’t last nearly long enough.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 10.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Gliedian sat on his stallion, surrounded by a tight knot of warriors. He turned to see Banifourd shuffling down the ruined street, nursing his finger. "What happened to your hand?" the Lord Commander asked of the esquire.

Banifourd frowned, as he had no interest in telling the Baradha that some local tart had mangled his pinkie. He also did not want to talk about the fact that he’d lost Creigal’s sword—and so he simply muttered insults under his breath as he rubbed the pain out of his jaw.

Petaerus snorted and smirked. "Some flowers have thorns," said the scar-faced copal.

Banifourd glared at the man.

"Next time, see that you are more careful," Gliedian chided.

"Next time?!" Banifourd's eyes went wide. "Holy Ooroiyuo! Do you plan to massacre your way across the entire Noethrin Plain?!"

Gliedian smiled, as if that was exactly his plan.

Sometimes, the overhanded methods of the Ministrians confused the Saot. They seemed messy and blatant—yet Banifourd could not deny that they were somehow taking over the known world. How can they be so reckless and effective at the same time?! he wondered. “Is this because of the loss of Ebertin?” Banifourd asked, thinking perhaps the Lord Commander was simply acting out.

Gliedian frowned. “Not that I would let some minor setback cloud my judgement, but what makes you think that Ebertin is lost?”

“Minor?!” Banifourd questioned. “Kezodel is dead, and the supremacy of the Degorouth is questioned. What makes you think you keep it?”

“We are at war,” Gliedian glared. “Our enemies are not all weak and weaponless—or have you forgotten the resources of your duke?!”

“I have not forgotten,” Banifourd replied.

“Good,” Gliedian nodded. “Now prepare to march. We take the bulk of these Trohls south to Gaurring, and as we go, we burn everything in our path!”

Banifourd shook his head. “Gaurring is not Solveny. My cousins are prepared for war. They will not simply allow an invading army into Gaurring.”

Gliedian stared at the man and wondered if he was daft as well as incompetent. “Aerindoun needs men if he hopes to take the duchy from his father, and men are what I have in excess,” he informed. “You forget, in Gaurring we do not go as a conquering horde, but as allies to the true heir of the duchy! We shall slip across the border into the welcoming arms of your master—but only after we have burned away the Dunkel’s enemies and made a relative mess of the Noeth! And all the atrocities that we commit will point at your great uncle!”

Banifourd shrugged. “Solveny may belong in the past, but there is still the Count of the High Plains,” he noted. “We will not proceed uncontested, and when the Dunkels hear of what we’ve done...”

“And why, pray tell, would the Dunkels have issue?” Glieidan smiled, as if he knew something Banifourd did not. He wondered if all of Aerindoun’s men were so utterly useless—but then he remembered the part this officer was to play. There were always schemes within schemes—betrayals to unveil. What did the emissary of the King Gred duReb say? Beware of what he told this man, as he expected Banifourd might be all too willing to talk to their enemies? Yes. That was the way of it. He’d called Banifourd small-sighted and selfish—which is how they turned him against his duke in the first place.

Still, the Lord Commander had to tell the Gaur officer something. “This is how war works,” Gliedian stated. “One must thrust, parry, and feign! So we will play cat and mouse with the High Plains army—while the Dunkels kvetch and act at being offended! But they will offer no support, I am assured.”

“If you are wrong about the Dunkels and they are not with us, then a ponderous pace will never see us to the southern border,” Banifourd stated. “I say we ride hard and get to Crimsith Peak as fast as we can.”

“Then it is a good thing you are not in charge,” Gliedian snapped and glared.

Banifourd knew he would not win this argument. Instead, he decided to change the subject. “I was told my men would meet me here. Where are they?”

“You’re men?” Gliedian blinked.

Banifourd stood arms akimbo. “I’m not going any further until you tell me where I find Bence and Garfindel.”

Gliedian stiffened. He was unaccustomed to being addressed so brusquely. He took a deep breath, smoothed his shirt, and tried to relax as he remembered the other Saots; the drunk, and the useful one. “I left Bence at Camp Calderhal, since we did not want him at court when we confronted your duke. He was all too happy to stay and consort with the priesthood. He was supposed to meet us here in Rynth Falls,” the High Commander faked a frown. “Since that did not happen I think we must consider the worst, that he was murdered by waokie.”

“And what of Garfindel?” Banifourd asked. “He was with us just three days ago, before we left Ebertin.”

“Ah, yes, Garf,” the Lord Commander forced a smile. “I've sent him ahead of us—to sow the seeds of discord. After all, your duke’s loyal men need distracting if we are to slip across the border unnoticed.”

Banifourd huffed. “I don’t like being lied to...” he began weakly—as if lies were not common trade these days. He might not like having either of his men around to watch his back, but what could he do about it besides complain?

“I do beg your pardon,” Gliedian gave an exaggerated bow. “Garfindel is doing a most difficult task for the Empress, and your future duke as well. For such good work, he has been promised a heavy bounty. I do apologize for commandeering his services, but I assure you, he was quite agreed to it.”

“You have taken liberties,” Banifourd charged. “He was my man to command.”

“But I see what happens to things in your possession—or have you simply hidden the sword of your former master?” Gliedian pointed.

The Saot glared and gathered his courage—but just as he was about to speak Gliedian waved off his reply and continued.

“I suppose I owe you a premium for the use of your good man?” Gliedian dug in his pocket. He pulled out a gold sol, and held the heavy coin out to Banifourd. “How is this? Is this fine trinket enough to be without him for a few weeks? He is performing a most useful task for the Empress, and she is all too happy to compensate you.”

Banifourd stared at the large gold coin—and also the man that offered it. He had an inkling that he was damned if he took the coin and damned if he didn't. With a frown, he took the sol. “Sooner or later you shall find some things can’t be bought,“ he said to the Ministrian.

“I would beg to differ,” Gliedian grinned. “In my experience, everything is for sale,” he replied as he turned away.

Banifourd also turned and found a petulant and scarred Petaerus in his path. “What's with the dumb feathers anyway?” he asked as he flicked at the decoration.

“I like pretty things,” Petaerus sneered, “And I take 'em when I see 'em.”

Banifourd raised his voice and called back to Gliedian. “Is there a reason this dog blocks my path?!”

“Do not denigrate dogs,” Gliedian began as he waved Petaerus out of the way. “They are worthy and loyal beasts.”

“Loyal,” Banifourd snorted as he walked the other way. “Everyone knows that Ministrians are loyal to coin alone.”

Gliedian glared, then turned to Petaerus, as they watched the Saot officer leave. He leaned close to his copal. “When you do what you do,” he began in a low tone, “I’ll take that coin back.”

Petaerus nodded and smiled at the command.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 10.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Brankellus stood on a hill. Although it was the dead of night, he could see the large town of Solveny as fires smoldered in several quarters. Flame curled skyward as the occasional scream drifted on the wind.

The ghost proceeded toward the ruined town. The stars faded as the sky lightened to a dark blue, then drifted into a deep red as the sun peaked over the horizon once more. The flames dimmed and gave way to the horrific scene of a ravaged town. Billows of pungent smoke rose laboriously into the sky. With a sigh, Brankellus stepped down the road, quite sure that Petaerus was somewhere among these ruins.

Numbed to the villainy of the Ministrians, Brankellus barely flinched as he stepped around the lifeless bodies of the city's former denizens. He passed a woman as she cried over the remains of a man and a child—only to see a third body lying by their sides—the woman's own.

Brankellus stared at the woman as she turned and slowly locked eyes with him. The wife wiped her face, stood, and spoke.

Brankellus shook his head. He did not understand her Saot tongue. With a shrug, the dead man hanged his head in respect and stepped away from the corpses.

There were many more ghosts among the dead of Solveny. There was a hefty man that stood in the door of a church. Brankellus caught the barest glimpse of gore beyond the ghost and quickly turned away from the sight. There were several children of various ages, wide-eyed, with hands clasped, as they ran to Brankellus. They followed him, along with the wife, and the large cleric. There was an old woman—so old that Brankellus wondered if she could walk before she died. As a ghost, she certainly struggled with the task—though she managed to keep up with the shuffling pace of the others. She shook and huffed with each impossible step as she continued after Brankellus and the growing number of dead that followed him. Why they followed, he did not know.

Under the noonday sun, a long column of Ministrians prepared to return to Rynth Falls. They had loaded wagons with their spoils, corralled livestock, and slaves—but Petaerus was not among them.

The sun crested and began to fall. Brankellus continued through the town, led by his infallible sense. He stepped from Solveny and noticed that many of the outlying farms also smoldered. He walked on, south and east, across the Noethrin Plain, only interested in his quarry.

Night fell. Several miles outside of town, he looked back and noted a long train of Solveny’s dead followed after him.

The Twists and Turns of a Slow Road East

Polished 11.1 thru 11.4 — 47m33s — 2023/12/22

Polished 11.5 and 11.6 — 35m07s — 2023/12/22

Baet spent the late morning in the pools of the Copper Kettle and Rooms. He tried to forget the embarrassments of the previous night—which turned out to be more than his confrontation with Wenifas. During the first watch, Baet gambled with the brothers Homoth and Komotz once more—and as they played, he realized he wasn’t lucky after all—they were simply terrible at cards. For a time, he thought he should lose, as he was beginning to feel sorry for them; then he decided he’d rather have their money, and gleefully took hand after hand—until Homoth, flipped the table, accused him of cheating, and stomped off in a fit. Komotz simply glared as he wandered after his brother, leaving Baet to clean up the mess.

Even winning, there’s no winning, Baet thought, as he soaked and tried to relax.

Eyes closed, Baet heard the patter of small feet. He looked up and saw Claiten rushing at him with his dagger drawn. “What the devil…?!” he began as adrenaline shocked him into readiness.

With anger on his face, the boy jumped at the guard. “ERRR-AYE-ERRRRRRR!” he crowed, as he flew at the Saot.

Although the boy was a scrappy handful, he was at a massive disadvantage. Baet was strong, a trained fighter, and several times the child’s size—even if he was in a pool. With an expert hand, the large guard knocked the knife aside, grabbed the boy out of mid-air, then launched the child over the walkway into a larger, deeper, and colder pool. It was a masterful stroke, and he wouldn’t have managed it if his attacker had been anything more than a mere child.

Claiten hit the water, submerged, and panicked as he remembered nearly drowning in the aqueducts of old Beletrain. He kicked and paddled furiously for the surface, breached, and gasped. He was not a good swimmer, and so he struggled in the water. After a bit of hard paddling, he caught the edge and climbed out. Hands on his knees, he huffed and puffed, then looked up to see the massive Saot guard approaching.

Baet advanced on the boy. Claiten turned this way and that as he looked for an exit, but he was cornered against the edge of the water and unable to evade his enemy.

“You want to fight?!” Baet glared at the child as he held the naga blade in his hand. “I’ll teach you to fight!” He sunk down on his haunches as he approached, then roared and lunged at the child. “Hah!” he screamed.

Claiten teetered at the edge of the pool, ready to jump in—but the guard dodged back.

Baet relaxed as he stared at the child. “That’s a feign,” he explained in the child’s own language. “I do that to check your reflexes,” the old guard grinned.

“Now this…” the guard waved the blade high as he advanced on Claiten once more. “…is a distraction,” he said and poked the boy’s belly with the finger of his empty hand.

Claiten stared at the guard, barely able to breathe, his fear rising to a choking level.

Baet leaned over the boy and poked him in the chest once more. “And that’s a direct assault,” he stared into the child’s large frightened eyes. “Now I’ve beat you half a dozen different ways,” he stated. “You still want to fight me?”

Claiten shook his head.

“Good,” Baet said, then turned the blade in his hand as he examined it. “It’s a nice knife,” he noted. “I’d hate to have to keep it,” he held out the blade.

Claiten reached for the weapon.

Baet pulled the naga knife away. “If I take it again, it’s mine,” he said. “Understood?”

Claiten gave a slight but solemn nod.

“Good. Now save your wrath for your true enemies,” Baet recommended, then handed the naga dagger back to the child. He turned and stepped into the warm pool, always keeping an eye on the boy.

Claiten caressed the twisted handle of the blade, more than happy to have the weapon back. He stared at the guard as he considered attacking the man once more. Twice, he’d tried to settle his mother’s score, and twice he’d failed. Indeed, Claiten counted himself lucky to be alive—though his anger still burned just under the surface. Often enough, his mother had told him to check his anger. She made several of her dancing partners extol the virtue of patience. So it was that the child consoled himself and set vengeance aside—for now.

Claiten twisted in slow circles, not quite sure what to do with himself. He hadn’t planned the attack, and certainly had no idea what to do if he failed; and so he blinked, then slowly drifted from the pools.

Baet cocked his head as he watched the child. He felt sorry for the kid. The women coddled him while the men mostly ignored him. The others were nice, of course, but they were busy and didn’t have much time for the child. Plus he had an inkling of what the Ministrians taught their children—especially children of the boy’s low station. His education would be limited and more about what he couldn’t do than teaching him anything useful. Baet shook his head. The thought of growing up under the tutelage of the Ministrians made the guard shudder. That poor child was likely raised to think it was the God’s greatest calling to be nothing but fodder for Baradha ambitions. He decided it might be good for the child to have a better influence in his life, a manly influence that could teach him proper manly things, like the use of a knife.

Baet reached for his towel and picked out the stone that sat next to his sword. “You want to see something?” He asked and lifted the glittery rock toward the child. “You remember the courtroom?” he grinned. “The meteor that caused the roof to collapse? You wanna see it?” He held the meteor out to the boy.

The child’s eyes went wide. He gave a nod and Baet waved him over. Claiten stepped into the pool and took the offered rock. It was black and smooth with small pits all over it. He stared at the stone, dazzled by a thousand colors that caught in the small divots. “Pretty,” he said.

“It is,” Baet agreed. He ruffled the boy’s hair, and added, “I wish Toar had some of your fire. He hasn’t wanted to train since we left the dueling forts,” he complained, then leaned back and closed his eyes. “I might even wonder where he got off to—if I didn’t think that evil blonde pixie wasn’t lurking somewhere nearby,” he snorted. “She’s a piece of work! Chances are she’ll be the next to try and stab me.”

The boy turned to the guard, curious to know what he said at the end, but not understanding since the guard had switched to Saot.

Baet shook his head. “Never you mind,” he said with a wry grin. There was no reason to let the boy know that others might mean him harm. The child didn’t need that sort of encouragement.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

After breakfast, Toar went into the village and moseyed about. In the window of a smithy, he noticed a pistol musket. He stopped to stare.

Only yesterday the duke had paid the Trohl with money borrowed from the Jindleyak for services rendered. Toar was feeling flush and generous, so he stepped into the shop and inquired after the weapon. "How much is it?”

“Two lunes,” the smith answered.

Toar frowned. "Why so cheap?" he asked, for he knew he couldn’t get a decent sword for twice that amount.

The smith shrugged. “I didn’t want it in the first place. I bought it from a Soat that was hard up for coin, and it’s cluttered my window ever since. Why bother with a musket anyway?” he added with a wave. “A bow and arrow is just as deadly, and quicker to reload.”

“It’s a weapon of intimidation,” Toar said.

The blacksmith smirked. “Says who?” He leaned over the counter and glared at the smaller man.

Toar shrugged, “It’s what I heard anyway.”

The blacksmith scoffed and pulled a knife from his belt. It was nearly a foot long and serrated on one edge. He waved it about as Toar took a cautious step back. “Weapons are weapons,” the smith began. “It’s the wielder that’s intimidating,” he snorted as he jammed the knife back into its sheath. “That rock thrower—that’s for rabbits, squirrels, and snakes—but who doesn’t need a good rabbit from time to time?” he shrugged. “You still want it? It’s a good price.”

Toar stared at the weapon and compared it to his memory of Thunder Maker. It was a much simpler and seemingly thinner, but still had an interesting style about it—and for a mere two lunes! How could he beat such a price?! “Do you have powder, shot, and wad?” He asked.

The smith searched the crowded bench. "I got what the Saot had—good Gaurrish powder—or so he claimed. Never know with Saots,” he added, then lifted a slight pouch and passed it to Toar.

Toar smiled as he checked the bag. “I’ll take it,” he said and gave the smith two lunes. He tucked the weapon away and turned to see Celesi standing in the door. He rolled his eyes as he walked on by.

Having seen the weapon, the young lady leaned in and grabbed at Toar’s hem, as she followed him from the shop. “You got a pistol?!” she beamed. “Let me see it!"

Toar shook his head. “It isn’t a toy, Celesi.”

“I’m old enough to know a weapon when I see one!” the young lady reprimanded. “Come on!” she pouted. “Show me!”

With a sigh, Toar pulled the weapon from his cloak.

“Wow!” she beamed and scratched her head. “How does it work?”

Toar pointed out the various parts. "You put the fire powder and a ball in the barrel; then you jam a bit of cloth down after it with this little rod, so it don’t all fall out. Next, you pull back the hammer, and aim it at the thing you want to kill. Then you pull the lever, which brings the hammer down. The hammer hits the flint, which causes a spark to light the powder. The powder explodes, and propels the ball out the barrel. Then—if your aim is true—the ball smashes a hole through your enemy and lets out all their blood.”

“So you just pull the trigger, and the musket does the rest?” Celesi said as she gaped at the weapon. “Simple, yet savage,” she noted, then turned back to Toar. “How far can it shoot?”

Toar shrugged. “Far enough,” he said, since he didn’t really know.

“Could it hit that house?”

“Easily.”

“What about that one?”

“Probably.”

“What about that one clear back?”

“Maybe,” Toar hedged.

“Have you used one before?”

“No,” Toar admitted. “Baet claimed he’d let me fire his, but there were bugbear and Ministrians about, and we didn’t want the attention. Then they were taken away when we got captured in Woodring.”

Celesi smiled. “Well, there are no bugbear or Ministrians about us now! Will you let me fire it?”

“I’m giving it to Baet,” Toar told her. “But I bet he will let us fire it once there is a good place to do so.”

Celesi frowned. For several seconds she stared at the weapon and mulled over her dislike of the tea-drinker. "Such an easy thing to use,” she mused. “And dangerous, you say?”

“Very.”

“Then you must let me have it,” she concluded.

"And what do you want with it?" Toar asked, suspicious.

“What if we should run into more trouble?” Celesi shrugged. “I should think a musket is more effective than my knives.”

Toar shook his head and stared straight into her soul. “You want it so I won’t give it to Baet, because you don’t like him.”

“It’s not all that,” Celesi claimed, wide-eyed and innocent—though they both knew that Toar was perfectly right. "I'd like a better way to protect myself,” she feigned.

The wide eyes of the young lady made Toar question himself. Was she sincere? “You really want it?” he frowned.

Celesi gave a solemn nod.

"Then I think you would happily trade me for your blades.”

Celesi flinched. She meant to keep them both.

“Nevermind,” Toar turned and began down the street.

Celesi ran after him. “Wait!” she cut him off, pulled up her skirt, and undid the throwing knives from her thigh. “It’s a deal.”

Toar declined the offered weapons. “What makes you think I want your knives anyway?” he rebuked, as he stepped around her.

Celesi grabbed his shoulder. “Please?!” she followed after. “I’ll do anything,” she purred.

Annoyed, Toar tried to shrug her off. “Stop.”

Celesi jumped on his back. “Anything!” she whispered in his ear as she kissed his cheek.

Toar leaned back and stared at the small, pretty girl. “Anything?” he repeated.

With a mischievous smile, she batted her lashes.

“First, get off my back,” Toar replied, then continued walking. “I don’t know why you want it at all. Are you not attached to your knives?” he argued.

“Why should I care for them?” Celesi scoffed. “I got them from Meriona.”

Toar studied the girl with a critical eye, though he understood exactly why they would mean so little to her.

”Please!” she begged and reached out to caress his arm.

Toar pulled away and rolled his eyes. He took the musket from under his cloak and studied it while Celesi eyed it greedily. He’d come by the weapon easy enough, and so he figured he might find another one in the next village, or perhaps the next after that. “Fine,” he acquiesced and held out the musket. “But give me the blades first.”

Celesi handed over the knives, then studied the musket once Toar gave it to her. “Show me how to load it,” she asked immediately.

Toar shrugged. “I've never done it,” he said. “I just know the theory.”

“Then show me what you’d do if you wanted to load it.”

Toar shook his head. “Let’s ask Baet. He knows the proper use of it,” he said as he continued down the street.

Celesi grabbed his arm. “If I wanted his help, I'd ask him,” she frowned. “But I won’t. Instead, I’ve asked you.”

“He’s not such a bad person,” Toar defended.

Uninterested in his appraisal, Celesi changed the subject back to the musket. “I get it; it’s dangerous. I swear I won’t fire it for the sake of the squirrels until we’re somewhere that we deem is safe. Only then will we get a bit of practice—you and I. But until then, I’d like to have a weapon I can use. I don’t think I ask too much,” she argued. “Since we met, how often have we had to run for our lives? Indeed, are we not still in danger?!”

Toar realized she made a good argument. “Fine,” he huffed. He poured a bit of powder down the barrel, turned to Celesi for a long moment, then added another dab. “That should do,” he said with a shrug. He dropped a smooth iron ball into the barrel, then stuffed a small piece of cloth after it and rammed it into place with the long thin rod that lived under the barrel. Having finished the operation to his satisfaction, Toar held the weapon out to Celesi.

“That’s it?” she asked as she moved to take it.

At the last second, he pulled it away. “This isn't a game,” he stared at her. “This’ll kill a man, sure as lightning. It’ll kill you if you aren’t careful.”

Celesi glared. “I know when a thing is serious! I evaded the Ministrians for months, all on my own! Do I look like I trifle?!” She held out her hand, demanding the weapon.

With a serious nod, Toar gave her the pistol.

Celesi beamed at him as she jammed the musket into it’s holster, then wrapped her shawl over it, so the others wouldn’t see. For a second, she imagined the tea-drinker pressing himself on her—then she would pull the weapon, press it into his chest, and back him off! Oh how that might shock him! She grinned at the thought, rather satisfied with herself. “I owe you,” she smiled at Toar as the two walked on. “I really owe you,” she smoldered “Would you like to collect?”

Toar rolled his eyes and kept walking—as Celesi chased after him.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

The shades were drawn in the small cabin. It was a simple, yet pleasant room. There was a table, two chairs, and a couple beds—one of them occupied.

Carringten was fast asleep in the bed closer to the door—despite the fact that the sun approached its zenith. The door opened and gave an awful creak. The dark man’s eyes bolted open. He reached for his sword, turned, and caught sight of Creigal as the duke entered the room.

Carringten relaxed—mostly. He sat up. “It is impossible to guard you if I know not where you go,” he noted.

Creigal gave an absent wave as he moved past his captain. “I should think that even you would like a break from your duties from time to time."

Carringten huffed. “One day you will be gone, and I can hang up my sword for good. Until then, I prefer to do my work.”

Creigal paused as he regarded his adopted son, “Will you do it? When I finally pass from this world, will you quit the profession?”

Carringten shrugged. “Who else deserves my life's blood?”

“What of my nephew, Varius?”

The captain shook his head. “I suppose he is a good man—but he has his own men to protect him.”

“The day I am gone, what will you do?” Creigal continued. “How will you live?”

“Perhaps I shall build bridges, or teach among the children,” Carringten replied. “I might farm, or I might simply travel for a time,” he shrugged. “I’d like to see what lies beyond the jungles of Borzia. I‘d like to view the Tallian Sea,” he continued. “Perhaps I will settle. I will get a piece of land. After all, there are cattle to husband, and all manner of vegetables to pick—and despite what the others are always saying, I haven’t spent all my money on weapons.”

“Do you care so little for the protection of Gaurring?” Creigal asked.

“I was never so loyal to the duchy,” Caringten admitted. “My loyalty has always been to the man that rescued me when I was too young to defend myself. Now if you had proceeded your wife, or if Daphne lived,…” he shook his head. “But they do not, and I do not know your nephew so well. No. For Varius, there are other effective and cunning men. Let them protect him and your other ministers—that is—in the unfortunate event that I shall outlive you.”

Creigal scoffed. “Do not think it is such a grand thing to go before an old man like me—not into the underworld! It is never fortunate for a son to proceed his father in death. Indeed, it is against the very order of nature!”

“If it is nature that takes you, and not some villain, then I shall be happy to outlive you,” Carringten replied. “But enough of the unknowable future.”

“Agreed,” Creigal nodded. “Were you not going into town with the others?” he asked of his captain.

“I was—until you didn’t return.”

The duke smirked. “So you used my absence to catch up on sleep?”

“Not in the least,” Carringten replied. “After my watch, I went searching for you. I searched the woods for hours, until the sun came up. I came back to get Baet and maybe some of the others—but then I saw you walking with Meu. Since I knew where you were, and since I figure she can’t be all that dangerous; well, that’s when I decided to get some sleep,” he explained. “Have you spoken to Duboha?”

“I have not,” Creigal admitted. “I spent a wondrous night under the trees, and I was distracted during my breakfast, as you noted.”

Carringten gave a nod. “Duboha has asked our pardon. When we leave for Hearthstone, he intends to take Aim and Komotz back to Ebertin.”

“Give them our thanks, and a bit of our coin to prove it," Creigal nodded. “Be generous,” he added, ignoring the fact that all his current coin was borrowed from Traust. He frowned as he remembered the kind man and wondered where the debt would go. Not that it mattered. He would pay it to the family, or to the good man’s friends. He certainly borrowed enough. Indeed, most men might think it a mighty sum that Creigal had borrowed, but against the duke’s vast holdings and interests, it was a mere pittance to consider. It was maybe the operating costs of a dozen men for a good six months—but what was that to a man that employed thousands?

“Duboha says that once we are away and they’ve turned back any pursuit, there is little chance of trouble. He leaves Saleos in charge of the others, and expects nothing between here and Hearthstone,” Carringten continued. “I have my reservations, of course.”

“About our safety?” Creigal eyed his adopted son. “Anything specific?”

Carringten shook his head. “General misgivings. Mine is a suspicious line of work, and I’d prefer to keep as many friendly bodies around you as possible.”

“I too like our new friends,” Creigal gave a nod. “in this we shall trust their judgement. If they think we are safe…” he shrugged.

“We’ve made a fair bit of noise in this land,” Carringten noted. “Our hosts have turned away a number of visitors. They can’t all mean us well.”

“Yet they all come for the shaman,” Creigal shrugged. “Yesterday, they were so thick around the pour fellow, I thought they might shake his miserable hands right off his arms!”

Carringten chuckled. “A few of them did not even look at the brittle things before they grabbed them and shook,” he nodded. “Also, I asked Toar for his assessment. He says he’s never been this far east, so he offers only hearsay—oh, and get this!” he stared at his adoptive father. “When I paid him, he wondered out loud if he’s still of any use to us.”

Creigal blinked. “Of course he is! He knows the people and their customs, and his loyalty is unquestioned! His previous function as a mere guide might be overshadowed by Saleos and the others, but that doesn’t mean he is worthless!” the duke snorted. “No, tell Toar his use has rather increased, as we now call for him to be our ambassador. Yes! That will serve,” the duke nodded. “And as our ambassador, have him present our payments to the others—that is—assuming he still wishes to continue with us.”

“He says nothing to the contrary. Still, I worry about the young Trohl,” Carringten mused. “I wonder if he is not overly distracted.”

“By Celesi?!” Creigal chuckled and shook his head. "Yours is indeed a suspicious line of work! We are no longer in the wilds with our enemies all about us—and Toar's attention is not so singular as your own! Still, he has performed admirably since the first day we met, and seems always to be honest. Despite the distraction of the young beauty, he attends my concerns,” he frowned at his captain. “Do you not enjoy the relative safety we have about us? Do you not want for a little rest, a bit of holiday, during a dangerous trek?”

“I should welcome it if our journey should remain as simple and calm as all that,” Carringten admitted. “Instead, I shall take this rest and prepare for the worst.”

Creigal shrugged. “That is your training, and let us hope you do not summon trouble with such dark and foreboding thoughts.”

“Ah, but you are in charge, so I am sure we shall be greeted by nothing more than sunshine and rainbows!” Carringten replied.

“Now, now!” Creigal stared at his captain. “There is no better way to tempt trouble than to say there can be none of it!”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Scurra was out for a walk to clear her head and get a bit of exercise. She had half a day, since the plan was to take it easy through the afternoon and the evening; then, in the middle of the night, they’d leave under the cover of dark. The local militias promised to guard their departure. It’d be easy to turn back any tails during the wee hours since the roads would be all but empty. It was a sound plan and Scurra was happy with it—until she wasn’t.

With plenty of time, Scurra stepped down the trail as it followed the meandering river. She passed several Pan Iskaer and friendly men from other militias she did not know. They often smiled, and they were kind enough to make themselves discrete. She continued on her way—then found herself in a small clearing as a murder of crows gathered at the far end. The rooks jumped and squawked at the sight of her and a chill caught in her chest as she remembered the birds of her dream. The ruckus grew, and the chill grew with it.

Scurra couldn’t catch her breath as she remembered the storm, the icy spikes, and the shock of lightning. She shivered as she realized the birds spoke to her again. “Run!” They cawed. “Run! Death comes for us all!”

In a frenzy, the dark birds burst from their perches, squawking and cawing, as they scattered over the forest. Scurra felt it was an omen. She felt that if they waited to leave, a danger would come over them, and it would visit strife and death upon them. She turned and rushed back to the inn. She hurried past the Saot guard as he instructed the small boy in the use of his dagger, and also the duke and his captain. She rushed into the courtyard where her Jindleyak cousins sparred with wooden sticks. They’d finished practicing their forms, and also some rolling—yet the day was still early, and several of the men had too much energy—and so they were just beginning a tournament of ‘touches’ when she came barreling out of the woods. “Gather your stuff,” she interrupted. “We’re leaving immediately.”

Several of the Oak and Beast turned to her, including Homoth. He stared at her, but since she refused to elaborate, he turned away as he answered. “We attend our plan, and for now, we practice.”

Scurra glared at the men. “Will the lot of you scrap for a day’s glory while Traust and Apulton long for their eternal rest?!” she chided.

“There’ll be more of us dead if we allow our edge to dull,” Homoth replied—as he took the first point from Andrus. “We are safely away from Ebertin. We have many friends about us, and we will not be staying much longer anyway. The plan is a good plan.”

“Games are fine—for those days when we have nothing better to do,” Scurra scowled. “But I mean to go home and I would like to arrive there sooner than later!”

“And I would like to arrive home with the honor of yet another victory under my belt,” Homoth snorted, as he took a second quick point from Andrus.

“This isn’t about the game,” Duboha noted. “Something else is bothering her. What is it, cousin? What has caused you to question our plan?”

“There’s a danger,” Scurra revealed. “There’s a darkness out there. I don’t know what it is, but it’s coming for us—and the longer we delay, the more likely it will catch us!”

Carringten’s ears perked up. He did not like talk of the dark—but it seemed he was the only one that took her words seriously. He looked to Creigal, as the others booed and told Scurra not to bother them. Creigal shrugged.

Duboha frowned. “Are you going to justify this with another dream?”

“Sometimes they are quite accurate,” Scurra defended.

Several of the others groaned. A few scoffed. Komotz cut in. “Yes, yes. ‘A danger, a darkness’… We’ve all heard of these portents that bother you, dear cousin, but these things rarely resolve in the way you imagine!”

Scurra persisted. “A great storm is building!”

Homoth interrupted as he took a third point from Andrus—a fact that caused Andrus to throw his tourney sticks in the dirt. “A storm?! Like an actual storm?!” Homoth shook his head. “Would you have us outrun the weather?!”

Scurra shook her head. “I know not what form the danger shall take! All I know is that if we leave now, we may yet avoid it!”

“Who says we aren’t looking for a little danger?” Homoth leaned in close. “Do you not see us training to meet such things?!” Arms akimbo, he measured his cousin. “Tell you what: play me at touches, and if you should beat me, we’ll call it a day and march immediately.”

Scurra glared at the large young man, “You provoke me.”

“I do indeed!” Homoth admitted. “But I am the last champion, so I can leverage the rules.” He turned to the others. “Is that not the way of it? So long as I do not give myself unfair advantage? What say you all?” He continued. “Do any of you consider this unfair?! Do any object to calling it a day and marching on—despite a better plan—if this lovely lass can land three strikes against the reigning champion?”

None of the others believed she could beat him, so none bothered to object—though Carringten wondered. He’d been watching and he could see many holes in the young man’s methods.

“Come, let us get your blood pumping,” Homoth grinned. “Show these others what the fairer sex can do!”

Scurra huffed. The others encouraged her and egged her on—and so she decided she liked the idea of teaching this whelp a thing or two. She collected the tourney sticks that Andrus had thrown on the ground and stared at her large cousin. “I’ve won a few rounds of touches myself,” she glared as she squared up.

Homoth gave a shrug as he continued to grin.

“Ha!” she yelled, and went all out from the beginning. She hacked and swiped at Homoth—but the gifted young man deflected and dodged. He countered, backpedaled, then danced away from her, as he hooted and hollered with delight. The others cheered and whistled to see them go.

“What do you think?” Creigal asked, as Carringten and Baet gathered around. “Can she beat him?”

Baet shook his head. “She has skill—but he has a natural talent. Did you see the way he beat Andrus?”

Carringten agreed. “He shrugs her off with almost no concern. He baits her. Unless she is holding back—and it does not appear to be so. He’ll win whenever he feels like it,” he concluded.

“She’s not bad,” Baet added. “I see her giving many able men a hard time—but that one,” he shook his head and gave a whistle.

“Agreed,” Carringten nodded. “This one is quite talented—though a bit raw,” he turned to Creigal. “What do you think? Would they make your troop?”

Creigal nodded. “I think they would all be good regulars, and several would make the irregulars if they should like.”

“What about the woman?” Baet asked.

“Especially the woman,” Creigal confirmed. “She has skill, heart, a commanding voice, and it doesn’t hurt that she’s attractive. Think of the recruiting you could do with someone like her to give the speeches,” he grinned at his two guards.

Baet shook his head, “more grist for the mill.”

Creigal frowned at the comment.

The guard shrugged and defended his outlook. “War is a dirty enterprise.”

Although they didn’t like it, neither Creigal nor Carringten could find any fault in this comment, and so they simply let it sit.

Carringten leaned close to Duboha. “What are the rules to this game?” he asked.

“Land a strike, get a point,” Duboha said. “And no cheap shots.”

“What constitutes a cheap shot?”

“You know, a cheap shot,” Duboha replied. “Nothing that will do permanent harm—especially shots to the head—either head.”

Baet leaned close to Carringten. “If there were no cheap shots in real fights, I’d be dead a dozen times over,” he noted.

“Still, it’d be bad form to crack a man in the eggs just to win a spar,” Carringten replied.

Baet had to agree.

Despite Scurra’s aggressiveness, Homoth took the first point. Then, after toying with the older woman yet again, he took the second point also.

It wasn’t all one sided. Scurra won the third with a glancing blow to Homoth’s right thigh. The others all chortled to see it—though Carringten felt like Homoth gave her the opening—which meant that the young man understood the importance of theatrics, at least on some level.

The two fighters set themselves yet again. Scurra rushed in. Homoth defended himself well. He consistently pushed her away whenever she managed to close the gap—or whenever it seemed like she might overwhelm him—but he also refused to counter as he danced and hooted and hollered about in circles. Using only defense, Homoth could not possibly win. Eventually Scurra caught him just a bit too open—and she gave his left ribs a solid crack—no real damage—though quite likely a bruiser. Homoth sucked air and favored his side. “We may leave early yet!” He chortled as he set himself for the final point.

Snarling, Scurra charged again. She threw herself into the effort and nearly scored several times, especially since Homoth refused to attack. “Fight back!” She screamed at him.

Her attacks took on a reckless edge. If Homoth wouldn’t counter, there was no reason to hold back—a fact that only added to Scurra’s aggravation.

“FIGHT BACK, YOU LOUT!” she screamed again.

Homoth wasn’t phased as he blocked, dodged, and parried every stroke. He was focused and fought clean—while all of the sneakiness had drained out of Scurra. Now, she simply hacked at her cousin as she tried to overwhelm him—but he was simply too big and too talented.

Finally, Homoth grew bored. Scurra opened up a bit too much, and he retaliated—though he was ever so gentle about it. He poked her in the chest with the tip of his tourney stick and proved that he had indeed been goofing on her all along. “Ahahaha!” he laughed as he danced away with his arms raised high. “Ahhahahahaa!”

The others cheered and jeered his antics. Scurra glared at her gathered cousins. Humiliated, she threw down her tourney sticks and stomped away in a huff; thinking there was nothing else she could do. There was no way they’d listen to her now.

“Hey, don’t go!” Homoth called after her. “Don’t you want to fight among the others for the glory of second?!” he taunted.

Scurra turned and made a lewd gesture as she continued on her way.

Homoth turned to the duke and his two guards. His eyes settled on Baet. “What of you? Do you have the figs it takes to claim a day’s glory?” he glared.

Baet shook his head—but Carringten nodded, stepped forward, and picked up the tourney sticks abandoned by Scurra. He swung the sticks to test their weight.

The duke turned to Baet and gave the junior guard a bit of a nod. “Let’s play,” he said. “We win honor on the way up, or make friends on the way down. Either way, this is good for us.”

Baet huffed, but thought What the hell. Might as well show the kid that I know what I’m talking about… He stepped forward as he smiled at Claiten.

Carringten stepped up to Homoth.

“No,” Homoth said, and brushed him aside. “I face that one,” he pointed at Baet.

Carringten shrugged and went pointing about the others, looking for someone to trade blows. Duboha agreed.

Homoth stared at Baet. “What do you say, Saot? Shall we put a lune on it?” he grinned.

Andrus interpreted.

“I thought you were mad at me for gambling,” Baet stated, as he squared up against the older brother.

“Gambling, no,” Homoth began. “Cheating…” he let the word hang.

“Oh. I don’t need to cheat to get the better of the likes of you,” Baet replied.

Homoth rushed forward. He struck fast, and drove the Saot back. Baet defended well and tried to turn the older brother—but the Jindleyak was uncommonly strong, and one of the quicker men the Saot had faced in a long time! He was Carringten fast! He was Garfindel fast! It wasn’t long before Homoth caught Baet open and gave him a bruiser across the left thigh.

Baet hobbled and sucked air. Blood boiling, he squared against the brother. “All right,” he glared.

Homoth charged—but this time, Baet turned his advance and stuck him in the chest with a quick parry. He grinned at his crestfallen opponent. “Seems I might know a trick or two after all.”

Homoth replied, and though it sounded insulting, Baet couldn’t be sure, since he didn’t know the Jindleyak’s language. Andrus started to interpret, but Baet missed his words when he charged forward.

The two went back and forth, until the older brother took a swing at Baet’s melon. The shot might of knocked him out—except Baet dove for the dirt. He lifted his shoulder as he fell, so the blow glanced off his arm before it clipped his skull.

Baet hit the ground, then jumped up immediately. “What the bloody hell?!” A line of blood formed, then dripped down the side of his head. He touched a delicate finger to the blood. “What the blazing balls are you trying to prove?!”

Homoth got in Baet’s face and tried to stare him down.

Realizing that real trouble brewed, several of the Jindleyak rushed forward and pushed Homoth back. Carringten and Creigal stepped in front of Baet. The aggrieved Saot guard turned away. Although the man-at-arms thought to give the younger man a good lumping, he was sure that Creigal would not appreciate such a dust up.

Homoth set for the next point, but Baet shook his head and dropped the sticks “I was promised no cheap shots,” he glared.

“You think something was unfair?!” Homoth snarled.

“Look!” Baet pointed to his head.

Homoth snorted. “Tis but a scratch!”

Baet turned to the other Jindleyaks. They mostly shrugged. “Perhaps if we’d seen it,” Duboha stated. “Most of us have given a little blood to the game at one time or another,” and just so the matter was set aside.

Baet touched his head again. He had to admit, it wasn’t a lot of blood. Still, he wasn’t interested in playing with a cheat, so he turned and stomped away.

Homoth declared himself the winner.

Baet meant to leave; to go back to the relaxing baths—but Komotz blocked the way and wore the same stupid, smug grin as older brother.

“He thinks he can beat you,” Andrus said. “He wants to take your silver too.”

Baet glared at the younger brother as he dug in his pocket. He pulled a lune and flipped it in the air, then turned and walked away as the coin dropped into the dirt. “Consider yourself a winner,” he said over his shoulder.

“Go practice with the child,” Komotz replied in broken Ministrian.

“Oh,” Baet turned. “It talks in full sentences,” he snipped as he continued on his way.

Carringten stepped in front of him.

Baet glared as he looked up at his captain. “They practice in the past anyway,” he shook his head. “None of these men could hope to match me with a musket!”

“Do you have a musket?” Carringten asked.

Baet frowned.

“And what of coin?” Carringten continued. “Do you have a bit of that?”

Baet nodded.

“Maybe they’ll wager,” Carringten shrugged. “If you think I can beat them.”

Baet grinned as he eagerly dug into his pocket.

Weary that things might get a bit heated, Creigal frowned at his captain. “Careful now.”

“I saw it,” Carringten noted. “It was a cheap shot, your grace, and whatever his sins, even Baet should not be treated so unfairly. Besides, it’s just practice,” He winked and turned to Andrus. He gave the cousin Baet’s silver, then squared against the younger brother, while Homoth took on Aim.

Komotz moved forward slow and tested the older man. Carringten held his ground, barely moving at all, only blocking when Komotz finally decided to engage. Komotz advanced, found no entrance, and retreated. Three times, the younger brother tried to find an opening, only to be repelled. The third time, Carringten followed, took a swipe that was easily blocked—but opened the younger brother up—and tapped him on the shoulder before dancing away cleanly.

“That’s the duke’s personal guard!” Baet laughed. “One of the finest blades in all the kingdom! You don’t even know who your messing with!” he chortled—while Carringten gave a neat bow and set himself for the next point.

Spitting and cussing, Komotz reset. Carringten gave the ready sign and the young Jindleyak rushed in—only to be rebuffed and brushed aside by the excellent weapons master. The younger brother could not even get the dark man to budge. Carringten took the point at his leisure.

The third point was settled in a similar fashion. Komotz returned to his cousins, to be reassured by Duboha, who had suffered a similar defeat at the hands of the dark master.

Meanwhile, Homoth and Aim smashed at each other for the right to face the dark captain. Slowly, Homoth overcame the big man’s stalwart defense and took the fourth point—of which he had three.

But the victory was short lived. He turned to Komotz, as the younger brother shook his head. “He’s good—really good,” the younger brother admitted.

Homoth stared at Carringten. His approach was reserved, though he was still quite confident. “Looks like its down to you and me,” he grinned.

“Welcome, friend,” Carringten smiled as he stood his ground. “Let us see who has the better hands.” He allowed his opponent to make the first move.

Homoth proved to be fast and strong, but Carringten was up to the task. Having watched his matches against Andrus and Scurra, he was well aware of the older brother’s skill—and shortcomings. After a long assault, the dark man parried a thrust and took the point.

The two reset. Homoth was even more cautious—so Carringten did something he hadn’t done yet. He attacked. Homoth blocked several blows—though he quickly struggled against the captain. Carringten was strong, quick, and relentless as he pushed the younger man back—then took the point—and danced away almost before Homoth registered the touch.

The older brother openly gaped as the dark captain spun away. Carringten reset.

Dumbfounded, Homoth set himself. Carringten approached. Homoth tried to defend himself—but the dark captain was too fast and too controlled—and both of them knew it. He took the point after a half dozen passes.

Afterward, Homoth couldn’t believe he’d been defeated so easily. It’d been months—maybe a year since he was so roundly dominated!

“Oh but you didn’t know! You stand against the the Pride of Gaurring! Duke Creigal’s most noteworthy guard! Captain Carringten!”

A hush fell over the others as they stared at the dark captain. Although they’d seen him fight when they ran from the House of Leaves, they didn’t have the chance to witness his subtle mastery. For a long moment, they didn’t know what to make of his ability to pick apart the very best of them.

Carringten turned to the gaping audience of Jindleyaks. “We leave immediately!” he charged—which brought several questions to Creigal’s mind—since the duke quite liked the original plan.

Scurra had returned to see the Saots practice against her cousins. She cheered to hear this—but the Jindleyaks simply stared at the dark man—and ignored her altogether.

Duboha glanced at Creigal, wondering if the duke would also push for them to leave—but Creigal just shrugged. It was the bright of day and hard to remember the importance of dreams—not to mention how displeased he was with the turn his dreams had taken. How could he possibly forgive his boys after the pain they’d caused him?! Besides, he had found a distraction in the shape of a wyrm.

Realizing the duke did not care, and quite liking their original plan, Duboha shook his head. “That caveat was for Scurra alone,” he noted.

This broke the captain’s spell. The others chuckled and clapped Carringten on the back, to congratulate him on his inspiring victory, then promptly ignored his proclamation. They gathered their stuff and proceeded in all different directions, intent on resting.

Creigal chuckled as he approached his captain. “Not used to having your orders ignored, are ya?” he said, and wrapped an arm around his adopted son. “If they do not take her dreams seriously, then why should you or I?”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Darkness crept across the land. The hour came to leave. Elpis was laid in the back of the wagon with the ashes of Traust and Apulton—a thing he did not like. “I am not dead yet!” he complained. Still, he wore numerous bandages, had a pale countenance, and his one eye continued to beam at an awkward angle.

“Hush, you,” Aim chastised his injured cousin as he arranged the back of the wagon. “Are your old friends such bad company?” he asked as he patted the urns that held the ashes of Apulton and Traust.

“Let them motivate you,” Komotz interjected. “You must join us in health, or you will lay with them forever.”

Elpis spit to hear this. He felt better than he had in days—though he could barely sit up for more than an hour. At least the back of the wagon was spacious, and his cousins gave him a copious amount of padding. Yet, he used what little energy he had to complain.

Still, the others were happy to have him show such vigor, and continued to tease him good-naturedly.

All gathered and ready, Duboha, Aim, Komotz, and the Pan Iskaer waved them on as Saleos drove the wagon. Krumpus also sat on the wide wagon bench with Wenifas and Evereste. The others all rode their own horses—except for Claiten. He rode with Meu for a time, then rode with Baet when Meu became too interested in the duke’s company—and while the boy’s mother leaned on the shaman and took a nap. Baet let Claiten hold the reins, and taught him how to handle the horse in general. He also showed the boy several magic tricks he’d picked up in various corners, among other sneaks and rogues. In return, Claiten showed the Saot guard a few of his own tricks he’d learned among the urchins of his race.

Wenifas woke to see her boy with the guard. She frowned though she decided not to make a big deal of it. Instead, she turned the other way and found herself staring at the shaman.

Krumpus turned and smiled at the priestess.

Wenifas tried not to stare at the bald half of his head, or the burn scar that ran down his face and neck, only to disappear under his shirt. Instead, she took his withered hand and gently massaged it. “How are you?”

Krumpus sighed, smiled, and nodded as he stretched his wrinkled fingers. With his gaze, he claimed to be well on the road to recovery. He’d regained full mobility of his digits, although they were not nearly as strong as they once were. There was still work to be done, he conceded.

Wenifas realized he could now speak with just a glance. Only a few days ago, Meu had proved herself capable of the same trick—which was nice, since she longed to talk to the serpent, but dreaded the creature’s fangs. She did not even want her kiss, as it left the beast in her head for hours on end. Wenifas wondered if they’d discovered this new magic at the same time. Or did one of them teach it to the other?

Wenifas rubbed life into the shaman’s hands for several minutes, then Krumpus took the priestess by her hand and checked the recovering burn. “It’s feeling much better,” she nodded—and indeed it was. The sunburst scar barely stung at all anymore. The worst of her burn, the far edge of her palm and her pinkie, were no longer blistered but merely a tender rose color. The scar only bothered her when she did something extraneous. She figured a couple more days and she would have nothing but a patch of withered skin to remind her of Beletrain. “I never did thank you,” she smiled. “That beast would have murdered us and stolen both my children if you hadn’t intervened,” she blushed. “I am lucky to have such magical friends.”

The shaman smiled and poked her ribs. You are magic, he told her.

“Oh not me,” Wenifas countered.

Krumpus frowned and shook his head. He stared into her eyes and told her that, magic is only magic when one doesn’t know how it works. Magic is taught and learned, after which it is never called magic again.

The priestess considered this, “I’ve always been told I can’t understand magic. They say it is beyond those of us born to a mundane life.”

And who would tell you such lies? the shaman asked.

“Mostly the church fathers,” Wenifas admitted.

If they could not teach you, the shaman began, it is because they do not understand it themselves, he claimed. Admittedly, magic is not always explainable, as some only know it instinctively—or subconsciously—and if they are the only one that can do such a thing, who dare call it is anything else?

“You are not winning the argument,” Wenifas smiled.

Do we argue? he replied. I thought we were simply mulling over the nature of magic.

“We were discussing those that hide and secret their magics,” she steered the conversation.

They must if they would hold power over others, Krumpus said. These things are rarely so complicated that many can’t understand them, given the opportunity.

“Then there are magics I can learn?” Wenifas pressed.

Krumpus nodded. There are only two things one needs to learn magic, patience and practice, but they are needed in abundance.

“And what magical practice allows you to heal?” the priestess replied.

I make a study of herbs, and I have attuned myself to the world of spirits, to those of nature and also those of my people, he told her. I also have a deep understanding of the elements. These are slow studies, but I am built for it. I’ve sat in fields of flowers for days, so they might feel comfortable with sharing their secrets.

Wenifas wondered at such a statement. “So you sit with them, and they tell you their secrets?!”

Some, Krumpus shrugged. They are not all so forthcoming—and some of them are outright liars—though perhaps I just met a few disagreeable individuals, he smiled. Indeed, it took me years to learn the secrets of foxbane! All said, it’s certainly been worth the time I’ve spent to sit and listen. And what of you? What is it you wish to learn? Do you wish to be a healer, or do you wish for magics of a different sort?

“I should just like to be happy,” Wenifas shrugged. “Is that sort of magic possible?”

Ahh, Krumpus nodded. A very difficult magic to master, he smiled. What does it mean to be happy?

“It is getting all that I need,” the priestess began. “And perhaps some of what I want.”

Krumpus nodded and smiled. I do believe that might make some of us happy, he replied.

“That is what I call a white magic,” Wenifas continued. “It is a noble sort of magic—the sort of thing you practice.”

You think I practice white magic? Krumpus shook his head. I do not think you and I use that term in the same way.

Wenifas frowned. “How would you define it?”

Easy, Krumpus began. White magic is the ever-living sacrifice of love and loss, never to hold, and always to want. White is the saintly abstinence of a perfect life, always giving, only ever taking the long view. Black magic is taking what you want, however you can get it. Black magic is selfish, cruel, and short-sighted.

“And that is why I would strive to be a white magician,” Wenifas nodded.

And who are we to deny our shadow? Krumpus replied. Is our path so easy that we should only ever give? He shook his head. When I pick a flower to make a poultice, do I not cut it short? Do I not end it’s life? Is this not an aspect of black magic? No. Our path is to walk the middle ground, to give and to take!

Wenifas frowned. “That is but a flower.”

To the flower it is everything, Krumpus shrugged. Still, it is good to take the long view—even when we can barely see our own hands in front of us. Yet, other times we will see the future stretching out for days, months, and years—and our nature will require us to drive the knife, to cut the cord, to break and mangle.

“You talk of wars and warriors?” Wenifas wondered.

I talk of life, the shaman replied. Our magic is multicolored, many faceted; balanced between the extremes of the blinding, burning light of god’s eternal throne—and the cold, damp, dark of the devil’s own abyss. We do not walk the earth with our eyes turned forever to the sun—just as we can’t live in darkness all the time. Instead, we suffer both the scorch of the sun and the chill of the moon. We dance in the soft sands of a fallen world with one foot in the water, and one on dry land. We wrap the pour miserly beasts of the earth with our ever-loving attention, that we might keep them from the wolves—then slit the throats of their succulent young, for the feeding of our own children. He smiled. Don’t you see? It is by honoring both the need and sacrifice of all around us that we sanctify this petty, cruel world, and transform it into haven!

“Hmmm… I suppose,” Wenifas considered. “But what does this have to do with being happy?”

Being happy means knowing that you will never have it all—but you will always have enough, he told her. You’d be surprised how little you need.

“I need to know there’s a purpose,” Wenifas said as she stared at the ground. “We are so fragile. Sometimes I think it is a broken heart that will kill me,” she admitted, then hanged her head, embarrassed. “How can I be happy with a broken heart?”

Krumpus smiled and lifted her chin with his hand. All must die so all might live, he told her.

“That’s not helping,” Wenifas frowned.

So you were happy once, and now are not, Krumpus noted. The things you had are gone, so now there is nothing but an empty void. He frowned. Don’t fret. Good things will come and fill your needs. But you must give it time.

“How long?”

Not until you can forget about it, the shaman shrugged.

Wenifas shook her head. “Your style of magic is impossible.”

It is not impossible. Indeed, it is quite simple—but it is not easy. Krumpus shook his head. Simple is rarely easy. If you think differently, try drawing a perfect circle.

“Then how do I find such a path, this straight and narrow that balances the right and the left?” Wenifas asked.

You go inward, Krumpus told her. It is the inner knowing that you must find. God speaks to you—through you—and also the devil. You must learn to distinguish between the two.

“So I will not succumb to the trickery and temptation of the devil?” Wenifas interjected.

No, the shaman shook his head. The devil must also be honored and drawn from his abyss. If you would remain strong, you must eat and honor your flesh. If your children shall grow, they must be fed. Thus, the devil will have his due. Then, once appeased, he must be married to the angel within, so he is willing to give up the excess. That is when you shall know how to give with the right and take with the left.

“Is the devil not the enemy?” Wenifas asked.

Of course! But the devil is necessary nonetheless, Krumpus told her. Without the devil’s chaos, the world would stagnate. It would become the choking order of the old guard in which nothing new could ever take root. It would suffocate innovation and eventually collapse under the weight of its own imperfection. That will not do! Instead, we must aspire to our highest good, while still honoring the dark material that we inhabit.

Wenifas huffed and shook her head. “I do not get it,” she stated, still confused. “Do I not want to be perfect so I might enter into heaven?”

But even as you are, you are perfectly imperfect! Krumpus told her. Is your god so limited that he cannot overlook your shortcomings? No. The true god is so good, he’d never consider barring your way! No! Only you can keep you out of haven!

“But this light and dark…?” she shook her head.

Consider your breathing, the shaman said. In order to breathe one does not only inhale. Instead, there is a rhythmic balance. We draw in all that we need—then expel the excess. It is give and take, a thousand times a day. Those that would have it all are akin to those that hold their breath, just as those that would deny all aspects of the flesh mean only to exhale. But neither of these can ever be the way of it, he shook his head. You must honor the impulse and appetites of your flesh—but you must do so in a high-minded manner, with love in your heart—for it is not what is done, but the manner in which it is done! He smiled. Then, having married the sun and the moon within yourself, you are perfect—or near enough—so that your immortality is obvious. He smiled. Don’t you see?! In that moment, how can you not know that the eternal universe loves you and will always take care of you?

“We are immortal?” Wenifas stared at the shaman.

Yes, Krumpus nodded, then shrugged. But even that does not satisfy—for some will always be blind. You see, our immortality is god’s blessing upon us—but it is also the devil’s curse—for even the wicked are immortal, only theirs is an eternal torment, for the wicked are never satisfied.

“You have given me much to think about,” Wenifas said, then was quiet, as she considered the strange and paradoxical words of the shaman.

For a while, neither spoke. When the shaman began again, he did not talk of such weighty or poignant things. Instead, he told her of the various plants and flowers they passed along their way; how this one preferred a nice mix of sun and shade, while another required dirt that drained quickly. He spoke of the numerous beneficial ways in which another plant might be used, and how yet another had very minimal applications and also required a heavy amount of refining. He spoke of some of the sillier concerns of the flowers, and continued to talk of such as the slow wagon followed the twists and turns of the road going east.

The sun crept toward its zenith, then slowly dropped to the horizon. Evening came and the party stopped. They met a local farmer and paid a few silver so they might set a camp in the corner of one of his fields, then partook of a quick dinner and bedded down for the night, quite sure that no one had followed. Night came on, and those that did not watch, slept.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

“Bunch of blasted idiots, marching on the road for all the world to see…”

Grunther complained of the main body of Ministrian shocktroopers and Degorouth militiamen that followed the duke and his entourage. A troop, some three hundred strong, watched and waited for the duke to leave his protected inn—then, as the duke slipped away, and they attempted to follow—they were confronted by a thousand men from the local militias and sent back to Ebertin.

“Serves them right for being so obvious,” the Jaded Blade muttered.

Not all were turned aside. Meriona and her four conspirators managed to sneak passed the local militias—which surprised the Jay. They were sneakier than she imagined.

Still, she had a low opinion of her four companions. Their faces were grim and troubling. They could barely manage a civil word whenever they spoke. They smelled of the streets, drank continuously, and had little interest in anything—except the money they’d make by killing the duke. In the scant places where they had hair, it was deviled into knots. On top of it all, they tended to leer at her when they thought she would not notice. She could not wait for this mission to be over, simply so she could be rid of their foul company.

Yet, they had slipped the net set by those militias that were friendly to the duke—and now they trailed the duke’s party down the long slow country road, bogged with local farmers and traveling merchants. Meriona told the Jaded Blades to smile and nod at those that passed—but then she saw the awkward and resentful way in which they did this—and also their troubled teeth. She rescinded her command and told them to go back to ignoring the locals as they pleased.

Night came and the small band of miscreants camped a mile or so back from their quarry. Once the horses were tethered and their blankets laid out, an argument began. “Light a fire!” Meriona demanded. “I am cold, and I will have a warm supper! If you will not do it, don’t think I won’t!”

“There will be no fire,” Grunther contradicted her. “If we should light a fire, they’ll know that we’re out here.”

The senior Jay stared at the man, flabbergasted. “It’s open country!” she countered. “You can see a dozen other fires burning all about us! One more light among these others cannot matter!”

“And what if someone shall come to join us?” Todehis asked.

“We are simply eating and being comfortable—and this is what we shall tell anyone that confronts us,” Meriona said. “We do not need to let it burn for long! It is a simple dinner fire—not a beacon! As the night deepens, we will let it run out, then we will meld with the darkness.”

“We will not do it,” Grunther shook his head. “It is too dangerous.”

“Do you truly think the duke believes himself safe?! That there can be no further trouble?!” Meriona stared among the Jaded Blades. “Such men as him do not trust their own homes—much less the wilds of a foreign country! Indeed, it is quite likely his careful sentries have noted our camp! If that is so, won’t they find it more suspicious if we don’t light a fire?!” She glared, then began to gather rocks in a circle. “We light a fire, and we enjoy it! If anyone comes to join us, I will talk, and I will talk fast! Keep your tongues and I shall be rid of them! Then, in the night, you can do what you mean to do.”

“We scout them,” Naiphan nodded. “And if we find an opening,” he stared at Meriona for several long seconds before he dragged a finger across his throat. The other Jaded Blades grinned, chuckled, and nodded in anticipation. After that, they gave up the argument and let Meriona have her fire.

Late in the night, Oblarra rose high and lit the world with an angry red hue. No clouds obscured the sky as Grunther, Todehis, Naiphan, and Bruck crept up on the duke’s camp. Although they crept close, they noticed several men watching, and did not dare enter among the tents. Instead, they conferred in hushed whispers as they lay among the tall grasses. “The duke is old,” Grunther pointed at the second guard. “Think that might be him?”

“We should have brought the witch,” Todehis said.

“The witch?” Naiphan replied.

“The court witch,” Todeihis replied. “What would you call her?”

“Her Civil Greatness, the Jay Meriona,” Naiphan shrugged.

Bruck chuckled under his breath. “Yeah, like any of us are calling her that!”

“At least she knows what the duke looks like,” Todehis continued.

“The old man isn’t the duke,” Naiphan scoffed. “Do you really think some hoity-toity muckety-muck is gonna take guard duty with his hired swords? Some uppity-up, out in the dark, instead of asleep in his comfortable tent?!” he shook his head. “He has men to watch. He will not be out in the middle of the night.”

Grunther frowned. He thought if he snuck another twenty feet or so, he might throw a knife and stick the man—but if it wasn’t the duke, well—killing an old guard would make the job darn near impossible! Instead, they waited for the guard to flag. But the old man and several Trohls kept a rotating guard, until they were replaced by equally wary and vigilant men.

Sunlight began to creep over the wide valley. As the camp began to wake, the four Jaded Blades returned to their tents, exhausted and none the wiser—only it wasn’t just Meriona that waited for them. A dozen Trohl militia surrounded their camp.

“You are caught,” one of the smaller militia men stated. “Lay down your arms, and you may yet live—”

Grunther pulled a blade and lunged at the man. In order to keep his life, the speaker flung himself back and toppled off his horse. Shouts of alarm and a general melee ensued.

As the sun climbed out of the mountains in the east, Elpis called to Saleos, “Slow ‘er down, old man! We got a tail!”

Saleos looked over his shoulder to see a tight knot of riders approaching, armed men, with Aim, Komotz, and Duboha at the front. “What are they doing?” he asked with a look of chagrin. “Does Duboha have his arm in a sling?!”

“They return with a handful of Pan Iskaer,” Elpis noted. “And what looks like a half dozen prisoners.” Indeed, their friends and the Pan Iskaer surrounded four others, three men and a woman, with their hands all tied. A fifth prisoner was slumped over his saddle. Elpis pointed at the body as he looked in two separate directions, “What happened to him?”

“That one took a swing at Duboha, so Squirrel stuck him with his spear and let out too much of his blood,” Aim explained.

“Didn’t mean to kill ‘im,” Squirrel shrugged. “Just meant to suck the fight out of 'im.”

“And how’d you come across this lot in the first place?” Saleos asked.

“Well, we blocked the main troop on the edge of town and gathered about a dozen others that tried to sneak past,” Aim explained. “Then we got word of this suspicious lot that had somehow slipped our net. So we followed them all yesterday, then spied on them through the night,” Aim said. “At sunrise, we confronted them in their camp—and that’s when the leaker got frisky, pulled a blade, and took a swipe at Duboha. Duboha dodged by throwing himself off his own horse.”

Several of the Pan Iskaer chuckled to remember it.

“He cut my shirt!” Duboha complained. “He would of stuck me deep if I didn’t dive!”

Aim shrugged. “Nobody said you did the wrong thing.”

The others were gathered around, and Cregial gave a light bow to the lady. “Meriona,” he smiled. “You’re keeping colorful company these days. I presume you are still under orders from Lord Commander Gliedian?”

Meriona stiffened up. “I’m just looking for a good view,” she countered.

Aim snorted. “They took a peek at your camp last night. We spied on them as they spied on you—though they still won’t admit it. We were standing right behind them—heard every word they said—and they still won’t admit it.”

“A beast like you, sneaking about in the dark?!” Meriona scoffed.

“I’m sneakier than I look,” he told her, as his friends grinned and nodded. “I was sneaky enough to catch you.”

“Well, we’re only a couple days from the border,” Saleos stated. “I say we take them to Excergie for a bit of Jindleyak justice.“

Homoth clapped Aim on the back. “Does this mean you’re coming to Hearthstone after all?” he smiled.

“I’ve come this far,” Aim shrugged. “If I don’t go home and give my mother a kiss, my father might not ever let me back.”

Carringten turned toward Squirrel and the other Pan Iskaer. “What of you? Are you coming with us?”

“Not us,” Squirrel answered. “Our mothers sleep back that way,” he said as he turned his horse and waved goodbye.

Calm Before the Storm

I wanted to take a look at the conversation between Krumpus and Wenifas, so I polished 12.4. I’m feeling much better about it — 19m13s — 2023/12/22

Polished —34m 08s — 2023/12/25

Crea woke slow, with a deep ache running throughout her body. She was tired—dead tired—even as the heat of the day gathered. Fatigue wrapped her muscles and begged her to hold still. The soarness stretched down to her very bones and reminded her of the violent foreigner, the inept officer, and the exhausting march she made to escape her burning home. She was so tired she didn’t even want to cry. Instead, she pressed her face into her blankets and prayed for immediate oblivion.

The wind churned and fussed. Leaves rustled as the branches creaked and groaned. In the foreground, she could hear the shamble and huff of the old post runner as he worked about camp, industrious and determined.

Crea raised herself into a sitting position, though she kept the blanket over her. The effort was ginger and slow. The sun shone through, and she caught sight of the rude orange and purple hues all about her body; large splotchy bruises that formed a messy patchwork over her neck, chest, and limbs. At first she recoiled, then settled down and studied the swirl of soured blood, as she was caught by a morbid fascination.

After a time, she turned her attention back to the bang and clatter of the old post runner going about his business. “Doidge!” she cried. “We hiked so late and I am exhausted! Can’t we rest a bit longer?”

“Do what you like,” the old post runner shrugged, disinterested in the girl.

Crea frowned, turned to the old man, and lifted the large blanket off her head. The old post runner was fully dressed and his gear was just about packed. “Are you making to leave?” she asked with a quizzical pout. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Doidge ignored her questions and quickened his pace. "It's for your own good,” he began. “I have an oath, and I mean to honor it." He buckled his sword in place, put on his helmet; then began to situate the numerous bags about his body. "The boy also has an oath,” he glared at Malcolm. “He would be wise to mind it.”

The young page sat in a dejected manner as he shot pleading glances at the young bruised woman.

“It’s the same as your oath,” Crea noted. “You’re both sworn to carry the post.”

“Don’t tell me my office!” Doidge snapped. “I have many oaths, and I am aware of their order! I go south, to report to my betters, to tell them of war in this country! I go for Danya! And I take all the post that I can!” he turned and pointed at Malcolm. "The boy carries post for Land’s End, and shall report what he’s seen to the Post Marshall of the Noeth!”

“And what if I would go to Danya?” Crea asked. “Or maybe just south to Gaetilly? I have no oaths. I can go where I please.”

“Don't be daft!” Doidge glared at the girl. “You’re talking more than a week’s walk to Gaetilly—and do you think you can get a horse before that?! Stay among your people!”

"I am subject only to myself," Crea asserted. “I shall go where I want.”

Doidge snorted. “Spoken like a true Solv. With such empty loyalties, no wonder the city was torched.”

Shocked by his callousness, Crea’s mouth dropped open. She stared at the old post runner as a fire caught in her belly.

Doidge returned to his task. “I have duties, and I doubt the Holy Schrivnah would ask me to forsake them so I could serve as escort to some willful brat.”

"Brat?!” Crea fumed, unwilling to take any more of the old man’s guff. “Now listen here!” she stood to her full height—with the dirt of yesterday still upon her. “There’s no need for insults—”

“No, you listen!” Doidge interrupted with a haggard finger in her face. "I am a man of the post and I mean to honor my office—nothing less and nothing more! I am not your guard, and I have no interest in your life; so if you wish to give me commands, you better be reeeaalll good with that fancy pig-sticker,” he hissed.

Crea eyed the gemmed falchion she’d taken from the Guar officer as it lay next to her blankets, then stared at the angry old post runner. He was several inches shorter than the girl, but thick and strong. As much as she wished to take up the small sword, she knew it’d do her no good to fight the old man. She could tell the sharp edge of a blade, and wasn’t afraid to murder a chicken—but that was a long way from fighting a man twice her weight, with a heavier weapon, and years of practice. She backed away from Doidge and gave herself some space.

“Of course, you could always pay a man to take you with him,” Doidge suggested as he advanced another step.

Crea turned to her belongings with a shrug. “All my coin was stolen,” she noted.

Doidge looked her up and down, and despite the bruising, gave her a suggestive glance. “Who said anything about coin?”

With an offended air, Crea backed away—but despite his icky proposition she still wanted him to stay. At least he had the decency to ask! Some men she’d recently met hadn’t even afforded her that!

Not that she’d make such a trade. Still, she would beg. “You saw the fires last night! Those murderers are still out there, among the farmlands, still causing calamity! They will have us if they can get us!”

“And what of it?!" Doidge glared. "We don’t know where they are! They could just as well be to the south! Who is to say I won’t find them in my way!” He snapped. “There is no safe road! Put your mind on that!" he turned and gathered the last of his bags.

Crea knew he was lying. She caught it in his eyes. He thought the southern road was safe—or safer—and he knew he could move faster and with more stealth if he went alone. She wondered how he could be so callous. He’d seemed so affable, as they’d escaped the city, but maybe he thought it was easier to bring her along and have her quiet. Would she not follow along anyway? And if he should deny her, a scene would have doom them all. Now that they were safe, or at least in a place where they could yell at each other, she couldn’t believe that he meant to simply brush her off.

Crea figured that the old bastard probably thought she meant to cling to him like a drowning cat—a thought that only irritated her all the more—in large part because that’s exactly what she wanted to do. Not that she would give him the satisfaction. She would not trade her body. It was thin consolation, but at least she had not agreed to the rough abuse of the foreigner.

Tears welled in Crea’s eyes and her temper got the better of her as she decided to reply in kind. "Fine!” She snapped. “Run south, to your precious Schrivnah, you coward!"

Doidge turned and slapped her across the face. “Watch your tongue, or you’ll end up with more of those spots!” he glared. "I saved your life! A little gratitude is on order!"

With that, he turned from Crea and began on his way.

"If you follow me, I'll kill you myself!" he called over his shoulder.

Crea watched as he walked away. As he neared the limits of shouting distance, she called after him. "Run!" she yelled at the top of her voice. "Run with your tail tucked, you cur!"

He made a rude gesture without ever glancing back.

Malcolm set a placating hand on Crea’s shoulder. “There is no need—” he began.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” Crea roared. She brushed off the page, and stomped away.

"We must be quiet," Malcom placated. “They’re out there—somewhere.”

Crea retreated back into her blankets. Silently, she huffed and sobbed, until she didn’t care about any of it. For a time she relaxed. For a time, she slept.

Under so many blankets, the heat of the day became unbearable. Red-faced and haggard, Crea slithered out from under her covers. The page did nothing while she cried. He did nothing while she slept. He had not moved, as if he’d simply sat and watched her sleep. He was a creep.

Still, he was young. And what did she expect of him? He was just as alone. He was a small, timid boy; and she was smaller yet! With a frown, Crea began to roll her blankets. “Gather your stuff,” she told him. “We’re leaving.”

Malcolm turned to his own bed. “You’ll feel better when we get to Land’s End,” he assured her, suddenly chipper as he realized she didn’t mean to abandon him.

“We’re not going to Land’s End,” Crea replied.

“But I must! I carry the post!” Malcolm protested. “Will you not come with me?!”

“I go south,” Crea answered.

Malcolm’s eyes bugged. “He’ll kill you,” he assured her. “He’s as mean as he seems—and he’ll do worse to me since I’d be breaking my oath!”

“I have no oath—and we’re not going after him anyway,” Crea stated. “I go to my father’s farm. If you wish to come, perhaps we will find some real men that will see you to Land’s End,” she said—suddenly excited by the prospect of seeing her family—so excited that she almost smiled.

“How far is it?” Malcolm asked.

“A day and a half?” Crea shrugged, “Two days at the most.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 12.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Far away, and much later that day, the sun was settling below the west mountains. Having started early that morning, the duke’s company stopped near a large placid lake with several massive peaks rising from the far side of the water. Scurra found the setting strangely familiar. She frowned to see it. “I don’t like this,” she said as the others spread about to set up camp. “Let's press on.”

“This is a great spot,” Duboha told her. “We can see everything around us and we can fish for dinner. Beyond this, the near shore is swamp for leagues, with biting flies and no approach to the water. We won’t find a better place until the base of the mountains.”

“It is only a few hours to the mountains,” Scurra noted. “We know the area. It will be easy enough to set up camp in the dark.”

The others argued against her, especially when they realized she did not want to stop because of her dream.

“Why stop at all?” she continued to argue. “We are not far from Jindleyak lands. If we press on, we can be in Excergie a little after midnight.”

Duboha shook his head. “Once we reach the mountains, its a hard climb to the pass. We have injured and prisoners among us. We will be groggy, and more likely to misstep as the night stretches on. There are steep banks. What if the prisoners try to take advantage?”

Scurra shook her head. “I can’t stay here,” she said as she stared across the lake.

Backed by the others, Duboha wouldn’t budge. In the end, it was Creigal that broke the stalemate. “We should be cautious,” he began. “That is why I think we should camp here—so we might move into the mountains during the bright light of day. We know the trek is dangerous, just as we know that dreams are not always as they seem.”

Carringten shook his head. “It is a mistake,” he said.

“Should we be more afraid of the dangers we know and understand, or the amorphous dangers of our dreams?” Creigal asked his adopted son. “Most nighttime terrors turn out to be little more than mist,” he noted.

“What are the value of dreams if we do not heed them?” Carringten asked. He could tell that Creigal had misgivings—but the duke could see that the other Jindleyak were unconcerned, and Meu also gave him a curious smile that set him at ease.

The duke want nothing more than to sit, talk, and hold the wyrm’s hand. Compared to her, what was he to make of his dreams? Were they not convoluted? Were they not confusing, confounding, and all too often contemptable? Did they not drive him to do too much? To take too many chances? To forgive the unforgivable? “Let us pause for the day,” Creigal said and stepped away.

Carringten glanced at Scurra and shrugged.

Scurra continued to argue until the tents were up and most everyone else went down to the lake, to do a bit of fishing, or simply to escape her arguments. Frustrated and irritated, she stomped about the camp and wondered why she was cursed with such a dream if she could not use it to convince her friends of danger. To get away, and yet hoping to keep her eye on the others, she climbed high in a tree and took roost—where she might look out over the lake.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 12.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Aim, Duboha, and Baet saw to the prisoners. Meriona and her throat-cutters were placed in a tent and given blankets. “Do not come out in the night,” Aim told them. “If you should come out, we will think you are up to no good, and we will kill you.”

“And what if I need to pee?” Meriona asked.

“It is not yet dark, and we are not without a sense of propriety,” Aim noted. “We will let you out one last time to do such business. After that, you will have to hold it—or perhaps designate a corner of the tent for such use. It is quite a big tent.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 12.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

As the others saw to the prisoners, set up camp, and fished for their dinner; Krumpus and Wenifas walked along the edge of the lake. Having lived a few days of comparable peace and normalcy did wonders for the priestess. She was in good spirits as she stared at her strange friend, and finally managed to ask some questions that she’d meant to ask for a while. “How did you know that the judge would fall?” she asked.

I could feel it, the shaman said with his eyes. I didn’t know what was happening. Indeed, I wondered for several long seconds if it wasn’t caused by you or Meu, since we were all connected at the time.

“But you knew something was happening,” Wenifas clarified.

Krumpus nodded. It was making my hair stand on end! I’m rather surprised nobody else could feel it.

“I could feel it, but I knew it was coming from you,” the priestess noted. “You tried to save him. He was such a corrupt and awful man, and yet you tried to save him.”

Because there was a chance, Krumpus shrugged. Oh, Kezodel might mock, but he was well aware that there were powers much greater than his own. And to think of such a man saved! He would have been a great prince, a true royal of cunning and power; like the Ewile Queen, Smixsmaxsmia!

“Smixsmaxsmia?” Wenifas asked. “Who is this?”

Another chimera, Krumpus told her. A queen of the south. She lived even further away than the duke—and yet rumor of her deeds reached us all the way in the north.

“Another chimera,” Wenifas noted. “Where do these creatures come from?”

There are many theories about this, Krumpus shrugged. Some say it is the devil incarnating through the wickedness of our blood. Some say it is simple chance that has allowed the few to be greater than the rest. I personally think it is the next step in our evolution, as we continue to blend the light and dark within us. I think these strange appearances and powers will continue to manifest until we are all affected. In the end, we will all become angels—or devils.

“You think this is divinely inspired?”

What isn’t? Krumpus replied.

“So you don’t think it was accident that Kezodel was struck?” Wenifas continued.

Krumpus nodded, there are no accidents.

“So when you speak of divinity, do you talk of the blended might of Ooroiyuo and Naharahna?” Wenifas asked.

These are not powers I know, Krumpus smiled. But I do know of the one true god.

Wenifas sfrowned. “I suspected the twin gods were not supreme. I’ve questioned quite a bit of late, including my gods,” she admitted and hanged her head. “If they are supreme how have they allowed so many bad people to hold such positions of authority in their church?” she asked. “Sometimes I wonder if the gods aren’t just made up in the first place.”

Most gods are served only out of convenience, Krumpus noted.

“But you speak of a true god, of true divinity,” Wenifas replied.

There are many levels of creation above us: angels, devils, dragons, a number of minor gods—but above them all is the supreme and loving god that speaks to each and every one of us, Krumpus told her. He requires a pure heart to hear. For those that have allowed themselves to become polluted, there are a number of false churches and heretical prophets—but they are easily spotted if one purges her heart.

“How is that?” the priestess asked.

You yourself have complained of the hypocrisy of your old church, Krumpus smiled. And you saw it simply by keeping your eyes open, because your heart is true.

“I saw some of it,” Wenifas frowned. “And I make no bones about my own perfection. I suspect I am just as corrupt as the next.”

Quite likely, Krumpus agreed. But you are aimed at making yourself better, and that makes you sensitive.

“I fear I have too far to go,” the priestess admitted.

It is difficult when one is brought up in a rotten system, Krumpus replied. Even if one never believes it, how many still go along because it is too difficult to untangle themselves? How many simply do what is easy, even though such actions are against their own interests?

“How does anyone know what they need?!” Wenifas complained. “I feel completely turned around and upside down…”

But at least you are no longer under the thumb of the Baradha! Krumpus said.

Wenifas blinked. “When you say it that way, it makes my banishment look like a blessing.”

Krumpus nodded. “If you could, would you return home?”

Wenifas shook her head. “No. No. I don’t even know where I would call home. Was it the village on the beach, where I was born and raised? Was It Tikatis, where I had Evereste in the cool waters of the lake? It certainly wasn’t Camp Calderhal—except for the loving arms of Derris—and just like the rest of us, he is no longer there…. No. I have no home,” she said with no real feeling.

For a long minute, they simply moseyed along the lake. They poked about the tall grass, watched the shimmer of the water, and listened to the song of the frogs.

“What does god want from us?” Wenifas asked. “What would she have me do?”

He—she—it wants our smiles and songs of praise, Krumpus answered. And when the suffering strikes—as it always does—she would have us struggle and survive; that we might sing her praise when the bad times pass.

“If this god is all-powerful, then why must we suffer at all?”

We suffer so we might grow, Krumpus told her. The game is simple—though it is not easy. Besides, the suffering never lasts.

Wenifas glanced at the scar on her hand and considered the memory of Derris, her sweet innocent lover. Her heart sank. “I don’t think I can believe that,“ she noted.

The world is rough on all of us—even the Kezodels of the world are made to suffer and struggle, Krumpus replied.

Wenifas huffed. “To suffer as the rich and powerful would be a luxury to most,” she retorted.

Beware of clinging too tightly to your suffering, the shaman admonished. You’ll summon more of it if you aren’t careful.

“But I shall suffer anyway,” Wenifas said.

Yes, but if you dwell on it, you will make it worse, Krumpus told her.

“Well,” the priestess shrugged. “The game may or may not be simple—of that I am still unsure—but I wholeheartedly agree that it is not easy.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 12.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

On the other side of the camp was the stream that ran from the north and west to drain in the lake. Creigal and Meu followed it back a way, until they found a boulder where they might sit and dangle a bit of bait into a deep pool that gathered at its base.

"Can you see them?” Creigal whispered to Meu as he pointed to the pool. “They’re so close that the surface ripples with their passing."

Meu stared into the pool as she wrapped an arm around the duke’s back. Creigal was intent on the stream and did not see her lick venom onto her lips. She leaned into the duke. Creigal turned to her—and though he leaned back and thought to push her away—he allowed the skin-walker to kiss him.

With the touch of her lips against his, the duke felt his passions swell as they had not happened in a long time. He thought to lean in and kiss her back—but a tug on the line told him a fish had bit. With a whoop, Creigal pulled the fish from the waters as foreign thoughts crept into his consciousness. He held the fish up for Meu's appraisal.

Well done, she said in his mind—a thing that surprised and fascinated the duke. She grinned as he could feel her amusement.

“How…?” he began —and she explained it. Creigal realized this is how his father always knew what the wyrm were thinking. They must have kissed him in this same strange fashion.

No. Meu countered. They would have bit him. I can do both only because I can skin-walk, she claimed.

The duke set more bait on the line and dropped it back into the pool. To an unsuspecting observer, it might appear as if the two sat quietly on the rock, hand in hand, as he fished for dinner—but there was a rush of conversation between them—occasionally interrupted by a trout on the line.

The sun set and the land began to grow dark. Hand in hand—and with a grip of fish to boot—Creigal and Meu returned to find a warm fire set back a good hundred yards from the edge of the lake, where the others all gathered.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 12.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Only a short distance from the camp the naga, Golifett, scanned the calm night skies and smiled. "Oblarra is exalted, and there is much tension among the stars. By morning there will be such a storm to sweep them under!”

Maligno frowned, “There isn't a cloud in the sky—nor have we seen one all week,” he complained.

Golifett snorted. “You are formidable, dear cousin, but are you so fierce that the weather dare not change without you watching?”

“I merely suggest that some soothsayers and spellweavers tend to overstate their abilities,” Maligno countered, and wondered if his cousin wasn’t a fake after all.

“I am not a braggard,” Golifett replied. “Besides, you’ve been pushing for the attack ever since they left the inn, and I am saying our opportunity is nearly upon us!”

Maligno glanced sideways at Golifett. “I’m thinking this is a ploy,” he began. “What if a storm does not appear? Will you still be so insistent that we attack—or will you simply try to delay us once more?” he wondered aloud. “They are away from the towns and villages and they’ve made the critical mistake of camping next to the water. I say let us forget your storm. Let us attack in the dark!”

Golifett shook his head. “There shall be a storm like few you have ever seen,” he grabbed Maligno’s arm. “It shall be a true monster!”

“Why are you so set on stealing children anyway? The meat is good, but is it truly worth the danger?” Maligno asked. “There are better meats.”

“Stealing their children is a sacred duty,” Golifett explained. “One at a time, we steal their future! With each child we take, we break our enemies’ spirits; and with such straws, we will eventually break their backs!"

Ever so slightly, Maligno shook his head.

“Golifett glared. “This is why you’re on the outs with the Vericote!” he snapped.

“Zealots,” Maligno muttered under his breath—then decided it was best to change the subject. "Since when are children hard to come by? All creatures love to make ‘em.”

“War is a game of inches. A child here and a child there is a family in twenty years, and a clan in a hundred!” Golifett countered. “If you care so little about children, why do you wish to attack?”

“I’m in it for the coin,” Maligno replied, then turned and made for the water. “Well then, if we’re done with this little ritual of yours, I shall retire, until this storm appears,” he said over his shoulder.

A Lash of Wind and Rain

Polished — 26m34s — 2023/12/25

With camp set, fires lit, and the prisoners attended; Baet collected a handful of silversage. He set a small kettle on the edge of the fire and began to break the aged bits of the herb into the pot.

Toar approached from out of the growing dark. He sat next to the guard and frowned as his friend tended to his tea. “Do you still suffer?” he asked.

Baet shook his head. "I saw some silversage around, and since you said it couldn’t hurt…” He pointed to the knives that Toar wore around his leg. “Where’d you get those?”

“I traded for them,” Toar admitted.

“You thrown any of ‘em?” Baet asked, feeling a touch betrayed that Toar might be practicing without him.

“A bit,” Toar nodded.

“Are you any good?”

“If I throw them all, I might get one to stick,” he admitted.

Baet shrugged. What did he know of throwing knives? “You’ll get it,” he said as he stirred his tea. Several seconds passed with only the crackle of the fire to fill the silence between them. “Where's Celesi?”

Toar rolled his eyes. “She is unlikely far. Shall I go find her for you?”

“You mock,” Baet replied. “I don’t know what she has against me. I don’t even know the child.”

“She knows why foreigners drink silversage,” Toar replied.

Baet stopped his stirring and stared. “Well if that ain’t below the belt!” he complained. “Why would you tell her such a thing?!”

“I didn’t,” Toar replied. “Why would I?”

“I don’t know!” Baet huffed. “You barely talk to me anymore!”

“Well, if I wanted to be nagged, I’d go find the girl,” Toar stood. “Perhaps it is best if I leave you alone,” he turned and began to walk away.

“No, stay,” Baet said. “Lately, I want for friends.”

“What do you mean?” Toar asked. “You have many friends.”

“Do I?” Baet replied. "You barely talk to me. The brothers Homoth and Komotz think I’m a cheater and refuse to play with me…”

“Did you?” Toar asked.

“What? No! I’d never cheat friends!” Baet fumed. “I’m appalled that you think you have to ask!”

Toar raised his hands in apology. “Well, even if the priestess does not like you, her son seems rather fond.”

“My best friend is nine years old,” Baet lamented.

“You have Carringten and the duke,” Toar noted.

Baet let that slide without comment. He didn’t want to mention why the duke or Carringten should have reason to question him. For a moment he wondered if his betrayal was forgotten. Did Creigal even know of in the first place? He shook his head to clear away his suspicions. He certainly didn’t need to be stirring up any of that mess—especially if it was all but forgotten! He decided to change the subject back to Claiten instead. “The other day when I was swimming, the boy tried to stab me.”

“Just goes to show that you can’t trust a Ministrian,” Toar replied. “I told the others we should leave them.”

“Oh, I don’t want to cast shade on the priestess or her boy,” Baet shrugged. “Besides, I think I’ve convinced him I’m too big of a target. It’s better to learn from me, instead of against me.”

“Well it certainly isn’t just you,” Toar said. “He took a swipe at Komotz and even threatened Celesi the other day.”

“Really? With his knife?”

“No, just his fist, and some words that he probably shouldn’t use,” Toar said.

Baet shrugged. “He seems to be running awful hot. Do you remember, back before Ebertin? Was he like that when we marched the road to Ebertin?”

Toar shook his head, “I don’t think so.”

“Maybe I should talk to him about threatening our friends,” Baet began. “Maybe I’ll make lessons contingent on it. Can’t have him ambushing people. Sooner or later, he’ll do some actual damage,” he shook his head and looked off into the distance. “The boy sure has a bit of the devil in him.”

For a long second neither spoke. Staring across the camp, Toar gave a nod toward Homoth and Komotz. "So the brothers think you’re cheating?"

Baet shook his head. “All I do is win,” he noted. “At first I thought it was a great blessing to best them in cards and have a few coins in my pocket. Then I realized they are terrible gamblers.”

“That’s no reason to hate you,” Toar noted.

“Well, I suppose I didn’t have to take so much coin from them,” Baet shrugged. “Still, they did not have to accuse me of cheating.”

“If winning is the problem, perhaps you should try losing.”

Baet gave his friend a quizzical eye. “I considered that myself—but they won’t play with me anymore! Perhaps if I hadn’t rubbed their faces in it…”

Toar patted his friend on the back. “Don’t let it bother you. Now they have prisoners to drain their animosity. How long until they forget a little coin?”

“Hopefully,” Baet shrugged. “Either way, will you do me a favor? Will you trade me watches? I’d prefer not to spend another night with them glaring at me for hours on end.”

Toar snorted and smiled. “Sure,” he nodded. “The middle watch is the worst.”

“Cheers,” Baet lifted his mug of tea.

Hours later, Toar woke Baet for his turn at the watch. Immediately, he noticed the change in weather. Clouds had gathered, and a light drizzle slowly soaked the land. He wrapped his heavy cloak about his shoulders and stepped into the rain. The hours passed as the soft patter continued. Nothing happened through the darkest part of the night.

Baet woke Carringten so the dark man could take the last watch. “Did Scurra come down from the tree yet?” Carringten asked.

“No,” Baet answered. “As far as I can tell, she’s asleep up there.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 13.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Despite the rain, and the invariable rubbing of the branches, Scurra slept quite well in her tree; in large part because of the efforts of her brother. Although Krumpus said nothing to her in the waking world, his sister’s words and behaviors of late had bothered him. As he laid down for sleep, he begged to be heard by his ancestral spirits. The faces of his angel guides appeared, ever so faint and intangible. They promised to be of help, so they took his spirit into the tree, that he might plead with his sister as she slept in the crux of two massive branches.

It was still early, and Scurra was yet unaccustomed to the knotty oak. Irritated, she initially refused her brother’s request to poke about the darker parts of her soul—but her brother’s powers of persuasion had expanded, and she was promised a good night’s sleep by his heavenly guides—so she finally agreed.

As the night came over her, she showed her brother to the dark part of her soul, where the shadows lurked. Here, he might see for himself the premonitions that troubled her. He followed her into the shadows.

One of the spirits turned to Scurra. “This is far enough for you,” it said. “Since he shall be permitted to see your nightmares, you will walk the world of his dreams,” it told her, as it lifted her to the sunny climes of her brother’s inner world. She walked in soft fields full of flowers, with forgotten friends and family. She had no worries whatsoever, as the angel led her through the blissful climes of haven.

Yet, while Scurra dreamed of a bright day, Krumpus entered the darkness. There was little he could hear and nothing he could see. Even the angel was impossibly dim. Indeed, was the spirit still there?

Touch was king as Krumpus groped about the cold masonry of a deep, dark, dungeon. It might not have been so bad if he was there alone—but there was something else in the dark, something malevolent and brooding, something powerful and sinister—and it was hunting him.

There were bodies, still warm, though their spirits were already absent. There was blood. The blood was everywhere. It was fresh on the floor, and also as old as the brick of the labyrinth itself. It was mixed in the mortar and trapped in secret cavities. There were bones bricked into the structure. The screams of those trapped and murdered echoed through the halls and fed the evil as it hunted. The terror of the dead was so thick in the very air, stale and oppressive. It raised the heckles on his neck and threatened to overwhelm. Indeed, Krumpus could sense the torment of a thousand deaths, some of them vicious and quick; others were torturous and lingering. He felt sick and had to suppress the urge to purge. With all the fear around him, his mind began to unravel. What was this beast that hunted him in the dark? He could hear it snickering and scraping, assured of yet another victim.

How long was he in that dark? The fear was so palpable and draining that although he felt it was only a few minutes of crawling about the frigid stones, it wore him down as if it were an effort of days.

When he finally woke, he woke slow—despite the screams and shouts of his companions. Indeed, the fatigue was set so deep in his bones that the roar of muskets barely stirred him.

Oh, but the screaming…

Believing that their could be some great danger, he pushed himself up, slow and groggy, then finally managed to shuffle out of the tent. He barely made it out before it collapsed in a violent and calamitous manner. Blinking against a deluge, he stood and gaped at the danger that came over the lake—and although it was far too late—he realized with a great certainly that they all should have listened to his sister’s warning!

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 13.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Scurra had the opposite experience. She woke from the world of dreams, refreshed and strong—and sure of a fight—but not just yet. Still in her dreams, Scurra talked with the angel that guided her. You do not have to go there, the angel said of the dark, but when that day comes, we beg you to meet it, for the sake of a thousand souls!

“I can avoid it?” Scurra replied. “I thought it was destined, that I would eventually find myself there no matter what I did.”

You must agree to it, the angel revealed. Your brother will go, and if he goes without you, despite his great powers, he will fail.

“He will die there?” Scurra asked.

He will not die there, even if you do not go, but he will fail—and others will surely perish, the angel answered. But if you go...

“They will not die?” Scurra asked.

With dire eyes, the angel stared back at her. Let us say the suffering shall not be as great.

Scurra sighed. “Well, at least I have the choice,” she said. “It is empowering to know that I will face the dark of my own volition, that these evils are not forced upon me.”

Your courage is commendable, the angel smiled. And since you would be courageous, I ask you to wake, for although you are far from the lurking darkness, there are other dangers between here and there, and a great one approaches. The angel seemed to grow over Scurra as it slowly faded from her vision. Save those you can, she said and kissed the sister’s forehead. Know that we will keep those that you can’t.

Scurra opened her eyes, flush with energy. The angel was gone and the night was at its end. Water poured from the sky—but thanks to the thick canopy of the oak, Scurra was dry and comfortable among the branches, as she searched the horizon. There was little to see—except for the lone figure that stood at the edge of the water.

On the beach of the lake, Claiten had his dagger in hand as he glared across the water. Lightning flashed above the mountains. “ERR-AY-ERR-AY-ERRRRRR!” the boy crowed defiance at the growing storm.

For several seconds he stared out at a blood red lake, then began to crow again.

“ERR-AY-ERR…” he froze half way through—as a fin appeared in the water.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 13.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Claiten’s crowing shattered the morning's silence and Creigal jerked awake. Called back into the world of the living, the duke settled against the cool thin frame of Meu as she too woke from the sound. Thoughts of the long and pleasing night they’d spent together faded as he wondered at the early morning disturbance. "I swear I've heard that same rooster ever since the Copper Kettle and Rooms," he shook his head. "I certainly heard it the morning I saw you in your native form," he said as he remembered the strangeness of that day.

That’s because it is not a rooster at all, Meu told the duke. It is just the boy, she noted.

“The boy?” Creigal asked. “And why should the boy crow such defiance and anger?”

He has crowed ever since I led him out of Beletrain, Meu answered. It is strange. The naga was obsessed with chickens. He sang a song of how to prepare them, and the boy has crowed ever since.

“Chickens?” Creigal frowned. “Was the naga obsessed with chickens, or was he trying to obsess the child with chickens?”

What do you mean? Meu asked.

“I know a sorcerer,” Creigal began. “He could get some people to bark like a dog, or moo like a cow. He used strange songs and stories to obsess his targets, so they would bark at certain times, or when they encountered certain things. He loved to use squirrels as a trigger. He’d get crowds to bark at squirrels as they made their way through the city. Sometimes, he’d make little suggestions for months, and other times he’d convince someone to do this with a simple phrase—”

Meu’s eyes went wide. She threw off the covers and scampered from their bed.

“ERRR-AY-ERRR….” the crowing began again—only to cut off in the middle—only to become a scream.

"Wait!” Creigal yelled as he struggled to pull on his pants. He cursed as he grabbed his sword and shield, then ran after the woman. “You're naked!" He called as he rushed from the tent.

The patter of rain was now a steady downpour. The land sloped up to a slight rise, crowned by several massive oaks, before it gently angled down toward the lake. Meu crested the rise as another shrill scream carried from the water’s edge. She gathered the shadows and shifted from human to wyrm.

Half dressed, Creigal sprinted passed the night’s guard as he followed after Meu. "To arms!" he cried as he ran toward the red light of dawn. "TO ARMS!"

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 13.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Claiten backpedaled up the gentle rise. He realized he wouldn’t make it back to camp before the naga was upon him; so he summoned his courage, lifted his blade, and prepared to fight.

Adrenaline flushed though his young veins. Muscles taut, he watched as Golifett slithered out of the water. I can take him! he thought, and remembered the training Baet had given him. So bright and righteous was his anger that Claiten truly meant to fight the massive beast!

Then he noticed several more naga slithering out of the lake behind the first, and he knew there was no way he could stand against the lot of ‘em. He screamed again.

Golifett caught sight of the boy, grinned, and advanced.

“To arms! TO ARMS!” a distant voice called—though Claiten could barely hear it over the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

An arrow screamed passed the boy—a whistler—cut with a special groove, so it screamed as it flew.

But the noise made the arrow obvious. Golifett cut it out of the air and turned to the large oaks. The other naga slowed as they stared up at the trees that stood like sentinels behind the child. Another arrow sang from the boughs and caught the second naga in the chest. The beast doubled over.

Several of the remaining naga retaliated. They launched spears and missiles of their own into the tree, which seemed to be deflected by the various branches.

Claiten realized he was not alone. His anger rose and his courage grew. He glared at Golifett. “ERRR-AY-ERRR-AY-ERRRRRR!” he crowed as he charged his scarred nemesis—only to be passed by the streaking form of Meu.

In her wyrm form, Meu slammed into Golifett as Claiten screamed and swiped at the beast with his knife. Golifett managed to hold Meu at bay and dodged the boy’s attack. A long arm swiped the child and sent him spinning toward the ground—but this allowed Meu to wrap herself around him, and the two serpents went down in a tangled heap—all while the storm increased.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 13.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Andrus blinked against his grogginess. The night was miserable as clouds had gathered some hours after midnight, rumbled their disappointment with the land, then began their drizzle a short time later. Now it was a steady rain, and only increasing as he huddled against the bracing chill.

Some nights the last watch was the easiest, when Andrus had plenty of sleep and wanted to be about the day. Today was not that sort of day. The day before, he’d spent several hours and a good amount of effort trying to figure out how Meu had shifted into her serpentine form. The work was exhausting, and yet, he still could not summon the obscuring shadows.

But that was a concern for another time. For now, he simply tried to stay awake. If Homoth and Komotz found him sleeping on watch, they’d pester him for weeks—and the others might never let him forget it. The brothers still teased him for getting caught going over the wall with Scurra—and if he got caught sleeping, the mocking would only intensify.

Despite his want to stay awake, his head sagged. For half a second, he closed his eyes, then he realized he was beginning to drift away, and snapped back. Just wanting sleep, he stared out at the gathering clouds. God, he was tired!

He wondered if Saleos noticed as the older man fed their sheltered fire. He stood and stepped around several of the tents as he kept his blinking eyes on the sodden soil. Despite the gathering storm, the sky was getting lighter. Andrus hoped the rising sun would chase away his fatigue—though the light wouldn’t last. It wouldn’t take long for it to cross the jagged gap between mountain and cloud—then the day would take on its gloom and sap his strength once more. Not that it would matter, once the others were up, and they were all under way. Then he could sleep on his horse.

A rooster crowed just over the slight rise that blocked the sight of the lake’s shore. Andrus thought it odd that the boy still insisted on crowing every morning, though he thought nothing else of it. The child wasn’t hurting anything. Indeed, he smiled to have something else distract him from his sleepiness, especially something to herald the rising energy of the day.

“Wait!” the foreign duke yelled. “Your naked!”

Andrus turned to see Meu sprint from the tent, toward the edge of the lake, sans clothes. He leaned back with a frown and wondered why the silent skin-walker was running for the water in all god's glory. Did she mean to bathe? That’s what he figured at first—until he noticed the look of fierce anger on her face—until he heard the second crow of the child interrupted by an ear-splitting scream.

A flush of energy washed over Andrus as he took several steps after the naked lady. The boy screamed again, and a whistler screeched through the air.

A whistler!

Fully awake, Andrus grit his teeth and ran after Meu.

“To arms! TO ARMS!” the duke called, as he brushed past Andrus at a dead run—with only his pants, sword, and shield.

Andrus rushed after them, just a couple steps behind the duke. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Saleos gather his own weapon and follow.

Where was the last of the sentries, the dark man?

Andrus crested the rise that stood over the edge of the lake, as Meu summoned the shadows and transformed into a wyrm—right in front of him! He grinned as he watched the magic play out, then followed her down the slope.

Several naga were moving about the beach, mostly around Scurra’s tree. One tangled and wrestled with the winged form of Meu, as two more turned to confront the charging duke.

With a yell, Andrus angled toward the trees, where several figures harassed the shadow of Scurra as she crouched among its branches. He threw himself at the nearest beast, and since the creature was occupied, it did not notice him until it was too late. Andrus slashed it across the ribs, cutting through its leather armor. The naga recoiled as blood arched through the air.

Another naga still coming up the beach threw a blade. Andrus saw it at the last second. He recoiled and slipped in the soaked grass. He twisted enough that the blade barely nicked him.

The naga rushed forward and stabbed at him with its trident—but Andrus turned away, then grabbed the weapon and pulled the naga down. The beast landed on top of him. It scrambled for its dagger. Andrus grabbed at its arms and realized that despite the creature’s thin frame, it was incredibly strong! He sputtered and cursed as they wrestled into the shallows. He thought the beast was dragging him into the water, but allowed it to happen since he saw a way to get on top of it.

Now on bottom, the naga got its blade—but Andrus stepped on the dagger and pressed it flat into the mud. The Jindleyak freed his right arm and punched the creature between its nose and mouth.

Andrus was about to swing again when he caught a blur of motion out of the corner of his eye. He lifted his arm to protect his head, then crashed into the water with a terrible pain, as the blunt weapon smashed his forearm. He wondered if the bone was broken as he rolled to his back—his face just out of the lapping water. Above him stood the naga with a bloody gash across its ribs and a large mallet raised over its head. Andrus lifted his good arm, knowing the weapon would smash right through, only to carry on, and crush his skull like an egg. At least it'll all be over quickly, he thought.

But life didn’t end. Instead, the naga jerked back as blood exploded from its chest. A split second later, a massive boom sounded from the direction of camp. Andrus turned his head.

Through the chaos of the fighting, Andrus could see Wenifas near the top of the rise as smoke rose from the musket in her outstretched hand. She didn’t care that she’d hit the naga that stood over him. That was just luck—bad luck for her—and good luck for Andrus. Indeed, did she even see him?

No. She was crying about something else. He couldn’t hear what she screamed, since his ears were under water. He thought to turn and look, but the dead naga that sat on him dropped its mallet as it slumped to the side. The heavy mallet fell with the full force of gravity and smashed Andrus squarely in his chest. He felt several ribs crack as the air rushed from his lungs.

The fighting grew louder and more intense as it was joined en masse—despite the fact that Andrus could barely hear it. Unable to breathe, he struggled as another boom shook the very air. A woman screamed—Celesi!—he realized—and tried to sit.

But Andrus could not even lift his head out of the water. He struggled to regain his breath. The rain came down in sheets. The tiniest bit of air finally seeped into his lungs—with far too much rain. Andrus choked, then managed to roll over and prop his head up as he sucked air.

A voice cut through the hostilities, clear as a bell. “RUN!” Scurra screamed from her perch. “RUN, YOU FOOLS! DEATH COMES FOR US ALL!”

Andrus gasped and huffed as he finally managed to prop himself up on his good elbow. He turned and looked out over the lake. At the far end of the water, the dark clouds churned and boiled—as if somehow alive and coming their way! Before this crackling seething cloud, an increasing army of dark specks flew through the murk at incredible speed. The winged beasts grew bigger and bigger as they shot across the lake, their wings beating furiously as they pressed themselves forward. At first, he thought they were crows—but no—they were much too large for that! Indeed, they were a good deal bigger than people!

Andrus wondered that such dark angels should dance and shriek before the growing, roiling mass of storm and hate which was like nothing he’d ever imagined! This dark blight of clouds moved much too fast to be natural! Andrus gaped as he laid back and prayed the approaching doom would pass him by unnoticed.

The winged beasts continued to grow, until he could see their coal black eyes. They were dragons! How could they hope to stand against a flight of dragons?!

The beasts—hundreds of them—shot overhead, with their scaled bodies, clawed hands, and alien eyes, as they raced before the storm. As big and fierce as they were, the dragons were nothing compared to the creature that chased them—the beast that lurked in the cloud. Several tentacles, as long as lightning, stretched out of the dark mass of roiling vapor and whipped about the screaming dragons as they fled across the lake. A long thin line slapped a dragon out of the sky, and the winged lizard crashed into the waters. The tentacle followed immediately. It dipped into the water, went taut, then lifted the massive limp beast back into the air.

Stunned and drenched, the dragon was pulled from the water like a man takes a trout. Another tentacle wrapped about the lower half of the beast, and between the two arms the dragon was pulled in half. The remains were lifted back into the dark mass of cloud as it hissed and popped with electric fury. A beak-like maw appeared out of the clouds and snapped up the broken bits of winged lizard.

A leviathan!

Andrus couldn’t believe what he was seeing! He simply stared, as a terrible shriek came from the clouded beast, a shriek that shook the very land! The wind increased as the dragons passed him by, yet Andrus could feel that the pressure was still increasing. In a second, the leviathan would be upon them—and there was nothing he could hope to do against such a beast. He laid back in the water, weary and defeated, as a deep calm came over him. At least his death would be quick.

The Crows Cometh

Polished 14.1 — 7m25s — 2023/12/25

Polished everything! — 44m56s — 2023/12/26

When I was young and I first began in my travels, it was impossible to believe that sky kraken could be real. None of my family had ever seen one. Friends and neighbors were skeptical at best. But in time, I would find ample evidence for such beasts.

I was in my forties and serving with the Baron Merric when I should first encounter any real proof of the creatures. We were stopped on the road to Hyber Pass and told of a small town that was attacked by such a beast. It would only add a day or two to our travels, and so we allowed ourselves to be sidetracked. We arrived a week after the beast, but evidence of its passing was glaring. The town was in shambles. Stone houses, towers, and churches that took months, years, even decades to complete were little more than rubble. The sheer magnitude of the destruction was most unbelievable!

Even without such physical evidence, it would have been impossible to ignore the testimony of almost a thousand souls that lived in that country. The locals all told the same story, and often with a preacher’s zeal. They all gave the same description of a squid-like beast that sat atop the darkest cloud they’d ever seen and picked peasants from the daily goings, to be dragged bodily into a great maw. From there, the minutiae varied, and often quite drastically—but despite the argument, they all agreed the creature dimmed the very sun as it flew overhead and wreaked havoc upon their lives.

After my visit in this ruined town, I was convinced of the existence of sky kraken—but as the years passed, I began to doubt that I should ever see one. Indeed, decades later, I have yet to witness one as it flies through the sky—but I did get to see the corpse of one that was killed by the great men of Brahlam!

I was about another task when word reached me that Brahlam had been attacked by a cloud kraken. More unbelievable than that, I was told that the armies of Brahlam had somehow managed to kill the beast?! Among all the tales I have heard of cloud kraken over the years, I had never heard of anyone actually defeating such a beast! How could I pass up an opportunity to see such proof?! Especially since I was living just a short week away.

As I made for Brahlam, a stream of people traveling from the great town confirmed the story, and said that the victory had cost them their homes, and quite often the lives of their loved ones. Indeed, the damage and mayhem inflicted was incredible and stretched for miles!

And then we should see the beast!

The stench of the corpse was unbearable! I had to wrap my nose and mouth with cloth and apply fragrant oils under my nostrils. It was hard to approach! Necessarily, it was an abandoned stretch of town where the beast laid at its final rest.

Still, an approach was well worth the discomfort! To see the beast, even flat and lifeless, was an incredible sight! To think of what the beast must have been when it was still alive, with tendrils as thick as tree trunks that might stretch for half a mile! The body of the beast languished across an entire city block, it’s head the size of a proper church, with a maw that could fit a carriage and eight! The beast was an absolute monstrosity, even in death; defeated and deflated. Some tendrils of the corpse had been removed so certain parts of the town might recover, but a large part of the creature’s carcass—including at least a dozen tendrils and its massive head—was left to rot and serve as witness to the magnificent battle. The area was quite ruined in the attack, and many survivors had necessarily moved to the fringes of Brahlam—or out of town altogether—yet, I was not the only one studying the remains of the great beast!

But that was long ago. Unfortunately, it has been decades since the beast was defeated, and I am told that the remains of the beast require a good bit of imagination to uncover. Hills have grown over the corpse; trees, grass, and moss. Now it is a park named Leviathan—as the Tallians would call such beasts—and it is quite near the heart of the town of Brahlam.

— Elder Races of the World: Considerations, Arguments, and Refutations, by Aogostua Veribos, p. 657

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 14.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

“To arms! TO ARMS!” The voice of the duke carried through the tent and caught in Baet’s ear. He snapped awake, threw off his blankets, and snatched up his weapons; then skittered to his feet and wondered that it was becoming a habit to fight in his skivvies. He peeled back the folds of the tent and found himself staring at the dark form of Carringten.

Carringten’s drenched face was etched with determination. “See to the prisoners!” he snapped, then turned and rushed away.

Taking a second, Baet grabbed for his pants, especially since it was pouring outside. He braced himself for the cold, threw open the tent, and ran into the pouring rain. He turned from the sounds of fighting and headed for their Ministrian prisoners. He lifted the flap of the dark tent and entered, sword first. "Stay where you are,” he said as he entered. “You will be spared.”

Meriona believed him and relaxed visibly. She expected a certain civility from the Saot guards. She knew them to be men of their word, as they’d traveled together from Camp Calderhal to Ebertin.

Still, it was scant reassurance to Baet. As far as he could tell, honor only went one way between them. He had it from Toar, who had it from Celesi, that the Jay meant to betray them all in Ebertin. She meant to see them hanged—despite their rescue—so he knew that this one may be pretty, but she was a snake.

And what kind of treatment would he receive from the Jaded Blades if the tables were turned? They were after the duke, and as someone that stood in the way, Baet was just another victim.

As Baet contemplated the nature of his prisoners, a loud boom sounded. Sure as day, Cloud Breaker was just fired! Baet swore under his breath and wondered how the priestess got her hands on shot and powder—and also how she managed to load it—when he also heard her cry. Did she scream her boy’s name?!

More surprising than the boom of Cloud Breaker was the sound of a second musket—though it sounded a good deal different from his own—tinny and cheap. He flinched as he recognized the hated noise of a Pemberton GremSorter, a sound he’d only heard on very rare occasions. He clenched his teeth and hoped the sound came from whoever was attacking. But no. Celesi added her scream to the priestess. Their wails of anguish piercing the heavy drum of the downpour and the sharp ring of steel on steel.

As if all that wasn’t enough, Scurra started screaming. "Run! Run, you bloody fools!” she yelled. “Death comes for us all!"

What the hell was going on out there?! Baet wondered, unable to ignore the madness any more. He turned from his charges and peeked from the tent—barely able to see anything for all the water falling from the sky.

Yet, thanks to incessant lightning, he could see birds at the far end of the lake. They flickered and reappeared in the gloom, growing as they approached. Behind the increasingly massive birds came the darkest pit of a storm Baet had ever seen! Then he realized the dots before the storm weren’t birds at all. “Dragons,” he whispered—and behind them something even worse!

Baet’s heart dropped into his stomach. He knew what he saw—he’d seen a cloud kraken before! He’d seen such a beast years ago, near Rottershelm, as he was headed out to the country. He’d given the description with a wild-eyed fervor to his superiors—only to be ignored. Admittedly, it was a freak occurance, one that was never to be repeated in his lifetime—or so he thought! Still, there was a major difference between the two times he’d seen such a beast. Last time the cloud kraken had passed several miles off, little more than a dark splotch moving above a distant town—while this malevolent mass was headed straight for him!

“Balls!” Baet swore as the dragons rushed passed with wings thirty, forty, fifty feet across! The flying reptiles dipped low, perhaps hoping to distract the cloud kraken with a handful of humans, mixing it up with their naga neighbors. The great beasts shrieked, and one of them bit the head off a naga, while another took a swipe at Aim.

Due to the insanity outside, Baet was distracted, and the Jaded Blades took the opportunity and jumped on the Saot guard. They wrestled for a short second, before Bruck and Naiphan pinned Baet to the ground. Todehis took his sword.

Meriona didn’t help because she also saw what happened outside the tent. She screamed as she witnessed the mayhem rushing straight for them, then jumped on the back of Todehis as she tried to get past him.

“Who’s side are you on anyway?!” the armed man snarled, and flung the Jay aside. With a twisted grin of spoiled teeth, the Jaded Blade lifted Baet’s sword.

Baet was sure of his death—but before the Jaded Blade could bring the sword to bare the tent collapsed on top of them. A tendril of the cloud kraken crushed down upon them, then folded Todehis among the canvas, and yanked him into the air.

Already dead, Todehis dropped the sword. Baet grabbed it and managed to get a bit of distance between himself and the remaining prisoners, then turned and gaped at the terror overhead.

With an earth-shaking shriek, the cloud kraken chased after the dragons, toward the east and south, and took the worst of the storm with it.

As quick as the beast had appeared, it was gone and the mayhem was over. The rain lightened up immediately. Baet held his sword as he stared in open astonishment at the remaining prisoners: Meriona, Bruck, and Naiphan—as they sprawled upon the grass and wondered at the strangeness of what they had all just witnessed.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 14.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!

Homoth laid in his tent, fast asleep, as sunrise crept upon them. A sharp pain caught in his side. He lashed out at the foot that struck him, grabbed the ankle, then pushed upon the shin until his attacker fell backward.

“Save it!” Komotz roared as he sat defenseless before his brother. “We're under attack!”

Homoth blinked in the dark tent, just able to see the outline of Komotz, as a shaky Elpis gathered his axe (it’d been recovered by the Pan Iskaer) and pressed from the tent into the raging storm.

With a frown, Homoth shook off his deep sleep, threw aside his blankets, and yanked on a pair of pants, then his boots. He grabbed his long handled mallet and pressed from the tent as an explosion unlike anything he'd ever heard boomed from the direction of the lake.

He turned to see Wenifas on the crest of the low ridge. “CLAITENNN!” she screamed bloody murder, as a musket smoked in her hand.

Homoth rushed from the tent as Celesi made the top of the hill with Toar right behind her. Celesi stopped and reached into her cloak as Toar stepped next to her. She pulled a musket from under her coat, aimed, and pulled the trigger—but the musket was not as she expected. It was cheap in design and exploded out the side—as Toar ran passed her. The tiny puff of smoke caught the native guide. He jerked his head and dove into the grass. Celesi screamed and dropped to his side.

With a curse on his lips, Homoth bolted up the small rise, as his brother disappeared over it, sword held high.

“Run! Run, you bloody fools!” Scurra yelled. “DEATH COMES FOR US ALL!"

Homoth stepped to the crest of the small rise and took in the mayhem all around him. A melee stretched over the beach. Men and naga fought as their mingling blood cast the nearby waters of the lake in a red hue.

Homoth ignored the naga as they fought his friends—because a bigger threat was descending upon them. Over the lake, a flight of dragons was fast approaching—and they’d adjusted course!

Several dragons took swipes at the humans and naga, as they rushed on. Homoth knocked a talon away and threatened one that looked like it might take a swipe at Celesi. The dragons raced on—followed by a sizzling mass of aggression and vitriol like nothing Homoth had ever seen!

The great beast was directly over them, shrouded in a cloud that bristled with electricity! A roar like nothing Homoth had ever heard shook the ground.

Tendrils came down among the bodies on the beach. One swept the crest, knocked Homoth sideways, and wrapped itself around the tree where Scurra was nested. With a pop, the tree ripped from the ground, as Scurra jumped and rolled in the dirt. The tree arched into the sky, was tossed aside, then splashed into the lake some fifty yards out.

Homoth rolled to his knees and got to his feet once more, as a tentacle smashed nearby and caught hold of his brother. Komotz screamed as he was crushed and lifted into the air—but the beast was interrupted. Duboha and Elpis were upon the tendril immediately, stabbing and smashing. Carringten was quick to follow, and even Homoth got in several strikes before the tendril recoiled and pulled away. The fury of their combined attack caused the leviathan to drop his little brother—but not before it did its damage. The limp form of Komotz flopped to the ground.

Across the field, the tip of another tendril wrapped about the leg of Saleos. His eyes bulged as he shrieked, and shot skyward. "IIEIEYEYEIiieyeiye..yi..ey..e.i...e....!" His scream faded as the tentacle whipped him into the roiling mass of cloud and blended with the sounds of the storm.

Tears ran from Homoth's eyes and mixed with rain as he watched his old friend disappear. Glazed with shock and horror, he stared at the heart of the battlefield, where a one-eyed naga fought a winged serpent—the serpent from the alley! One last tendril wrapped about the two and snapped the dueling pair off the beach.

And then the leviathan was beyond them. It continued to focus on the dragons before it—mere dots now, nearly imperceptible—as they raced away. There was no doubt in the warrior’s mind that if the beast had stayed, they would all be dead. He stared after the impossible beast as it crawled across the sky and took the worst of the storm with it.

Stunned by what he'd witnessed, Homoth took several halting steps until he arrived at the prone form of his brother. Komotz was a bloody mess. One of his legs was twisted at a sickening angle. Homoth dropped to his knees, stunned that the world could be so cruel. Then he caught sight of Baet, as the Saot cowered among the prisoners—as far from battle as anyone could be—and his sadness turned to a raging hatred like none he’d ever known before.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 14.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

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

Besides, he didn’t want to be alone.

Malcolm and Crea stuck to the game trails that ran through the forest. She felt they were less likely to be discovered among the thick of the trees, and she seemed to know the area well enough, so Malcolm was happy to follow. “How do you know these trails?” Malcolm asked with a grateful heart.

“Game trails are everywhere,” Crea glanced back at him. “We are going south, so we follow the game trails that go south.” She shook her head. “You’ve always lived in the city?”

“I don’t remember my early years, but yeah,” Malcolm answered and thought It was nice of her to ask.

Aside from that, Crea didn’t say much. Not that her silence bothered him. Malcolm preferred not to speak, knowing there were enemies about. He preferred to simply follow and glance at her goodness from time to time. After a while, he barely saw the bruises. Instead, he just saw a lady, quite attractive, and just a few years older.

As they walked, they passed a number of farmsteads. It was worrisome each time they came across a burned out house—though just as many seemed to be whole and occupied. They always passed at a distance, whether the farm was burnt out or not.

A few times they were spotted. Farmhands watched them; pitchforks, axes, and shovels held aloft—but these people weren’t interested in chasing a couple harmless skulkers through the forest. Crea and Malcolm carried on.

Occasionally, they’d see distant pillars of smoke drifting into the sky. Only a few were on their path. They gave these fires a wide berth. Several times, they heard and saw riders thundering down a nearby road. They looked like marauders. They hid from these—and thankfully they never had to hide for long. Malcolm surmised they were raiders striking out from the occupied city of Solveny—though they tended to ride off in any direction.

Crea and Malcolm walked most the day and took few breaks. They eventually made camp as the sun settled deep among the pines. They squeezed their blankets between a few large trees, and skipped the pleasure of a fire, since they both felt their were too many eyes about.

Although the night was calm, Malcolm found himself waking several times. Each time, he grabbed his sword and listened for anything amiss. There was nothing. Just the dark. Slowly, he’d settle back down, and listen to a strange cacophony of insects accompany the rhythmic pulse of Crea’s breathing.

Sometime approaching dawn, Crea let out a gasp and woke Malcolm. She slapped at the base of her blankets, then grabbed for her fancy sword.

Malcolm held his own weapon, stared off into the darkness, and tried to make out any danger. “What is it?” he asked, as she stared intently into the trees.

“Just a raccoon?” Crea huffed, “or maybe a possum,” she shrugged. “Damned critter near spooked the crap out of me!”

With a huff, Malcolm fell back on his blankets—but after that he couldn’t sleep. Thankfully, it was nearly light, and he wasn’t up long before it was time to consider breaking camp and getting back on the trail.

Still, Crea slept. After a time, Malcolm grew tired of waiting and touched her shoulder, “Crea…”

She flinched away, but got up all the same.

It was a long, and fairly uneventful day. They dodged a couple more fires, hid as troops rode this way or that, and generally crawled among the trees. As the sun was going down, Malcolm knew they were getting close, because Crea was increasingly nervous. At the base of a slow and steady hill, that grew to maybe fifty feet, Crea’s jitters got the better of her. She broke out into a run.

Malcolm ran after her and finally caught her as she paused on the summit. “No… no… NO!” She began to cry, then dropped to her knees, tears suddenly streaming from her eyes.

Below them was the burned out shell of a house, a ruined barn, and a shed that was reduced to splinters. Malcolm felt his heart sink as he realized this must be her family home. “I’m so sorry,” he said, and placed a comforting hand on her back.

“Don’t!” Crea snapped as she pushed him away—yet her fingers caught the cloth of his shirt and held him at arms length. She stared at him as her face flushed red, “You must go look! You must,” she searched his eyes. “What if someone has survived?!”

She began to shake, then hanged her head, and tried to stifle her tears.

“I can’t,” she shook her head as she continued. “I can’t see them dead,” she hanged her head. “Please…”

Well aware of the danger—yet excited to be her hero—Malcolm turned to the charred remains of the house. There was no smoke. Likely, this had all happened yesterday. Chances were that only the dead were about. Determined, he gripped his sword and leaned close to Crea. “I’ll signal if there’s anything for you to see,” he said as he took off his pack.

With a nod, she dropped her blankets and food.

Malcolm followed the tree line as he slowly stalked toward the burned out buildings. For a moment he wanted to tell Crea that if he should die, she should take the post to Land’s End—but then he thought that she’d consider him dumb, since the dead are not bound to earthly oaths. How could she know that the Silver Service was the closest thing he had to a family?

“Hello?” Malcolm called into the house as he crept at the edges of the ruin, sword held high. “If there’s anyone home, know that I’m a friend,” he whispered—then thought that was dumb since anyone in the building was just as likely to be a marauder. He held his sword up, ready to stab anything that came at him.

Thanks to the copious holes in the roof, there was plenty of light in the ruined house. Not that there was much to see. Everything was thrown about, burned, and buried in ash.

Malcolm stumbled among the ribs of the house. Hs foot caught and he tripped into the hall. He jumped and pressed himself against the charred remains of a wall, as he wondered what had nearly pulled him down, then realized that he’d inadvertently discovered an ash-covered corpse. Heart thumping, he half-expected the murderers to come rushing out of the ruins and spell his doom.

But there was no one. There was nothing. There was just the drifting of disturbed ash.

Eventually, Malcolm moved again. He continued his search and found a second corpse in a back room. Other than that, there was little to see in the house. Anything of value was either stolen or heavily charred—if not completely consumed.

He turned to the other buildings. There was a large man stabbed and bled out between the house and the barn. In the barn, Malcolm found two more dead, both hanged and burned. He returned to Crea, shaking his head.

“Did you find them?”

“We should go.”

“How many?” she insisted.

“There ain’t no one alive,” Malcolm replied.

“How many!?” Crea practically shrieked.

“Altogether?” he glared. “Five.”

“Five?!” She repeated, her eyes boring into him. “You swear?!”

“I know how to count!” he snapped back. “I’m a man of the post!”

A glimmer of hope caught in the Crea’s eyes. She turned to the house, gathered the hem of her dress, and marched on with grim determination. “There’s still two out there…”

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

“Dauren!” Crea cried when she came across the body of her younger brother in the field. She broke down and sobbed and shook uncontrollably as she touched his hands and face. “Oh, my baby brother!”

“We should go,” Malcolm said again. “This place reeks.”

She turned to Malcolm and grabbed his hand. “My sister is missing!”

“But—” Malcolm began to protest.

“MY SISTER!” Crea roared.

With a nod, Malcolm stepped toward the house. He crept through the ruins once more with a particular eye for any places to hide. As he did this, Crea stood in the field—and to Malcolm’s horror—she began to yell. “Serrabela!” she called. “Serrraabbelllaa!”

Malcolm didn’t like the yelling. He thought it might attract the marauders—but only the crows answered Crea’s call.

For a time, Malcolm searched, until nature got the better of him. He glanced in the privy as he prepared to relieve himself—and was horrified to see a young lady floating face down among the waste—her dress covered in bloody splotches. He stumbled from the outhouse, relieved himself behind the barn, then stepped through the field. Bothered and pale, he laid a hand on Crea’s shoulder. She jumped away from him and grabbed at the pommel of her falchion. Malcolm shied away as he shook his head. “We should go.”

“You found her?!” Crea gasped. “Where?!”

Malcolm shuddered, shook his head, and stepped past her.

“Serra—!” Crea shrieked her sister’s name, then collapsed to her knees, and bawled. “SERRABELA!”

Not wanting to be among the dead any longer, Malcolm returned to the crest of the hill where they’d left their gear. Exhausted, he leaned against his supplies and turned away from the burned out farm, as Crea still knelt in the field. With a heavy sigh, he closed his eyes and tried his damnedest to relax.

How long was he out?

Malcolm heard the stamp of her feet as Crea approached. “Get up,” she said as she kicked his foot. “Let’s go.”

Malcolm stood and gathered his gear, then paused and turned back to the farmstead. “Do you think we should bury them?” he asked.

Crea shook her head. “Their spirits are gone. Let the bodies feed the birds,” she said as she began away from the house. “Come, there is a storm approaching, and I would be far from this place before it breaks.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 14.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

The sun peaked through the broken clouds and laid bare the atrocities of the battle. Bloodied, Creigal stood over the only naga that had not died or escaped. The wounded beast was too injured to run. Creigal figured if he watched and waited, it was likely the beast would bleed out before his eyes. He thought to offer it bandages, but he did not even have a shirt.

Duboha approached and hissed as he realized the creature was still alive. He moved to strike it—but Creigal blocked his way and shook his head. “The fight is over. We have won,” the duke noted. “We shall spare it—unless it wishes to join its fallen brothers.”

Duboha turned to the beast. “Live or die?” he asked in Trohl.

“Live,” Maligno said, curious that he should be given the option. He imagined that they might simply watch him die anyway.

Duboha turned to the duke and shrugged. “What’s another prisoner?”

Carringten approached. “Your bleeding,” the captain noted.

“Play with blades and your bound to get cut,” Creigal shrugged. “Gimme your shirt, that I can make bandages for this creature.”

Carringten set Bence’s short sword aside, then began to rip his shirt into long ribbons. He glanced into the sky. “I didn’t think I’d ever see a cloud kraken,” he noted. “Indeed, I didn’t think they existed.”

“I had doubts myself,” Creigal agreed. “How are the others?”

Carringten shook his head. “A damned awful mess,” he confessed. “Saleos is gone. The younger brother is alive—barely. If he makes it through the day, it’ll be a miracle—but then, that’s the shaman’s business.”

“What of the wyrm?” Creigal asked.

Carringten stared at the duke. “You mean, besides the dragons, the naga, and the cloud kraken; there was also a wyrm?”

Criegal ignored the question as he glanced about the battlefield. “Where’s Meu?”

Carringten shook his head. “If the old one was wise, she stayed in her tent.”

“Old?” Creigal replied, then forgot about it as he returned to the business at hand, the bandaging of the injured naga.

“The boy is dead,” Carringten said in a low tone.

“Claiten?” Criegal turned and stared at Wenifas as she cradled the corpse of her son. He shook his head. “What of that one?” the duke asked, as he noticed Andrus at the edge of the water.

“He had a mallet dropped on his chest,” Carringten said. “His arm is broke, and he’s sore as hell, but he should be right as rain given a few days rest.”

Near the crest of the rise Baet attended Toar, as Celesi bothered him halfway to hysterics. “What happened to our ambassador?” Creigal asked.

Carringten went to investigate. Baet frowned and handed a twisted bit of metal to the captain. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Instead, he brushed Celesi out of his hair with a disdainful look and a sharp word, as he turned back to Toar. Carringten returned to the duke. Creigal hissed as he saw the ruined musket in his captain’s hand. “A Pemberton GremSorter!” He stared at his captain in disbelief. ”Where’d they get that?!”

Carringten shook his head. “I didn’t care to ask.”

“To think those things are still out in the world.”

“Doing their job—discouraging others from adopting black powder,” Carringten noted as he inspected the broken weapon. “You can see the powder blew out the side and must have caught our worthy guide in the face,” the captain stated. “He’s alive, though the right half of his face is a mess. I fear he might lose the eye.”

Creigal frowned. “She’s lucky it only blew out the side of the gun, and didn’t explode back on her, the way it was designed.”

“Must not have had a full pack of powder—which means it wasn’t Baet that showed them how to use it,” Carringten noted.

Creigal stared at his captain. “Do you think he would?”

“Not in the least,” Carringten replied. “As far as I can tell, he’s quite attached to our young ambassador.”

“What a nasty bit of devilry,” Creigal said. “I can see how these GremSorters have been so persuasive, but I can’t say I’m proud of my father for commissioning their creation in the first place.”

“Is it so sinister to sell faulty weapons to your enemies?” Carringten asked. “Still, it’s never good when the old demons return to haunt those that created them. Shall I rid us of the evidence?”

Creigal gave a nod. “Ask among the others. See that they don’t have any more of these faulty weapons. Tell them what they are. I prefer that our friends not suffer such weapons ever again.”

“Then I shall show them before I get rid of it,” Carringten nodded. With a sigh, he turned and looked over the wasted beach with a frown. Meanwhile, the prisoners looked on, stunned by the sudden and strange violence they’d witnessed.

“Who watches the prisoners?” Creigal wondered.

“Elpis has an eye on ‘em, though I can’t tell which,” a grim smile spread across Carringten’s face. “A tendril came down on their tent—which is why we’re short another one. The camp in general is a bit of a mess. The good news is that most of the horses are unhurt, though a few managed to get loose. I only hope we have enough.“

“Well, there are less of us to ride, so…” Creigal began with a morbid shrug. “What a ruinous day,” he continued, as he stared about those still gathered.

“And what has happened to the sister that warned us? What has happened to her brother?” Carringten asked.

Creigal could not answer. He gave a shrug and turned his attention back to the captured naga.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 14.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Sore and injured, Scurra limped through the woods at the edge of the lake and searched among the undergrowth. She berated herself for allowing the others to set camp at the edge of the lake—yet she’d given them all the warning she could! Instead, she focused on her task and looked for any of the plants or mushrooms her brother had taught her over the years. He’d shown her a hundred different plants, and each seemed to have a dozen different applications, though she could only remember a fraction of them. She searched for the ones she liked the most and wondered how many plants she’d stepped over that could have done exactly what she needed—if only she knew it.

At least her brother knew—but he was shrunken and bedraggled, still heavily effected by the darkness of his dreams. Ever so slowly, he hobbled through the woods, and poked about the undergrowth, looking as bad as ever. Scurra wondered, did he see what she saw? Was the dark dream worse for him, or was it simply the same as it’d always been? He certainly seemed more affected, but then he’d never suffered the soul-crushing darkness of her worst nightmare.

Indeed, when was the last time Krumpus had suffered one of his own spells? Did they ever occur anymore? As he grew up, they seemed to be constant. Yet, his dreams were always light and easy on the other side. This side is where he struggled. He flopped and foamed, and looked like he was about to die; eyes bugged, his body wracked, and his breath coming in short sharp gasps. The spells were why his tongue was so mangled, and why he refused to talk.

She asked him about it once, why did he suffer twice? It was bad enough to suffer nightmares, and yet, he also seized. But he never suffered dark dreams. While his body tortured itself, his spirit danced with angels. Then he asked if she wished to trade, with his twisted tongue and thick language. She shuddered to think of the harm he’d inflicted upon himself, of all the draughts of strange awful brew he drank, the pungent poultices used to wrap his face. Was it not better to suffer on the other side, that at least she might maintain her superficial beauty?

Scurra shook her head. All too often, she stepped into her dreams and found herself unable to do anything to change their outcome. She seemed fated to know the darkest moments of her life long before she should ever encounter them—though she had to admit it was not all of her darkest moments. Why were there no dreams of her worthless husband and the beatings he gave her? Was it because such a thing was all too avoidable if only she had an inkling of his true character? At least he only lasted a few years, before he sloughed off to the gods know where.

With her thoughts caught in the past, Scurra chanced upon a colony of numb root. She took several stocks and thanked the plant for showing itself to her in their hour of need. She showed her brother, and he smiled. A moment later, he found sugar petal, which among other things would keep a wound from getting infected. He thanked the delicate flower and took nearly half of what he found, as there were a lot of cuts among his friends. With these two medicines in hand, the siblings decided it was time to return to the others and treat them as they could.

Komotz was given a double dose of numb root. Poor Komotz. Scurra did not like the look of him, though her brother was optimistic—as he set the youngster’s bones—but there was little else he could do until they arrived in Excergie and could get some more exotic medicines. The Oak and Beast had many friends and a fine house at the far edge of the border town. If all went well, they’d reach the town by the end of the day. At that point, everything would be all right.

Andrus took a healthy dose of numb root, and the duke took half a dose for his numerous, though superficial, cuts. Creigal marveled at the numb root as Wenifas stitched the worst of his cuts with meticulous attention. She too wondered at the numb root's power as she pulled thread through the duke’s skin in a neat fashion—as if she were mending a favorite dress. “You do not feel it at all?” she asked.

“I feel it,” Creigal corrected. “I feel the needle puncture and pull my skin—there is simply no pain to it. There is no sharpness, only a dull tug.”

“I think I should like a piece of that root,” Wenifas noted.

Scurra shook her head. “It does not affect the emotions, my dear. It works only on the nerves.”

Wenifas paused her stitching and wiped her tears.

“If you should like, I can finish,” Scurra said, as she reached for the needle and thread.

“And what shall I do?” Wenifas pulled away. “Evereste sleeps. I much prefer to busy my hands,” she said through her tears.

With a nod, Scurra turned and went to look after Toar. The barrel of the GremSorter fragmented and blew shrapnel into the right side of the Bouge’s face. A couple dozen shards required removal. The largest was the size of a half bit, while the smallest fragments were barely the size of a pin’s head. Baet was slow and meticulous as he proceeded to pull shrapnel from the guide’s face, though Celesi begged him to hurry. The worst was a sliver of metal that was caught at the bottom of Toar’s right eye. Celesi begged him to leave it.

“It has to come out,” Baet assured her. “The longer you leave it in, the more likely it is to get jammed in further, or jostled, which will also cause more damage—now, shush!” he snapped. He took a solid minute to build up the courage, then plucked the tiny sliver, which brought a hiss from Toar. Under the direction of Scurra, and despite his reservations, Baet wiped a thin layer of sugar petal across the burnt half of Toar’s face, then covered it with a bit of cloth ripped from the hem of Celesi’s dress.

The last to be attended was the naga, with his numerous injuries. He took numb root as his cuts were stitched, then closed his eyes and ignored his captors while they rubbed sugar petal over his wounds.

While the injured were attended, Carringten rounded up the horses and set several to the wagon. Andrus, Komotz, Toar, and Maligno were placed in the wagon with the remains of Traust, Apulton, and the small shrouded body of Claiten. It was a crowded affair, one that Andrus immediately opposed. “I don’t want to ride with that snake!” he hissed as he stared at the injured naga.

“Do you think you could sit up for the next several hours?” Duboha asked. “Besides, we need you to watch and see that the naga does nothing to Komotz or Toar,” he told the man, then gave him a long dagger. The naga simply ignored them and laid to one side, its breathing labored.

A somber mood hung over the party as they finally departed. Baet was the last to leave the beach. He kicked about the detritus left from the fight and noticed Claiten’s knife. With a sour face, he picked the blade from the sand and tucked it under his belt.

As they rode, Creigal felt more and more nauseous. Twice he stopped his horse and purged violently. He looked to Scurra and Krumpus to see if he should be worried.

Scurra shrugged. “It is normal to purge after taking numb root. Although it is easy on the nerves, it is hard on the digestion,” she explained. “Do not worry. It is rarely fatal.”

“Rarely?” Creigal frowned. Although he was sick several times on their way to Excergie—and with a mighty force—the duke did not die.

Wenifas sat up front of the cart with Evereste in her lap. Several miles before the pass, she turned to Elpis and noticed that tears streamed freely down his face. For a time she pretended not to see it; then, with tears of her own, she adjusted Evereste in her lap, pulled close, and wrapped an arm around the sad Jindleyak.
As Wenifas settled against him, Elpis leaned into her and confessed his emotions. "It is poor of me that, despite our losses, I think only of the Lady Yandira?"

Wenifas shook her head. She held Elpis for a long time as she thought of her own lost lover. Derris seemed so long ago and so very distant, even though it was—what? Just over a month since the last time she saw him? It felt like forever as the same sharp emotions welled up in her once more. Still, it was good to think of him and not Claiten. But then she did think of the boy, and the tears came in unrelenting waves. She buried her face in the Jindleyak’s shoulder, then his lap, and as the tears finally subsided and exhaustion took over, she fell asleep.

So it was that the party entered Jindleyak lands. Despite the somber mood, everyone was pleased when Toar woke—except Toar. He was not pleased, as the numb root given to Komotz had proved too much. Like the duke, Komotz had also spilled his guts, only without all the pomp and circumstance of Creigal's pyrotechnics. Andrus and Malgno both missed the incident since the mess did not touch them—but poor Toar was soaked with the younger brother’s sick, and quite upset about it.

Excergie

Polished — 25m43s — 2023/12/26

Banifourd focused on the little things before him: the ripple of water in a barrel, the color of the dust that gathered on his boots, the whistle of a bird…

… and all this interrupted by the occasional screams of the village people—as their homes burned…

These are not the right people, he thought as he glanced about the mayhem…

Banifourd was beginning to lose count of the villages and farmsteads they’d sacked and torched. He’d speared at least a dozen unarmed men—and about half as many ladies in twice as many ways—but that was early, when they were still heading south. Indeed, he thought once they were on the plains, they might proceed quickly to Gaur land—but they’d already circled back twice in their quest to kill and destroy these other people, these Noethrin. He had to wonder if they were allied to the simpleton supreme: Duke Creigal berDuvante…

…or were they no enemies at all, just conveniently located?

He did not care for slaughtering kingdom people on the orders of these foreigners—but he knew his station, so when Gleidian gave the Small Hour Answer—words taught to Banifourd by Aerindoun himself—he immediately attended the Lord Commander’s needs.

But the respect only went one way. Banifourd was mostly left out of Gleidian’s grand design as to how the army would proceed. He had been given a brief and sweeping overview that left out a great many details—which were often sprung upon the Gaur squire at a moment’s notice.

Native men laid in the dirt, dead or dying. Their horses, weapons, and children were stolen. Their women defiled. This wasn’t the war he wanted, yet Banifourd offered no complaint. Still, he wasn’t supposed to be murdering women and children on the plains of the Noeth. He was supposed to be helping his cousins wrestle Gaurring out of their senile father’s hands. Who was Duke Creigal berDuvante to defy King Gred duReb—especially since everyone knew that the King had Empress Seveticah in his pocket, and her armies at his bidding—so he knew better than to argue. Instead, he dunked a rag in a barrel of rainwater and wiped away the filth and blood of yet another sacking, as he held a bottle of Noethrin Sour in his off hand.

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

Leave it to the Ministrians to ruin a good drink, Banifourd thought as he took a heavy gulp. “Try some, you might like it,” he replied, and wiped wine from his lips. He knew the man would refuse. Ministrians rarely drank, or smoked, or did much of anything fun without a priestess around to administer to them. It was against their carping gods.

Petaerus answered true to this fashion. “We drink with our ladies, not while we fight!”

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

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

“How many?” Petaerus asked.

“Hundreds! Far too many for us! If we hope to fight, we must go back to Solveny!”

“So the Count of the High Plains has finally found us,” Petaerus smiled. “Form up!” he called to his fifty men. “We ride south, for the border!”

“Sssouth, sir?” The scout stammered.

“Not you, friend. You will go to Solveny and tell Gliedian what has happened here,” Petaerus stated. “The rest of us go to Gaurring, where we will borrow some of Gaurring’s more daring souls, and then we will catch the Count’s army in a pincer!” He smiled as he noted the look of astonishment on Banifourd's face. “What is it, sir? You look as if you've seen a ghost?”

“Why are we fighting here?!” Banifourd asked. “Why would good Gaurs come north when the fight is in Gaurring!"

“We have enemies in the Noeth that must be purged. Only then shall we go south,” Petaerus said. “Not that you shall see it,” he sneered.

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

“Holy Ooroiyuo!” Petaerus roared at Dolif. “If I wanted him dead, I would have hit him myself!” the copal snapped.

“He ain't dead,” Dolif hoped as he leaned close to the prone Gaur. “See? He breathes.”

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

“Take it all,” his friend suggested.

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

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

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

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

“Voressa sold it to me,” Petaerus shrugged. “Where else would you get something like that?’

Dolif frowned at his long-time friend. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

Petaerus passed him the bottle.

Dolif stared at it. “You ever use it on any ladies?”

Petaerus shrugged. “I prefer the struggle.”

“So why use it on him?” Dolif pointed.

“His captors will think he was hit too hard and his brains are rattled. Then they must trust his documents,” the copal said.

“For a few days, maybe, but the stuff wears off eventually. What then?” Dolif asked.

“What then?!” Petaerus repeated. “It’s out of my hands, that’s ‘what then’!”

Dolif wasn’t satisfied. “If he’s supposed to be stupid, I feel it is not possible that I hit him too hard!”

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

“I don’t see why,” Dolif scratched. “If he were dead, there could be no hope of him betraying us.”

“We play a long game,” Petaerus explained. “There is no reason to kill a useful pawn. After all, a play requires puppets,” he stood and spit on Banifourd. “Enough of your arguments,” he said to Dolif. “We must make haste, yeah?"

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

After a year of being mostly alone, Paye was beginning to miss people. It’d been nearly a month since she had any visitors at the house in Excergie. It’d been since her cousin, Scurra, stopped by on her way out west, on a mission to find her brother.

Paye had made a few introductions in town. She simply never had anyone over, as she preferred her own company. After all, she needed to be alone; time for quiet contemplations, for pondering, and praying. Yet, after such a long time alone, Paye hungered for interaction and thought if she did not have social engagement soon, she might forget how to talk to people altogether. As the days crept on, she considered what she might do to alleviate her boredom—yet stuck to her solitary routine. She only ever considered the possibilities. She dreamed about throwing a party, or simply go to dinner at one of the beautiful inns about town. She fancied seeking out a society of painters, thinkers, or knitters. She wondered if she should have a few friendly faces over for a bit of tea one of these bright afternoons—or perhaps a few neighbors for a cozy dinner and gossip?

Buried under so many grand options, Paye managed to implement none of them—and then her cousin returned from her excursion in Bouge lands, with maybe a dozen others in tow. She saw them well before they reached the house, as they clattered up the drive with a dozen horses and a rickety wagon.

Paye rushed outside and gathered a weary and subdued Scurra in her arms. She looked among her cousin’s company. Several were strangers of foreign origin that brought a number of questions to the lady’s mind, but many were friends or family she knew by sight or reputation.

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

With a nod, Paye continued to study the others as she left for town. Who were these foreigners that rode with her cousins? They were Saots by their dress. One of them was dark as night, but still dressed in the fashion of a Saot. She wondered if they were the reason to bring the peacekeepers—but that seemed unlikely, since they were all armed and smiled politely. Then she saw the three Ministrians, with their sour scowls and tied hands. She knew they were trouble as they glared and leered at her.

Paye stepped down the drive and waved to Aim and Duboha, both of which she knew more by reputation than anything else. Duboha rarely came east, and Aim hadn’t been home in almost a decade. She glanced at Homoth, whom she hadn’t seen in over a year, and wondered if he had forgiven her. She wasn’t sure if he frowned at her or if perhaps the frown was simply due to their circumstances. She forgot it when she saw Elpis smile—with one eye beaming at the trees. She was shocked by his pale and sunken appearance. She had thought he was so handsome before he left home.

Town wasn’t far, not even half a mile away. Paye wandered about a knot of apothecaries that were all crowded near to each other and looked among the men for her distant cousin. She glanced straight at him and took a step in the other direction before she realized the old scarred fellow wasn’t nearly as old as he looked. “Krumpus?!” she gaped. “Are you okay…?!” she whispered, and hoped the question wasn’t deemed to be rude.

With a gasp and a bright smile, the shaman gathered his young cousin in a hug, then he held her at arm’s length. Just a little warn by my travels! he beamed, and she was amazed he could say this with just his eyes! Nothing a warm bath and hot, home-cooked meal won’t cure! He insisted, though he looked like he could pass out at any second.

It took over two hours for Paye to return to the house with Krumpus; as they dragged along several other physicians, a couple midwives, and half a dozen armed men from different local militias. When they arrived at the house, the peacekeepers went with Duboha and the Saots to hear charges against Meriona, Naiphan, and Bruck; then took them to the jail—while Paye and the others went inside, so they might check on the injured. Krumpus trudged behind the other healers. He hoped to help—until Giscelda, the senior among them, insisted he take his own rest. She would handle it from here, thank you.

There was little more to be done for Toar. The shrapnel from the Pemberton GremSorter was all removed from his face by Baet's deft hand. His bandages were changed. He was given a draught to help him sleep, and also to strengthen his blood. After that, he was left to heal with a light bandage and a soothing cream across half his face.

Andrus was in high spirits as a cute midwife gave him a pipe of conicle to ease his pain. His chest was deeply bruised, which made smoking difficult—but he had an agreeable time as he smoked and flirted with the blushing midwife.

Komotz, the worst of them, needed a good deal of work and another heavy dose of numb root; while the physicians and midwives ascertained the great extent of his injuries. The others all marveled that he was somehow still alive, as they checked the shaman’s triage. Several bones were jostled by the hard road and needed to be reset. The healers concocted a curative potion for the man to drink twice a day. Then, as they administered it, the numb root caused the young man to purge, which seemed incredibly painful. A few hours later, he purged again, and Giscelda insisted they change him from numb root to a different medicine.

But first, he would have to work the numb root out of his system.

Komotz kept a number of the house awake with his moaning and crying, but the healers were all agreed that he had to have the numb root well out of his body before they administered oblivia. The mixing of the two could be extremely dangerous. Komotz soiled another set of bedding and bandages, as the numb root worked its way out in fits and starts. It was a rough night, not only for the suffering younger brother, but the small troop of men and women that looked after him under the strict eye of Giscelda.

On toward morning, Paye helped strip the bed, then carried the stained sheets of her younger brother through the hall. As she walked, she heard a voice coming from another room. She peeked in to see the Saot guard sitting on the edge of Toar’s bed, talking to the injured youth, though the young Trohl slept.

“That'll be the way of it,” he said in his native tongue. “It'll be a fine day at the ocean—if you’re game to come…” The guard cut off his commentary and turned, as he sensed they were no longer alone. His rude gaze was direct and unwavering as he stared at Paye, though it softened as it settled on the easy features of the young Jindleyak lady.

She clutched the soiled sheets all the more tightly as she stepped into the room. “To see the ocean would be a fine day indeed,” she smiled at the handsome man.

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

Paye shrugged. “The family does a fair bit of trade in Land's End. I’ve made the trip many times, and it helps to know what the locals are saying.”

“I should imagine so,” the Saot replied. “Yet none of your cousins speak it.”

Paye shook her head. “Not these ones,” she agreed. “They were more interested in going west rather than south, so they took up Ministrian—or pretended to. Speaking of my relatives, why are they not awake?”

”Aim, Duboha, and Homoth went out into the forest—to hunt, they said—though I imagine they were just going to make camp at a distance, so they wouldn’t have to hear the screaming,” Baet shrugged.

“You don’t mind the whining?” Paye asked.

The guard shrugged. “A little crying never bothered a real man.”

“And you would rather be here for the crying than go out and hunt?” Paye teased.

The Saot shrugged. “Perhaps if I hunted game…” he muttered as if he couldn’t care, though he had a strange glint in his eye.

“What do you hunt?” Paye asked, intrigued.

“Men mostly,” Baet replied. “"From time to time it’s women, and once it was a child,” he stared, with no mirth whatsoever.

Was he kidding? Either way, it wasn’t funny. Paye took a cautious step back.

He shrugged. “That’s all in the past, I think. My hunting days are all but done.”

“And now you are a nursemaid?” Paye teased, so she might fend off her uneasiness, and also mask it. She’d never known a man to brag about killing women. Or children. She certainly didn’t want to like him.

The Saot shrugged. “Maybe it’s time I started putting people together instead of taking them apart,” he replied. “But no. Now I guard.”

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

“Mostly the duke, though tonight I have another charge. Would you like to see?”

Paye flinched. The man wore a troublesome smirk. She’d be daft not to recognize the danger. Still, she was curious what he might have to show. “Okay,” she agreed and wondered if this was against her better judgement.

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

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

Baet followed the woman out back and dropped the sheets in a tub of soapy water. “Shall we allow that mess to soak?”

“Will this take long?” Paye replied.

“Have you ever known a man to take long?” Baet joked.

At least she thought it was a joke. Either way, it wasn’t funny. Arms akimbo, Paye stared. “Tell me, sir. What is it that you guard?”

Baet gave a nod, and with a mischievous smile, waved her back to the house. “It’s this way.” He began—but Paye didn’t flinch. He stopped. “What is it?”

“You must swear that I will be safe,” Paye answered.

Baet put a hand on his heart and pretended to be offended. “I am a guard,” he stated. “Simply ask and I will defend your honor, your virtue, your very self; on pain of my own death!”

“You would protect me even from your own ambitions?” Paye replied.

“But they are the first to be rebuffed!” Baet smiled, then turned and waved her along. “This way!” he called.

Paye frowned as the man led her back into the house, turned her down a thin flight of stairs, then stepped into the cellar and triggered a secret catch that opened an obscured door. The wall twisted and revealed a passage. “How do you know of this place?” she asked.

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

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

“Not this one,” Baet claimed. “Come on. I’ll lead,” and with that, he began down the passage.

Reluctantly, Paye followed. She knew what was down here: several cells for any prisoners they might have to keep. After all, her family was powerful and had many enemies, which isn’t to say that she’d ever seen the cells in use. Still, there were stories—half as old as her people… she peeked around the corner. For a long second she saw nothing. Then, as her eyes adjusted to the dark, she noted movement as a prisoner shifted his weight. She gasped as a large beast glared at her through the bars. “Is that…?!” she began.

“A naga,” Baet nodded.

“Yet you are the one to tell me!” Paye huffed and glared at him. “Why those sneaky…” she began—then let her words trail off. She wasn’t surprised that her brother and his friends would keep such a secret, but the fact that Scurra kept her out of the loop was a bit of a sting. “Why do we have a naga prisoner?” she wondered.

Baet shrugged. “Can’t fathom it myself. Don’t know why they didn’t just let the baby-eater die.” He turned and banged the cage. “You hear that, you piss-swilling brute!” he yelled at the naga. “I hope you get infected and rot!”

“Now! Why such invective?” she asked.

Baet stared at the lady, “Him and his ilk killed a boy, a lively and courageous youth.”

“But you admitted to killing children,” Paye replied, curious to see how he’d react—and hoping she didn’t push too far. How would he reply? Might he become violent?

“I killed one, against my better judgement, and I have been haunted for it,” Baet answered. “Just as I will haunt this monster,” he said, and kicked the bars of the cage again. “You hear that?! You dirty baby-killer!”

On the other side of the bars, Maligno sneered and kept his distance.

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

The next morning, Scurra wanted to get out of the house, so she gathered the other ladies and took them into town. They returned with their arms full of food and needed supplies from the local markets.

As they came back, Elpis approached from the house. “How did it go?” he asked in Ministrian, since it was the only language they all spoke.

“We talked to the peacekeepers first,” Scurra nodded. “The trial is set for tomorrow.”

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

“The peacekeepers want it said and done,” Scurra stated. “None of the militias are interested in foreigners taking up so much jail space, not to mention the locals are peppering them with questions.”

“Must not be much drama of late,” Elpis noted.

“Well, they’ll get all the sordid details tomorrow,” Scurra replied.

“Not all the sorted details,” Elpis began. “Duboha and the Duke feel it’s best if we leave his highness out of it.”

“Tomorrow?!” Wenifas wondered that the trial would commence so immediately. “Will we be ready by then?” she asked, curious that the Jindleyak legal process could be so quick. Ministrian concerns could run for months.

“How long does it take to prepare the truth?” Elpis shrugged. “If you’d like, you can go last; once you’ve seen how the rest of us have been handled—or maybe we can leave you out too.”

Wenifas considered it. “No,” she finally said. “I’ve been quiet most my life.”

Elpis gave a nod then turned to his cousin. “Did you post the letters I gave you?”

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

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

“What’s back in Ebertin anyway?” Celesi asked, as she was looking forward, and not wanting to consider what lay behind.

Wenifas sucked her teeth and shouldered the young lady.

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

Scurra nodded. “I shall be glad when the rest of us follow. I think it’s best if we continue on our way as soon as possible. Nothing against this duke personally, but trouble seems to follow him wherever he goes. I’d prefer to have him in Hearthstone sooner than later.”

“Do you think Komotz will be able to travel any time soon?” Elpis replied.

“He’s safe here and has the attention of capable healers. Perhaps we should leave him and let him follow as he can,” Scurra replied.

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

The next day, while the others were at the trial, Carringten stayed with the naga. He brought the beast a plate of fried fish with an assortment of vegetables. The fish was much appreciated, and some of the vegetables, to a lesser degree. After a slow dinner, Maligno passed the plate back to the dark man.

Having the naga’s attention, Carringten questioned the beast with improvised signs. He asked if the creature’s wounds were healing. Despite the curses of the other Saot, all of Maligno’s cuts were doing quite well, including both that required stitches. Admittedly, he was still sore, but figured in another week or two and he’d be right as rain.

The dark man nodded, seemingly pleased with the creature’s progress.

Now that he was feeling better, now that he was quite sure that he would live, Maligno wanted to ask what they meant to do with him—but since the dark man couldn’t speak the Trohl language, and since most of the others were quite disagreeable—he set the question aside, content to keep his own council. Slowly, he began to inspect the security of his settings, and wondered where he’d find the nearest water once he managed to get out.

Jindleyak Justice

Changed 16.4 so Serabella is urging Crea to show the sword instead of hiding it — 7m37s — 2023/10/05

Polished — 1h23m24s — 2023/12/26

Near the heart of the square stood the fountain of an attractive woman in a motherly pose, with the name Excergie carved into the stone. There was an owl at her back and a frog that sat at her side. A slight stream of water poured from the frog’s mouth, into a large pool, bounded with red coral, quartz, and turquoise. From the foot of the statue to the edge of the pool was a good ten feet, and the water was several feet deep. It was deep enough to bathe in—though that was only allowed on certain days, holidays and the like—since the water was primarily used for drinking.

In the middle of the pool, Excergie sat on a large marble bench, leaning forward just a touch, her head cocked ever so slightly. Her stone eyes stretched across the square, staring off at an angle. If you stood in her gaze, she looked as is she had caught you at something, as if she had overheard you saying something, and she was trying to figure if she found it more funny or offensive.

For the better part of two days, Meriona glanced back at this statue and wondered at the stone woman and her unrelenting gaze. It was a long and tedious two days, especially since Naiphan and Bruck seemed to blame her for their circumstances. At one point the poking, pestering, and argument grew so loud that a couple of rough-handed peacekeepers banged on their bars, insisting that they all calm down. To add to the embarrassment, a good dozen pedestrians moved through the square, and several stopped to gape. Meriona almost asked to be placed in a different cell, but felt that might create an insurmountable rift between her and the two remaining Jaded Blades.

Next to the prison was a platform with several long wooden benches and a number of chairs. People used it for a variety of reasons, to rest, or sit and talk with friends for a bit. Many used it for their meals, or to partake in a snack—these items often coming from the large market at the opposite side of the square, or one of the many eateries that were all about. Today, the people were using the platform for a number of trials. They started early in the morning, right after the cock crowed, with only about a dozen people. Meriona couldn’t hear much of it and didn’t even realize these were trials until the third or fourth dispute was well under way. Indeed, the initial meetings were quite amicable and assorted in short order.

As the trials commenced, they seemed to grow in complexity, for the arguments stretched and the crowds grew. By the time the Sun’s rays finally pulled across the cobbled square, there were well over a hundred people gathered about the platform; arguing, analyzing, or simply observing.

After a rather tedious case in which every particular seemed to be argued, the crowd finally broke and drifted away into the square, only to be replaced by the usual lot of comers-and-goers, most of which were eager to have the area for their breakfast. For a time, Meriona wondered if that was all the trials the day would see. She was at once glad that her punishment would be further delayed—and also frustrated as a part of her simply wanted get on with it. She wasn’t terribly surprised that her time had not yet come. If the locals were anything like her own countrymen, the trial could be pushed back for weeks, even months, as the powers of the town haggled over her fate, drawing long standing animosities and unrelated grievances into the argument—all of which would be left out of the official proceedings, of course. But as the day wore on, more trials were held, and as they became more and more contentious, Meriona figured they might yet make time for her and the Jaded Blades.

Despite the fact that she anticipated the trial, a thrill still pulsed through her when the peacekeepers approached and opened their cage. Bruck and Naiphan were both taken aback, which did not surprise the Jay. Were they even aware that trials proceeded as they lounged at the far edge of the cage? But then their profession did not lend itself to the courts. Likely, the only times they’d ever seen the inside of a courtroom would be as defendants; for drunkenness, disorderly conduct, or disturbing the Empress’s peace—nothing major, of course, as any real issues with characters of such a black profession would be left off the books; handled in the streets, as they say.

Meriona stepped onto the platform, her hands tied with thick cord, and hoped for a lenient judge, preferably one to which she might pander. She hoped beyond hope that the judge might be a powerful enemy to her captors.

Several actors and a handful of children dressed in colorful motley had commandeered the stage as the participants of the last trial shuffled off the platform, and the players of the next slowly approached. They fooled about for the entertainment of the large audience, as the officers of the court slowly set the stage for the next proceeding.

Meriona was sat in a chair turned halfway toward a box full of jurors, and halfway to the general audience. Bruck and Naiphan were seated around her, which she didn’t feel was fair. Why was she in the middle—as if she was the leader? These men practically mocked her every word! It should be Naiphan in the middle, now that Grunther and Tadehis were dead. For a long second, she turned and hoped to find someone that might hear her complaint—then decided to save her strength, since the arguments were likely to last all day. She sat back with a grimace.

From the beginning it didn’t look good. Meriona was stunned by the sheer magnitude of the gathered crowd. It’d grown steadily throughout the day, as the trials grew more contentious. Indeed, at this late hour, the square was bursting at the seams.

Not wanting to consider the sheer magnitude of the commoners, she turned to the jury. They were not as the Jay expected. They were not a serious and pedantic lot; with regal apparel, exceptional grooming, and sharp eyes. Instead, they were a sordid bunch, with unkept cloaks, stained shirts, and crumpled hats that in some distant past might have been a uniform with careful stitching—if not for all the foul and dross about their costumes. One of the jurors did not even have a hat. His hair was a wild tangle that begged for comb and scissor, fit only for rats and roaches. He had wild-eyes, for he too was nervous; as he twitched, fidgeted, and stared about the massive crowd of commoners that gathered before them.

Despite his weird behavior, this juror was not an anomaly among his peers. Another ducked her head and picked her nose with a single-minded determination. Meriona watched, aghast and embarrassed, as the filthy woman extracted a sickly treasure of green and gold, flecked with the deepest maroon. She examined the prize, placed the mighty wad between her stained and jagged teeth, then glanced up to see Meriona staring. Instead of turning her head in shame, or pretending nothing had happened, she glared at the accused and challenged her with a hiss. Chagrined, Meriona turned her eyes, not wanting to upset the juror over a disgusting but minor impropriety.

Another of the jury was a young and disheveled man that held his bare foot in his lap. His feet were dark with dirt and filth. He picked at his grotesque toes with a bit of a stick. Despite the distance between them, Meriona was sure she could smell him.

Another juror looked as dirty and old as time itself. She had a menacing scowl about her face—mostly for her fellow jurors—as she shoved and insulted them for nothing more than sitting so close.

The fifth juror appeared to be a common drunk sleeping off a hangover. His face was dark red with a bulbous nose of the deepest purple. He refused any cover—except his hat, with its edge pulled over his eyes—as he lounged at an awkward angle and snored. His cloak served as a blanket over his lower half. Meriona almost expected the cloak to slip and reveal he was naked beneath.

The sixth and final juror sat with his mouth agape as he stared wide-eyed between the audience and the motley, and generally exaggerated their mood; laughing hysterically when they cheered, and cursing with vitriol when they jeered.

Meriona could not believe it. How had any of these idiots came to wear the robes of authority?! What sort of a backward people were these Jindleyak to let such simpletons sit in judgement?! She continued to stare.

It took the manic juror several beats and half the motley poking at Meriona and the Jaded Blades before he realized that the accused now sat in attendance. As this dawned on him, his face turned red and lit with a rage. He glanced between them and the milling crowd—then leveled a finger at Meriona, Bruck, and Naiphan. “Hang ‘em!” he yelled as he stood to his feet. He leaned over the slight railing and nearly toppled over it—all the while screaming. “Hang 'em all! Burn 'em up! Meat for the fire!”

To Meriona’s horror, the crowd laughed and cheered, as a chant of “haannngggg ‘em!” went up among the rabble—championed by the young and impetuous juror and a number of the motley players.

“Haannngggg ‘em! Haannngggg ‘em! Haannngggg ‘em!…”

Several of the other jurors clapped and clamored. Meriona was stunned to think they already had a verdict before the trial had even started!

But the bailiff tugged the last juror's robes and whispered in his ear.

“Fine!” The wild-eyed juror snapped as he pulled himself from the well muscled bailiff. For a split second, Meriona thought there’d be an altercation, but the angry juror flopped onto the bench with a pensive frown, and the bailiff let the matter slide.

The unpleasantness might have ended there if the juror with the dirty feet hadn’t turned to his pouting neighbor and began to mock him with snivels and snorts. He poked the man with the filthy end of his foot-digging stick. The other took offense and slapped at the stick-wielder. Blows were exchanged—but only a few glancing strikes landed before a large peacekeeper interceded and sat himself directly between them. The serious and placid peacekeeper sat between the jurors, calm as a rock—as if fist-a-cuffs were common among the jurors—as the gathered masses booed the quick end of the contest.

Meriona glanced at her fellow accused, and found Naiphan and Bruck equally concerned by what they had witnessed. A thick knot of fear formed in the Jay's stomach as she realized this was nothing like she had hoped. Deliberate and sophisticated men could be handled, once she caught air of their agendas—but how was she to manage imbeciles?!

The bailiff took the center of the stage, banged his staff against the wood, and brought the trial to its official start. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” he roared to the gathered crowd, “IF YOUR HONORS WOULD BE SO OBLIGED!” he bowed to the soiled jurors, “AND WITH THE CONSENT OF THE ACCUSED!” the bailiff waved a hand at Meriona and the two Jaded Blades—though he paid no real attention to them. “THIS TRIAL BEGINS!”

The crowd cheered as a wave of enthusiasm washed through the square. Several peacekeepers brushed away the motley as the players gathered the last of the proffered coin. Meriona turned to her advisor, a bored and detached cleric that seemed to be capable of the job—if only he were interested. “What if we do not consent?” she asked.

The advisor glanced up, then shrugged at her question. “If you do not consent, you shall be locked in the jailhouse until you do,” he turned and stared at her. “Unless you like the food they bring you, it is best to see these things through as quickly as possible—but that is just my base opinion,” he waved. “Shall I ask them to stop? Shall I tell them you do not consent? Do you require more time?” he blinked. “You’ve tried the food. I promise it does not get any better.”

“And what of my punishment? Will it be any better if we drag things out?” Meriona asked.

The cleric shrugged. “If you have something to confess in private, or perhaps some bargain to make, it might be best. But if they think you are simply trying to avoid judgement, it will assuredly be worse,” he told her. “Does it work any different in your country? Does wasting the time of the court tend to reduce the severity of a sentence?”

Meriona shook her head. She knew no Jays that were more lenient after their time was wasted and their patience worn thin. Indeed, the quicker the better, with most.

Naiphan tugged at her sleeve, curious to know what she said to the cleric. Not wanting to translate, she brushed him off. He turned to the cleric, but the officer only shrugged. If Meriona wanted to speak with him in Trohl, who was he to break her confidence? Not getting what he wanted, Naiphan glared at the Jay.

The cheering of the crowd died down. Having everyone’s attention, the bailiff continued. “Let us hear from the accusers! Scurra, Elpis, and Duboha of the family Yockupp! Aim and Andrus of the family Trandhill! Celesi of the Bouge, and Wenifas, Priestess of the Red Crescent! We beckon you to the stage! Let us hear your charges!” he called.

Meriona sneered at the reverence given the title of priestess, as Wenifas and the others approached. As if Wenifas was anything more than breeding stock! Still, the blooded cow was allowed onto the platform and given a seat. If only these people knew how little a common priestess was afforded in her home country!

Wenifas sat near the defendants—until she realized both Naiphan and Bruck were trying to get her attention—at which point she moved to the far end of the platform and refused to even look at them. Meriona certainly couldn’t blame her for that!

The Jay was so focused on Wenifas that she didn’t even notice the duke and his men were missing—until Naiphan elbowed her with a questioning stare—then it took her several beats to figure his concern. Curious, she thought, and considered the reasons the duke might hide.

The bailiff continued. “I have heard your grave charges, but I am not the judge,” he said to the accusers. “You must tell the story again, to these fine jurors, and also these gathered people. Tell them what occurred on the road to Excergie!”

Scurra stood to speak. Meriona tried to keep a stoic face as she stared at the Jindleyak lady, now in a dress of green and silver. Even with fine clothes, Scurra looked lean and sinewy tough—but not in the used and undernourished way of the priestess. Scurra's toughness was trained and intentional. It was polished. As short as she was, and even in a gown, the Jay found the Jindleyak quite intimidating.

“Your esteemed honors, keepers of the peace, ladies and gentlemen of the gathered crowd,” Scurra began as she bowed to each in turn. “Several nights ago these men and this woman—and two more of their company that have sadly perished...”

“And how have they perished?!” Someone called from the crowd. A smattering of whispers rose from the audience though no one else raised their voice.

The Bailiff banged his staff. “A valid question, to be sure, but I shall have to ask you to keep it until the lady has given her statement.” He said to those gathered at the base of the stage. “She will inevitably answer many of your questions if you simply allow her to speak.”

Scurra smiled, then began her narration once more, quickly accusing the Jay and her Jaded Blades of stalking them across the valley of the Pulbouge. She spoke of Grunther and how he was killed when he assaulted Duboha, then told of the leviathan and how it crushed Todehis, swept Saleos away, and crippled Komotz.

The story of the leviathan caused quite a stir among the gathered masses. Even the idiot jurors sat with rapt attention as she told of the legendary beast. Indeed, questions about the great creature abounded and threatened to derail the proceedings. They were so thick that the Bailiff was forced to cut in again. “Enough of the leviathan!” he roared. “We are not here to judge the beast!” he said, then glared at the booing crowd until they left off their questions.

“None of these men would have died or even been arrested if we had not caught the lot of them trying to kill our esteemed colleague: the lady Wenifas,” Scurra concluded.

Meriona turned to the Jaded Blades. They glanced back her with the same question reflected in their eyes. Why was the duke left out of this? Why is he hiding? “They don’t want to talk about Kezodel,” Meriona decided, her suspicion seemingly confirmed when she couldn’t find the shaman. Now, how to use that information?

“These are foreigners!” someone called. “And this crime happened across the border! Why are they charged in a Jindleyak court?”

The bailiff gave a nod and Scurra answered the question. “This priestess travels under the care of the Oak and Beast. Many of you know us, and for those that don’t, we are a Jindleyak militia from the western edge of Hearthstone with standing among our people. Since we captured these foul agents, since the priestess is agreed to see this matter settled under our authority, and since our Pulbouge brothers have seen fit to let us bring them across the borders of their land; we ask the good people of Excergie to administer God’s justice in proper Jindleyak fashion!”

There was a long pause as Scurra’s words sunk in.

The hysteric juror took the opportunity to stand on his tippy-toes and scream at the accused yet again. “Burn ‘em!” he glared. “Burn ‘em with fire!”

Elements of the crowd scoffed and cheered. Several more of the wild-eyed jurors took up the call. The peacekeepers moved to settle things down—but the crowd responded enthusiastically to the antics of the jurors and booed the interceding peacekeepers. As the peacekeepers settled the jurors, many among the gathered crowd broke into song.

“Boil 'em in oil!

Kill 'em with fire!

Until they're as black,

as their heart's desire!

Poke ‘em in their eyes,

and flay away their skin!

Until they tell no lies,

and repent of their sin!”

And so they sang.

Meriona sagged as she imagined this day would not pass well for her. She stared at the floor of the platform and studied the wooden grain as each of the Jindleyak party was called to witness—but the trial did not end just because the Jay was no longer interested.

From time to time some random member of the audience cut in to ask a clarifying question. Some of the questions were shrugged aside by the bailiff as irrelevant—but a surprising number were allowed. At times, Meriona wondered if they would ever finish. The longer it went, the more she found herself wishing they’d simply get on with it.

Yet, the worst was still to come, and the worst was the testimony of Wenifas. She was the last of the party to be called center stage, and by Meriona's estimation, the most dramatic and heartfelt of all the speakers. She spoke of Camp Calderhal and the attacking bugbear, of the terror and fire of that night. She told of how she met Meriona on the way to Ebertin. The Jay noted that the priestess covered up a few convenient details, such as the coin she stole from Fedring, and also any mention of the duke. Still, she told them of Kezodel, and also her banishment. She spoke of the Lady Yandira, a terrible episode in the naga city of Beletrain, and then of their flight from the House of Leaves. Although she was not the first to talk of some of these things, of naga or leviathan, she was the first to weep—as she told of her dead son—a story that enraptured the audience to the point that during the priestess’s pauses the rustle of leaves could be heard as a light breeze whispered among the trees.

Of course, the testimony of the priestess was further exaggerated as her speech was given in Ministrian and had to be interpreted for the jury and crowd. Indeed, Wenifas had to stop several times as she told of her dead boy—and the interpreter also had to pause as she too cried over the child. There were such pauses between her and the interpreter that birds could be heard across the square!

Meriona glared at the two, disgusted by the kvetching. She felt that Claiten’s story was completely unfair and should not have been allowed, since it had absolutely nothing to do with the defendants! His death was in no way the fault of the Jay or the Jaded Blades! Indeed, they were prisoners when the child was killed! Still, Meriona realized it’d only make her look heartless if she challenged the doe-eyed priestess with such pedantic details.

Fair or not, the impassioned pleas of the priestess caused quite a stir, especially after the matter-of-fact testimony provided by the militiamen. The cynical side of the Jay had to admit that it was a smashing good piece of theater—though it meant that the lowly heifer had possibly defeated her twice in court?! How appalling was that?!

Eventually, the weepy and near hysteric testimony of Wenifas ended. The crowd whispered and counseled among themselves as they waited for the next witness to be called.

Noting an opportunity, the messy-haired juror launched to his feet with more vitriol for the accused. “HANG 'EM!” he demanded. “HANG EACH AND EVERY ONE!” He roared. “FEED THEIR EYES TO THE RAVENS! REDUCE THEIR BONES TO ASH AND SCATTER IT ON THE ROAD!” He screamed as the peacekeepers tried to settle him down.

The crowd reacted accordingly. Once again, they took up the chant. “Haannngggg 'em! Haannngggg 'em! Haannngggg em!” they sang as the juror encouraged them with wild waving arms. “HANG ‘EM!” he roared in the faces of the ever-patient peacekeepers. “HANG ‘EM!”

Several of the other jurors joined the first—though half remained disinterested—or simply oblivious. The drunk did not include himself—though he was now wide awake. He stared about the others, frightened and disoriented by the noise, as if he was the subject of their vitriol. Then, as he realized the noise had nothing to do with him, he curled into an uncomfortable pretzel and once more covered himself with his cloak.

The efforts of the bailiff and his peacekeepers was proving fruitless. Meriona worried that the mob might charge the stage and have whatever justice they might take. Since the firm stance and frowns were not working, the bailiff finally smashed the blunt end of his staff against the floor of the platform, which responded with an echoing boom, then roared at the petulant jurors and the boisterous crowd. “SILENCE!” he bellowed, and stared down the more obnoxious elements.

The uproar died down. though a few errant calls of “Haannngggg em!” continued for several more seconds—before they dwindled and finally died away altogether.

The bailiff turned and addressed Meriona and her men. “Will the accused speak on their own behalf?" He asked. The advisor looked at the men and woman he was supposed to inform and simply offered up a shrug. He would be no help at all.

Knowing only that they were addressed, Naiphan and Bruck waited for Meriona to interpret. When she did, Bruck stood up immediately. “We did not do it!” he called to the crowd. “We are guiltless!”

Several members of the audience hissed and booed to hear his denial, and most the rest joined in this response, once his words were translated.

“What about the duke?!” Naiphan roared, then turned and poked Meriona. “You speak their language,” he noted. “Ask them about the duke! Why don’t they bring the royal into this?”

At that moment, Meriona spotted the duke, and the last of her hope drained away as she noted his company. Along with the shaman and one of his bodyguards, there was a thick knot of well-heeled individuals. They looked wealthy and powerful, as they stared disappointment at the Ministrians. Meriona shook her head. “It’ll do us no good to say that it was not the priestess we wanted to kill, but another man altogether.”

“But it proves they are liars,” Naiphan pointed.

“Not if we also wanted to kill the priestess,” Meriona replied.

“Who wanted to kill the priestess?” Bruck said.

Naiphan shook his head, then stared at Meriona. “She always had her own agenda,” he realized.

“So what if I want to kill her,” she snapped. “The duke was always our primary target!”

Naiphan shook his head. “A second target changes everything!” he scolded.

Meriona stared back. “How does it change anything at all?! You never listened to anything I had to say anyway!” she noted.

Naiphan glared back. “Tell ‘em about the duke.”

“It’ll do us no good!” Meriona declared. “If you want ‘em to know, you tell ‘em!”

Still standing, Bruck accused Krumpus and Creigal of killing Kezodel in his court. Then, because it didn’t cause any stir among the jurors or the audience, he turned on Meriona. “Tell ‘em what I said!” he snapped. “Tell ‘em in their own language!”

Shaking her head, Meriona finally stood and said what Bruck had said.

“We’ve heard much of Kezodel, including tales of his untimely death,” the bailiff informed. “But the things we have heard are different than the things you say. We are told it was a rock from the heavens that killed the man. There is much attesting to this.”

“They lie!” Meriona claimed.

“Do all our sources lie, for they are not the only ones telling this story,” the bailiff noted. For a long second he simply stared at Meriona, then turned to the audience when it was obvious she would not reply. “Does anyone have any further questions for the witnesses?” There were a few tepid questions that spelled out what had happened in Kezodel’s court as Meriona had witnessed it with her own eyes—but neither of the Jaded Blades was even in attendance—and the last of her hope finally vanished as the questions thinned and disappeared altogether.

“What if we should beg the court for mercy?” she began in a calm manner. “Since our capture, we were promised leniency for our cooperation, and we have cooperated in full. Now, we ask for the leniency we are due.”

“Then it is true?” the bailiff asked. “You intended to kill this priestess, and anyone else that stood in your way?”

“If we should admit to such crimes, will our punishment be any less?” Meriona asked. “If we should say that these others have given you the gist of it, will you treat us with leniency?” she continued, a touch petulant.

Bruck grabbed her arm. “What are you doing?!” he growled at the Jay.

“I’m giving up the game,” she stared back at him. “They know what really happened at Kezodel’s court, and since you told a contrary tale, we are painted as liars.”

“You must convince them!” he roared.

“And what convincing lie might I tell?!” she snapped back at the Jaded Blade. “They tell the truth, and they tell it well! Let us end this and have our punishment,” she said, and pulled her arm away.

The bailiff nodded. “If you admit to your crimes, I do believe the jury will offer you leniency.”

“First you get us caught. then you sell us down the river,” Naiphan glared.

Meriona rolled her eyes, then stared at the bailiff. “It is more or less as they have said,” she nodded.

A thick murmur washed over the crowd and the bailiff banged his staff. “Very well. Court is adjourned for one hour, so the jury might deliberate!”

The crowd turned to themselves, abuzz with the news, and surprisingly restrained. Meriona half expected them to start shouting for blood. She half expected to be mobbed—or that the peacekeepers would have to escort them away immediately in order to keep them whole—but she could not be more wrong in judging these people. Instead, she was escorted to a fine table set up in the square. The bailiff and the peacekeepers let people through, and the criminals were immediately sitting among a crush of commoners with plates of fine food, flasks of rich drinks, and pointed questions for the defendants.

Meriona and the Jaded Blades didn’t know what to make of it as a second table was provided for the jurors at a bit of a distance. Admittedly, a few of the audience sang additional bawdy verses of ‘Kill ‘em with Fire‘—but it was a slim minority, and they sang half-heartedly.

No. Meriona was almost more worried about the Jaded Blades, as they shot her dirty looks, while they ignored the commoners, and barely touched their food. What else could they do but glare, she thought, and decided to ignore the ineffectual brutes as she tasted several proffered items.

“What shall become of us?” Meriona asked their council between bites.

"Well, we shall take a break in the shade, and afterward, we shall hear your punishment.”

“And what might that be?” she pressed.

The cleric shrugged. “If I could guess at how these things would turn out, there would be no reason to go through such a long-winded ordeal, now would there?” he said, as he continued to be almost no help whatsoever.

The commoners continued to give food to the guards, and the guards graciously partook, then allowed them to pass, so they might offer some bits to the captives too. Seeing the quality of the food, and being quite hungry after the long and arduous trial, the Jaded Blades grudgingly partook of what they considered to be their last meal—as they were pestered with additional probing questions. None of the commoners were in the least bit violent, and few were rude, though the questions were pointed and revealing. Indeed, they treated the accused quite kindly—all things considered. Meriona wished that a few of them were jurors instead.

The amount of food given to the prisoners piled up. There was so much of it that Meriona began to wonder. Did they provide such a spread because this was their last meal?

The hour ended and the accused were taken before the jurors once more. Having seated the accused, the bailiff banged his staff on the platform. “THE JURORS HAVE REACHED A CONSENSUS!” he announced.

A cheer went up from the crowd.

“THE ACCUSED ARE FOUND GUILTY OF ATTEMPTING MURDER AGAINST A GOOD WOMAN THAT GAVE NO CAUSE!” the bailiff began. “THE PUNISHMENT IS THE WORST TO BE SUFFERED UNDER JINDLEYAK JUSTICE—FOR THE WISE KNOW IT IS WORSE THAN DEATH ITSELF!” he said to the gathered crowd. He turned on Meriona, Bruck, and Naiphan. “THE ACCUSED ARE HEREBY BANISHED FROM THE FREEST LANDS UNDER THE SKY, NEVER TO RETURN, ON FORFEITURE OF THEIR VERY LIVES!” he sentenced them.

“SINCE YOU ARE FOREIGNERS AND BORN TO BACKWARD WAYS,” the bailiff continued. “YOU MAY NOT RECOGNIZE THE TRAVESTY OF THIS JUDGEMENT! IT MAY SEEM A LIGHT PENALTY, SIMPLY TO RETURN TO THE LAND OF YOUR BIRTH! ASSUMING THIS IS SO, TAKE IT FOR LENIENCY! IF NOT, IF YOU WISH TO REMAIN IN THE GREATEST LAND THE EARTH HAS EVER KNOWN, BEG US FOR SLAVERY—OR EVEN DEATH—AND YOU MIGHT YET HAVE YOUR PREFERENCE!” He stared at the accused—as if they might actually take him up on such an offer, s if they might actually prefer death or slavery to going home…

A roar of approval went up from the crowd—though the bailiff and his peacekeepers ignored it. Instead, they stared at the Jay and the Jaded Blades as they waited for their answer.

Meriona turned to Bruck and Naiphan, quite pleased with the way things turned out. Although they still glared at her, they both jumped at the chance to suffer banishment. Meriona agreed, shocked that they might be let off so lightly.

The bailiff turned to the crowd once more. “SO IT SHALL BE, AND SO IT IS!” he said and banged his staff one final time. The crowd cheered as the the bailiff signaled to his peacekeepers to escort the accused back to their cell.

“You shall stay here until morning,” their council stated. “As the sun rises, you will be taken to the valley floor and released at the border to Pulbouge lands.”

Meriona, Bruck, and Naphan breathed a collective sigh of relief, happy to be let off with their lives.

The next day, they were led to the back of a wagon. Meriona wondered how they had avoided death with such a vindictive lot of imbeciles to decide their fate. To think her life was hers so long as she never returned to this backward land! It seemed too good to be true—the best possible verdict—except that Lord Commander Gliedian would surely be disappointed. There was that to attend. But what had he expected when he gave her four disagreeable men?! Chances were he’d have no further use of her and she’d finally get to go home to Tikatis…

As they were taken from their cell and placed in a wagon, Meriona couldn’t help but notice a throng of children that pressed close. Allowed to see the prisoners one last time, the children were silent as they glared. At first, Meriona thought they only meant to gawk and point. But once the wagon began to move, angry children streamed after them. “You have brought this on yourself!” a young boy yelled, then threw a handful of hard bits at the prisoners. Meriona winced and cried as something small and heavy bounced off her cheek. Indeed, Naiphan and Bruck also yelped and cursed as they were stung by similar objects.

Meriona glanced down to see what it was these children threw at them. They were coins. She picked one up. Yes, decorative coins. Made of steel? She’d never seen coins of steel…

…and so a second punishment began in earnest. A storm of steel coins rained down on the captives and bit them in a hundred different places. Nor did it end as they passed under the west gate of the town. Instead, children ran after the wagon and threw coin after coin after coin. A few of them threw the coins by the handful—yet others were snipers, and launched them one at a time. The guards ignored the protests of the accused as the coins pelted them again and again.

The barrage ebbed and flowed as the wagon bounced along the rough road for over a mile. Meriona thanked the gods that she had got on first, and could hide most of herself—especially her face—behind Naiphan and Bruck.

The wagon pulled further and further from Excergie. The crowd of children dwindled as they ran out of coins. Eventually, they faded away altogether. As it ended, Meriona looked at her co-conspirators, dotted with red welts, and noticed they were as shocked as she was by the rough and strange treatment. Then she noticed a small sea of coins that washed across the floor of the wagon. “Oi!” she called to one of the guards as they continued down the road. “Who keeps all this?!” she asked.

The peacekeeper shook his head. “It is bad luck for any but the accused to take that coin. Indeed, it is your reward for providing the morning’s entertainment,” he told them.

Meriona's eyes were wide as she wondered at the wealth that swam about her feet. “I've never seen such a coin,” she said as she held up a steel bit. “What is it worth?”

“It is ten to one from that to the large, and ten of the large is equal to one copper bit,” the peacekeeper informed. “I imagine all of this is enough for a few nights lodging and food. Indeed, if you are frugal, and the children were generous, it may see you all the way back to Ebertin.”

The wagon continued for hours, back down the pass, to the swampy edge of the lake. Once more on level ground, the wagon stopped. Meriona, Bruck, and Naiphan were given time to gather the steel coin, which was heavy indeed. The guards had several cloth sacks for the accused, so they had something to carry the mass of metal. Then, once the coins were gathered, the Ministrians were shooed away.

The peacekeepers stood and watched as Meriona and her two remaining throat-cutters continued west toward Ebertin, and finally passed out of view, with the burden of steel on their backs.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 16.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

“So that's it?” Wenifas asked. “That's the last we see of them?”

“Quite likely,” Scurra shrugged. “The steel coins mark them as criminals, even among the Pulbouge. They'll be watched as long as they have it to spend—and they have nothing else,” she noted, since Duboha had confiscated all their other money, and had not bothered to return it.

“And if they do come back?” the priestess continued.

“If they return, if they are caught, they will be sent to the mines to dig coal, or to the bogs to harvest peat,” Scurra replied. “If they refuse to stay out of Jindleyak lands, they are welcome to toil for the betterment of our nation.”

“When do you hang a man?” Wenifas asked, her eyes cruel.

Scurra shook her head. “We do not take a man’s life simply because he threatens us. If they’d managed to do some real harm, there might be a reason to hang them, but these three did little besides get themselves captured. So they are banished. Is that not enough?"

"At Camp Calderhal, their were often two or three hangings all in the same week. It was not uncommon to see someone hanged for spitting at the wrong person,” Wenifas said.

"We are not like that,” Scurra shook her head. “You will see. You are now among a free and loving people. These lands are like no other,” she said proudly.

“Yet, you would make slaves of them if they return,” Wenifas noted.

“After attempting murder?” Scurra nodded. “It is their choice to return.”

“What of your brother?” Wenifas continued. “Is he not an important man? Are they not given greater protections? If one commits a crime against him, does one not suffer more?”

Scurra shook her head. “Our rules apply to all of every station, and so we find it best to keep few rules. We are not like other nations, with many laws for the many, and few laws for the few. Such hierarchies breed contempt and hostility,” she noted. “In Minist, the rich may rule and have more than their fair share—but they sleep with one eye open because they cannot trust those that they subject. You can ask the duke, for it is true of the kingdom too—only less so—for their laws are not quite as onerous.

“But not with us,” Scurra continued. “All are equal in the eyes of Jindleyak law, because equality breeds cooperation and community. If everyone is prosperous, then who is left to envy their brother?”

the priestess's face furrowed as she considered this. “So there are no greater protections for honored men? What of those that have made your nation great?”

“There are natural protections,” Scurra replied. “If you injure a great man among the Jindleyak; his sons, brothers, and friends will hound you to the ends of the earth! If you are truly great; your family and neighbors are all the protection you could ever want—and if you do not have the respect of your friends, family, and neighbors; then how can you call yourself great?” She shook her head.

For a long second, the conversation flagged, as Wenifas considered these words. Celesi took the opportunity to add her own questions. “But how do you counter chance? How do you make life fair?”

“And who are we to pretend we can make life fair?” Scurra replied. “Today, fortune favors one man and dooms another, and the next day their roles are reversed. Our people understand that we are all subject to the whims of fate. We do not pretend to know the will of the gods, and we certainly do not pass judgement on unknowable things. If we have limits, then we work to overcome them, for that is the path to greatness. But we are not a people that cares for equality or fairness, as both lead to mediocrity. Instead, we want adventure, communion, and splendor! We strive to be as great as we can be, and do not mourn our fates. Is that not noble?” she asked. “Why conform to some base and low equality—that the rich and powerful shall never share? We prefer opulence, which breeds generosity, and leads to community.”

“Aye, it is noble,” Celesi beamed as she too listened to Scurra's eloquent speech. She beamed at the shaman’s sister, and longed to understand Jindleyak ways, that she might be one of them. Indeed, it was all very exciting for the former apprentice with all her plans! Soon, she'd marry Toar, and they'd settle and raise their babies among these new friends—and what a grand life it would be!

“Where do you find such jurors?” Wenifas asked, returning their conversation to the subject of the trial. “Considering that only two of them seemed to care about the verdict at all—and those two violently so—I was surprised by such an even-handed judgement.”

Scurra laughed. “We take the theater of a good trial very seriously—as you can tell by the size of the crowd! But you see, it is very much theater. The public jurors—those on stage with their dirty robes and rumpled hats—they are the least among us, and they give us the extremes of our arguments in a showy and self-important manner. The main purpose of such a jury is to intimidate the guilty. But they are not the real judges. Indeed, it is the crowd that are the real judges—always whispering their subtle councils and calling for a measured resolution—even as some of them chant for open violence. You see, mob rule isn't such a bad thing when the mob is educated and self-restrained,” she smiled.

“In the end, it comes down to general consensus. Solutions are proposed and counter proposed among the matrons and patrons of the village, and eventually agreed upon as the luncheon continues,” Scurra said. “In the end, it is the ponderous council of a well-informed public that decides these things. Those that are best respected, appreciated, and most loved are the ones that truly decide—while the others scoff, and call, and sing about oil, so we all might see the guilty sweat,” she smiled.

“And they were able to reach their decision after only an hour of discussion?” Wenifas marveled.

“Do you not see the lady, Excergie, as she stares at the jail?” Scurra pointed. “Meriona and her Jaded Blades were judged long before they ever took the stage. They were being judged as soon as they were arrested. As for the ‘jurors’,” Scurra continued. “The jurors of the box are found in the streets. They are not wanderers, or simple men of meager ways. Instead, they are the ditch-dwellers, those among us that refuse to help themselves. These fools bluster and make a scene to intimidate and confuse the guilty—but it is just more show.”

“The guilty?” Wenifas eyed her. “It confused and intimidated me!” she revealed. “It is only the even hand of the bailiff and his peacekeepers that kept me from crumbling completely.”

“A little pressure usually reveals a truer version of ourselves,” Scurra smiled. “It makes spotting an honest man caught in the crosshairs of civic justice that much easier. And days like this also allow the town a golden opportunity to shower a bit of love on the lowest of the low—especially the guilty.

“And among us, who are the more guilty? Is it the ditch-dwellers, with their petty thefts and minor assaults? Or a society that cannot cure them?” Scurra wondered. “That is why we dress them up, feed them good food, and beg their opinion. All of them: family, friends, neighbors, strangers, the jurors, the peacekeepers, the accused—for one day, we all mix and share our opinions—if only we are willing! You see, our theory is that every trial is a condemnation of us all. Crime would not occur if we were better, if we were more vigilant.

“Not that we ever expect to be without crime,” Scurra shrugged. “Just as there is no perfect individual, there is no perfect society.”

“Yet, you tell it as if this is the best of civilizations,” Wenifas said.

“Is it not?” Scurra answered. “We are not perfect, yet we strive! Even if the end is unobtainable, the pursuit is noble!”

Celesi nodded her head, sure that Scurra’s words were more than agreeable. “I like that,” she beamed. “I like it here.”

“I do to,” Wenifas shrugged. “Or at least I think I do. Yet, it’s so strange here. Take these houses. They are large and rich, but they grow fruits and vegetables in their yards,” she noted. “Some even have chickens, goats, sheep...”

Scurra turned to the priestess, confused. “Are chickens and vegetables so very strange to you?”

“No,” Wenifas shook her head. “But these people all seem so fine and wealthy. They appear rich, certainly rich enough that they need not grow their own food.”

Scurra stopped and stared. “And pray tell,” she began. “Why should they not grow their own food?”

“Only the poor pull food from the dirt. Anyone rich enough to own a home and land would keep such food in the back and have slaves or servants to pick it. And the very rich are rich enough that they can purchase all they eat,” Wenifas informed. “The Baradha never grow their own food.”

Scurra sighed. “Growing an abundance of food is one of the ways that makes us rich, so we can all afford such large and wonderful houses. But that is just another difference between Jindleyak and other peoples. We do not have poor to be suppressed and dominated. Instead, we are all rich, and we all do things to make ourselves richer. Besides, food mostly grows itself, if you know how to keep it; and the fresher it is, the better it tastes.”

Wenifas frowned, “Yet you say those jurors are homeless. How can you pretend to be part of a utopia when you too suffer homelessness?”

“There are always a few that refuse to better themselves or contribute in any real way,” Scurra said. “Even among our people there are genuine troublemakers. A few even have a fair deal of power and influence, but much of Jindleyak lands are governed quite to my liking.”

“Andrus says Hearthstone is the greatest city in the world,” Celesi noted. “Is it truly so grand?”

“Ah, the big city,” Scurra beamed though she shook her head. “Crowd that many people together, and you will always have troubles. For me it is all about the country; the towns and villages. Yet, Hearthstone is like nothing you've ever seen. In all the world, there has never been another place like it, not even in Old Tallia; before it was corrupted and devoured,” she smiled. “Ah, but you shall see! Before the week is out, you shall see for yourself!”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 16.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

For several days, Brankellus had turned in circles as his prey kept shifting direction. He’d turned so much that the train of ghosts that followed were now twisted and turned all on top of each other, so much so, that there was now a general confusion about who was leading—never mind that Brankellus had no idea why so many were following in the first place.

Still, the closer Brankellus got to Petaerus the more erratic his changes in direction. With all the sharp turns and doubling back, Brankellus might have thought his sense was off, if he had not seen his enemy riding across the horizon—while his urge to go forward followed the distant horsemen before he disappeared out of view.

Brankellus slogged through a heavy downpour—not that the water bothered him—but it was hard to see through. Twice he stepped from a height—and several others behind him—but neither was near as high as the drop in Rynth Falls. Both times he picked himself out of the dirt with a groan and trudged on.

He stepped passed the burned out remains of a house and trudged through an open field. He tried to remember how long ago it was since the burned out city of Solveny, since Rynth Falls before that, and seemingly an eternity ago, The Invader’s Fort. So much death and misery. And now to shuffle through the burned out villages and farms dispersed across the high plains. Had it been a week since the others started to follow? Surely not a month…? He began to ponder the meaning of a month, the meaning of a week, a day, an hour, a minute...

What was time? What was a second? A week? A century? How could he remember people and events from years ago, as if it just happened? Why were his emotions still so sharp and raw? Yet, when he thought of where his day started, it felt as if he was reaching into a long forgotten past.

Suddenly, Brankellus felt altogether odd. He stopped and stared across the drenched field, and his whole purpose of hunting the criminal, Petaerus, went right out the window. Instead, he stood and considered everything that had come before, from his first memories of growing up, until this very moment—as his astral form shuffled across the slick grass. It didn’t take long—just a flash—and he remembered back before the Ministrians, back when he was happy, growing into his life as a craftsman and father, then back to when he fell in love, and then before he even knew what love might be.

A churn of emotions caught in the ghost, as he remembered the trials and triumphs of his life. He remembered his relations, the things he’d done, and the things that had happened to him. Mostly, he considered the moments of bliss and peace.

Brankellus stood and stretched, suddenly relieved that the trudging had stopped. He felt that he could stay here forever and do nothing. His body creaked, and he could practically feel the frustration and difficulty slough off him, all made worth it by a life that he considered well lived.

Admittedly, he’d been broken in the end. He felt the finale was a little harsh—but as he stared up at the stars (which he could see despite the clouds) he recognized all the gifts he was given, and considered the good use he’d made of them. Suddenly, everything was wonderful to the ghost! Indeed, Brankellus felt like he was floating!

Standing straight, he looked down from the stars and turned to the other ghosts, As he stared, he wondered if there was anyone among them that he recognized. Had a couple possibly followed him from the Invader’s Fort, or maybe dropped out of the sky? Was it possible that he knew any of these others? He wandered among them and stared, until they spoke in their foreign tongue, and he remembered they were from the Saot town and countryside.

So much war…

No longer caring for the tug of Petaerus, Brankellus continued to search among the other ghosts, and came across a curious scene, as a large group of the dead were gathered in a massive huddle. Now strong and vibrant, Brankellus shouldered his way among the others into the inner circle.

There in the middle was a boy nearly grown into his man’s body. A good number of the ghosts were praying over the young man, as he tossed and turned under an altogether inadequate blanket. His shelter was just an outcrop of rock, and although the man-child was out of the rain, the wind of the chill night cut through him like a knife.

Brankellus turned to the nearest ghost and thought to ask if the boy was dying—but then he remembered that the Saot would not understand him anyway—so he just made the Trohl sign for mourning.

The Saot quit his prayer, turned to the Bouge, and repeated the sign as if he knew its significance. With bright eyes, he smiled and said in perfect Trohl, “the boy is suffering. We are attempting to bring him peace.”

“What can we do for him?” Brankellus asked, as Malcolm’s teeth clattered.

The other ghost shrugged. “Do you have no gods?”

Brankellus considered the question. “Where are my gods?” he repeated.

Less then ten feet away, a young woman was sleeping, nearly unnoticed. She also shivered and tossed. A lone ghost attended her, a pretty thing that looked a fair deal like her charge. The little angel snickered, then whispered in the girl’s ear.

In a fit of anger, the living girl stood and seemingly glared at the ghosts. She shook her blanket, stamped toward the man, put her blanket over the top of him, then lifted the covers, and crawled next to him. The boy started to stir as she settled against him. She turned away from him and pressed her back into his chest, then put his arm over the top of her and held it to her stomach. “Go to sleep,” she told him.

With a sigh, the young man relaxed into her warm form.

The ghosts beamed at the young couple, smiling and excited, gasping and giggling. “He will be a great man,” the foreign ghost said to Brankellus.

The little ghost that attended the girl pulled on his shirt. “My name is Serabella,” the little angel beamed. “That’s my sister, and she’s already great!”

Her gaze grew intense as she stared at the vengeful ghost.

“At one time, you used to be great,” she continued, her smile all but gone. “You have tied yourself to terrible powers,” she said. She turned to the others. “You are all down the well, and you don’t even know it!” With that, Serabella backed away from the others. “Look up,” she commanded and smiled once more. “See through your grief!” she stated, and lifted her head, then shot into the sky with a mirthful laugh.

Dozens of the surrounding ghosts looked up after her. They lifted their heads and slowly began to float—or shot into the sky like arrows. Some sang as they were raised into the air, others were silent, while a few giggled or outright laughed.

Brankellus turned to the sky. He began to lift his head, and as he did so, the red light of Oblarra cleared a stand of trees and caught on him. A heavy voice rang through his head, like a bell. “DON’T YOU HAVE A MISSION TO FULFILL?!”

With those words, a fire lit upon his face. His left and his right cheeks burned where they’d been marked by blood with the sigil of Oblarra, and the mark of Scarad. All of the pain and misery Brankellus had suffered through this tortured life returned. He remembered the Ministrians as they took over his village—innocuous at first, which made them appear as if they all came out of nowhere.

Of course, they were not dressed as Ministrians, but in the uniforms of a Saot duchy. It was a grift, and Brankellus didn’t realize it until his family was doomed. He remembered the blood and horror of seeing his friends and family murdered or corralled. Those that were captured were slowly taken west to the slave markets of Tikatis. He remembered the prison at the Intruder’s Fort; Wils, Petaerus, and the blood and horror of his own death—all compounded by every skinned knee, stubbed toe, and poked eye he’d ever suffered. He screamed vengeance at the world and renewed his obligation to the dark gods. The sense of his prey settled upon him once more. Forgetting the young couple at his feet, he turned and marched east. He didn’t care if anyone followed—though a number of cold and vengeful dead kept pace—maybe half of those that followed before.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 16.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Crea woke early and refreshed, even before the sun came up. The storm had broke sometime in the night, and she was warm and comforted—until she realized that Malcolm was pressed against her back, with a stiffy pushing into her thigh. She pulled away and slipped from under the blankets with a shudder. To his credit, Malcolm rolled to his stomach and continued to sleep.

Something had shifted in the night, and for the first time since Crea left her family’s farm, she felt as if she had a purpose—a purpose fueled by a righteous anger, by the indignity visited upon her people, and by a creeping sensation that death stalked all around her. Despite her pains and losses, she wanted to live!

With a heart full of rage, Crea took the decorative sword she stole from the Gaur officer and attacked a nearby tree. Slowly, the sun came up, and as it rose, she hacked and slashed at the cedars all about. As she abused the trees, she worked up a lather.

Hearing her commotion, Malcolm woke with a start. For a split second, he thought Crea was being attacked. He jumped up, sword in hand—then relaxed as he realized her enemies were all made of wood. At first, he thought to go back to sleep. Instead, he watched the girl, flailing away, and decided it might be best if he gave her a few pointers. “That works against the trees,” he began. “But that kind of abandon won’t do much good against anyone that knows their own weapon.”

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

“Not much,” he admitted with a shrug. “But from the looks of it, I know a fair bit more than you.”

Crea huffed and turned back to the evil cedars.

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

Crea stopped. “Well,” she began as she stared at the young postman. “If that is not the way of it, how should I continue?”

“Go slow to go fast,” he said. “Study your weapon. Swing it about without trying to do any damage. Feel its weight and balance. Study how it moves.”

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

“Here,” Malcolm approached, offering his own sword. “Swing this one about, and feel how it is different. Heavier yes? With a balance more to the handle?”

“Okay,” she agreed.

“Now, the weight of that falchion is more toward the point, in the heavy curve. See? It is harder to change the swing, but has more momentum.”

Crea nodded.

“Now yours is more a slashing weapon, with one sharp edge—though it has a decent point—while mine is a piercing weapon. Yes, the edges are sharp, but the point is the point,” Malcolm explained.

“Does that make yours better?” Crea asked.

“It makes it different,” Malcolm shrugged. “It is more dangerous perhaps, but also more tiring. It’s better for me, because I can heft it, and practice with it often. For you? Perhaps it is just heavier.”

“Well, I thank you for your notes,” Crea said as she put her sword in it’s sheath. “But now that you are up, perhaps it is best if we are on our way. Then we can talk about this as we walk. After all, we have a long way to go.”

“And how far do you think we are from High Plains?” Malcolm asked her. “Two, three more days at the most?”

“Perhaps we shall never know,” Crea replied. “Perhaps it is better if we make straight for Land’s End.”

“Land’s End?!” Malcolm’s heart skipped a beat. He thought to argue, but realized he’d be arguing against his own best interest. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder why she’d prefer a straight road when only yesterday she’d been set on going to High Plains first. Whatever her reason, he decided to let her have her way. She was bound to get it anyway.

For her part, Crea didn’t feel like explaining. She didn’t want to tell him of the dream she had that woke her early. She didn’t want to speak of a newfound dread of High Plains that sat in her gut. She wasn’t afraid for the town, only herself. Something was telling her not to go there. Besides, what did she have in High Plains? Her home was in Solveny; and the home of her family—the family farm—was also gone. Now, any one place was very much as good as the next.

As for the ghost of Serabella, she had returned from the sky, intent on following her sister for a while longer. It was good that she’d convinced her sister to stay away from High Plains, as going there would have been a death sentence—but that was just the start of Crea’s difficulties. Stuck on the other side, Serabella whispered to her sister that it was best if she showed the fancy sword, knowing that if she covered the weapon, Crea would drift in her own malaise, her troubles only compounding—but if the sword was left to view, it would forge its own path and carry her with it. She played on her sister’s vanity, and begged her to show the world the falchion she had taken from the second man that meant to defile her.

So it was that Crea wore Creigal’s sword at her hip, instead of rolling it among the blankets she carried, as she had initially done. Serabella smiled, quite happy that her sister had listened. And now, with a bit of time, the sword would drag her down a different path—though it would still be one of difficulties—but there’d be no avoiding that!

Shifting Allegiance

Polished 17.5 and gave a brief mention of Azra — 26m59s — 2023/10/22

Polished 17.1 through 17.5 — 48m40s — 2023/12/27

Polished 17.6 — 10m11s — 2023/12/28

Scurra skipped up the steps, strangely energetic and unusually chipper. Her usual mood was dour, but there were good reasons to be rather pleased with herself. She had several good nights sleep all in a row—in part because of her brother—and she’d recovered quite well from the strains of the fight with the naga and the leviathan. She hadn’t suffered much anyway—some light bruising and scrapes from crashing through the tree after the leviathan plucked it out from underneath her—but somehow she managed to stick the landing, barely bruising the one foot! On top of that, the trial with the Jay had gone as well as could be expected, so there was now an entire city between her and those hateful Jaded Blades, which was quite a comforting thought. And finally—although it cost them the lives of Saleos and Claiten—she’d been vindicated in her warning, and everyone was treating her with newfound appreciation. Still, it was unusual that she should be so demonstrably happy when she knew she was going to pick a fight with her brother—and she wasn’t even mad at him!

Scurrae found Krumpus right where she expected him, in front of the door to Komotz’s room. He slept in a large plush chair in the hall, blocking the way. As she approached, his eyes opened and Krumpus sat up to greet her.

Scurra stopped, put her hands on her hips, and turned immediately sour. “I want to see Komotz,” she demanded.

Krumpus stared at her for a long second, then gave a nod. Slowly, he pulled himself out of his seat with a yawn, and said, it’s Giscelda’s watch anyway, as he stepped down the hall, determined to find his own bed.

Well, that had was much easier than she expected! Scurra pushed the chair aside, then slowly opened the door to Komotz’s room. The room was bright, and the windows were open to let in the crisp morning air. There was a chair between her and the bed. An old lady with spindly limbs, and tight curls craned her neck over her book. “He’s as peaceful as he’s ever been, don’t you dare bother him!” she whispered.

“I just want to see him,” she smiled.

“Oh,” Giscelda blinked. “If it isn’t the dreamer!” she smiled. “Come in—but you must be very quiet! This is the best sleep he’s had!”

“Can I talk to him?”

“Keep it low. You mustn’t disturb him much. He managed to put down some food, and he’s been out for hours! I’d prefer to give him several more!”

Scurra smiled. She turned to the bed and could see nothing but his face and head. For a long second, she could pretend Komotz was well on his way to recovery. There were several long scratches down his face—a softening pink that glistened with ointment—but then she also noticed his thin and sallow countenance, which heralded greater concerns. “What’s wrong with him?” she asked.

Standing next to her, Giscelda gave a nod, then proceeded to list off injuries along with what they were doing to heal the young man. On top of that, she listed all of the setbacks, and how they had adjusted their remedies of the last couple days.

Scurra was expecting some suffering—but as the list of complaints continued and twisted—she began to blanch. The way Giscelda told it, the boy was a patchwork of fractures, bandages, and bruises; barely able to eat, and finally getting some decent sleep—though he was still on an unsustainably high dose of oblivia.

Scurra could feel tears welling, so she reached out to stroke his hair in a gesture of sympathy. She flinched back as a sudden burst of pain erupted between two ribs. “Ow!” she complained with a hand to her side, as she backed away from Giscelda and her offending nail.

“Did you hear a word I just said to you?!” the spritely old woman glared up at the younger lady. “I just told you how vital it is that he not be disturbed, and gave you a laundry list of concerns—including lacerations on his scalp—and you think to disturb him?!”

Scurra shied away and shook her head. The tears appeared in her eyes. “I just need to touch him,” she begged.

With a sour face and a tsk, Giscelda beaconed Scurra to follow. She walked around the far side of the bed, then rolled back the blanket and revealed a bare shoulder. “It you must, this is one of the few bits of clear real estate on the poor boy.”

Scurra put her hand on his shoulder, then began to tell him about the trial. When she started getting into the nitty-gritty of what had happened, and how it made her feel, she noticed his pained and laborious breathing. Suddenly, the great victory over the Jay felt hollow and unimportant. Lamely, she closed her story only half told, covered her cousin’s good shoulder, and begged off, as if she suddenly remembered something pressing. She stepped from the room, then pulled the chair back into the middle of the hallway, so others would be less inclined to bother her cousin. She held her hands to her face and willed herself not to cry.

After a minute of such willful coaching, Scurra decided to go to the kitchen in hopes of finding something sweet; something to take her mind off the condition of Komotz, something to distract her from the sad state of the boy. That’s when Duboha found her.

“We have an issue,” he began. “The boy is beginning to stink,” he began. “Will you come and talk to the priestess with me?”

Scurra and Duboha sought out Wenifas, that they might ask if they should cremate or bury the boy. When Duboha mentioned the lost child to the priestess, the color drained from her face. He continued to talk, and the priestess agreed that a pyre would be appropriate, so they took the corpse to a nearby ridge that overlooked Excergie and was often used for such purposes.

The other survivors attended, short only the brothers Komotz and Homoth. Homoth was in Hearthstone, while the younger brother would not be out of his bed for some time.

The sun’s light was fading. Stars were beginning to dot the sky. The shroud wrapped about the body of Claiten had disappeared long ago, invisible behind the blinding light of the flames. Caught in her feels, Wenifas held Evereste, as the mighty fire belched sparks into the night. The others stood solemn—except for the babe. Evereste was as happy and burbling as ever—in absolute contrast to everyone else that was gathered. Evereste stared at the fire, her hands stretched out to the twisting flames, as she cooed and squealed at the dancing light.

Despite the outbursts, Wenifas preferred the child happy. What other reason did she have to go on? She was lost in this world. Utterly lost. She had hoped for a new beginning when she’d followed her good friend, Delonias, to the east—and when she met Derris she thought everything was going her way. But where were they now? Derris was dead, and what had become of Delonias? Had she escaped the camp? Wenifas could still hear her pleading and begging at the indelicate hands of Fedring. Was death a blessing to her old friend?

Claiten, Delonias, and Derris weren’t the only ones missing. None had heard word or whisper of Meu since she was swept away by the leviathan, disappearing into the dark clouds while wrapped about that wicked naga. Others had shared their concern and sincere hope that Meu was still out there—and Wenifas could see that the shaman and the duke both suffered from her absence—but who could say what had happened? Several had seen her swept away by the leviathan—but what had happened after that? Had she also perished?

Perhaps the crafty skin-walker was still out there. Perhaps, having lost the others, she was now making her way south to her daughter. Wenifas clung to this thin hope.

Despite her many losses, the boy was still the worst of it. Her pride and joy, her growing child. He was just beginning to show the kind of man he would be; inquisitive, dashing, courageous—almost too eager to defend his mother. She felt she had failed the boy and worried that she would fail her daughter next, as she clung to the babe.

Unlike the pyre that celebrated the lives of Apulton and Traust, this fire was a quiet and somber affair. The duke had no grand speech to give, there was no song and no dance to break the grief. There was only the crackle of the fire, the curl of the rising flames—and the inappropriate peals of laughter as Evereste tried to get closer.

Evereste: the baby with the undying fascination of fire. It was a miracle she’d still never been burned—yet, Wenifas knew it would happen soon enough. There was no escaping such a basic lesson. Innocence was forever shifting into experience; hard and sharp. How long would it be? When would her vigilance slip and allow the child the burn she begged for? Might it take a few more years? Might it happen before the week was out? And how had a fistful of hot bee’s wax failed to teach her the lesson?

Wenifas glanced around the others and realized that several were captivated by the child’s charms. Through her grief, she smiled at her new-found friends. She was more than happy to have the patient and caring shaman around, and was growing quite fond of both his people and their spicy food. They were as kind and generous as she could possibly hope.

And yet, they harbored the men that killed Derris. She didn’t mind the duke and the watchful dark man, but the native guide tended to glare, and the tea-drinker—well, the list of complaints against that man only seemed to grow! At least they planned to continue on. She wondered how long the duke and his men would stay with the Trohls and hoped that they would be on their way rather quickly.

The next day, Wenifas wondered off on her own. The others were debating whether or not they should wait for Komotz. Should they leave him in the capable hands of Giscelda, or chance taking him east? Wenifas couldn’t care. The particulars didn’t matter to her, so long as the youth recovered. After that, it was all the same.

The priestess found herself sitting among a meadow of flowers, as she bawled over her losses. With tears streaming from her eyes, she wondered how it could be that she still hadn’t cried herself out. It seemed that there was an unending sadness that bogged her soul down. Only Evereste kept her from curling into a ball and becoming part of the earth. For her part, the babe crawled and poked about the later summer blossoms, unwitting of the turmoil that seized inside her mother.

Eventually the tears subsided. A comforting numbness settled upon Wenifas as she watched the bees dance about the field, unconcerned with the lady that watered their flowers. But the pastoral sublimity did not last. Someone approached. Realizing she was no longer alone, Wenifas looked up to see Baet standing a short way off. She glared, frustrated that he always seemed to present himself when she least wanted to see him—that is to say, she never wanted to see him! So why must he bother?!

The Saot raised his hands in hopes of quelling her obvious anger. “He was a special boy,” he said as he pulled her son’s blade from his belt and held it gently before him. “I found this on the beach. He loved it and claimed he took it from the naga in Beletrain.”

“I know the blade,” the priestess confirmed with eyes of flint. Still, he was being nice, and so she decided to tame her fury.

“I was teaching him to use it—though I guess I didn’t teach him fast enough,” Baet stammered. “Anyway, I don’t know if you want it, but I thought you should have it.”

Wenifas took the offered blade and turned it in her hand. Since Beletrain, her son was never without it. She smiled to think of her son trying to gut the guard and cursing the man, simply for dancing with her—but that’s not how it went. Wenifas tried to gut him first, and almost managed it. Claiten only meant to finish her work. She smiled to think of it. He was such a loyal boy.

Looking up, Wenifas pointed the dagger at the guard, though she didn’t advance. “I don’t know why he liked you, and I don’t know what you said to him; but I do know that he went from trying to kill you, to sneaking off so he could train with you.”

Baet shrugged. “I just think he was lonely,” he stated, then realizing what he said, he backpedaled. “I mean, he had you, and the other ladies, of course. He just needed some male attention.”

“He had Krumpus,” Wenifas noted.

“The busted up shaman?” Baet disagreed.

Wenifas shrugged. “Is it possible that you were a better friend than I was a mother?”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Baet replied. “With all the danger we’ve seen, its a wonder more of us aren’t dead.”

Wenifas gave a grim nod. “Whatever it was that you said to him, whatever it was that you did, thank you. If your training meant enough to him that he was willing to suffer my wrath, well, then it meant enough to me to turn a blind eye.”

“The only reason he snuck around is because he thought you’d be mad,” Baet replied.

“Oh I was,” Wenifas nodded. “Still, you were his friend when there were few friends for a boy to find. I want to thank you for that. Friends were always a big part of Claiten’s life.”

Baet gave a nod. “He was a good kid. Given a couple more years, he might have been the right kind of terror.”

“Given a couple more years…” Weinfas wiped her eyes.

“I’m really sorry for your loss—losses,” Baet cringed as he stupidly corrected himself. Then, having said his peace, he decided it was best to turn and leave.

"How’s Toar?" Wenifas asked. Now that he had bothered her, she was not yet ready to be alone again; and despite her wonderful daughter, she was craving adult interaction.

Baet turned back to the priestess. “He’s up and about. He sees the world through a shake of pepper—but he sees through both eyes, so…” he smirked.

Slowly, she gave a nod.

"Don’t feel sorry for the lad,” Baet continued. “Between his face and butt, he has plenty of scars to impress the ladies.”

“Not everyone’s first concern is impressing the ladies,” Wenifas noted. “What of Komotz?”

Baet shook his head. “He’s better one day and worse the next. Some want to wait for him, and some want to leave him here until he can make a fuller recovery. He’s lucid at times, and maybe an hour ago he begged to come with us. Krumpus thinks he overly agitates himself with the question. Giscelda and the others think its best if he goes and have agreed to come with us to continue his care.”

Wenifas gave a nod, then, for a long second, the two simply stared at each other. She thought he should leave now—but before the guard could wander off, she reached into her robes and pulled out the musket. She held the weapon in her lap. “Celesi helped me load it.”

“I figured as much,” Baet nodded. “Toar admitted that he helped her load the GremSorter, but insisted he didn’t load Cloud Breaker.”

“Cloud Breaker,” Wenifas huffed as she stared at the musket. “So you are one of those to name your weapons?”

Baet shrugged. “They take on a life of their own.”

“The morning of the leviathan, I came over the top of the hill and saw Meu and that one-eyed naga all wrapped up. It seemed to me that he had her in a bad way, and my boy saw it too. He charged in and swiped at the bastard,” Wenifas choked up.

Baet nodded. “He weren’t no chicken.”

Wenifas shook her head. “No. His problem was the opposite. He was impetuous. He was young and cocky. He charged the naga, and the one-eyed beast dodged him easy enough—though he had to let go of Meu to do it.” A flood of tears came to her eyes, and for several seconds Wenifas choked up.

“Hey…” Baet soothed and hoped she’d continue. He was rapt to hear the particulars, since he had not seen much of the fighting at all. He’d had several versions of it already, but there were still so many missing details!

“I saw the blow coming,” Wenifas continued. “I saw it, and there was something I could do about it,” she lifted the pistol and pointed it at the sky. “I pulled this out, aimed, and fired—but I missed,” she gaped. “It missed—and now I think it doesn’t shoot straight.”

Baet shook his head. “It’s not an easy thing to aim a pistol when so many are fighting and dying all around you,” he shook his head. “And in such bad weather.”

“Either way, the ball carried to the right. I know it carried right, because I saw it hit the naga that sat astride Andrus.”

“Ain’t he the lucky one,” Baet nodded.

“I don’t mind that I saved the man—but it was not my intention. If I could do it again, I would let the Jindleyak die. I’d let him die a thousand times if it would save my boy—but there’s no taking it back.”

“You could only do so much,” Baet pointed. “For whatever reasons, the gods wanted your son.”

“But it wasn’t the last thing I could do. It was just the last thing I would do,” Wenifas replied, as she stared at the ground. “When I fired, the shot spooked the one-eyed naga and gave me another fraction of a second. I thought to throw the gun—but I balked. I knew once the weapon was out of my hands I would not bother to pick it up—and in that second I didn’t want to throw it because I thought you might recover it.” She turned the weapon over in one hand as she wiped at tears with the other. “I hate you so much, I failed to do the one last thing that might have saved my child,” she said as she stared up at the man.

“Immediately, I realized my mistake,” she continued. “I cocked my arm back—and it was already to late. There was a maniacal grin on that beast’s thin lips as he slashed my boy from hip to chin,” she wiped her eye. “Instead of doing everything I might do, I balked. In that second, the gods cursed me, and forced me to watch as my child fell at the edge of the water. I saw the light leave his eyes—dead before he hit the sand.”

Baet gaped, unsure what to say to this. He wished to comfort her—but he knew not to get too close.

Wenifas lifted the gun. “Here,” she offered, as she wiped her leaky face with her other hand. “Take it.”

For a long second he simply stared at her, unwilling to move forward.

“It poisons me to have it,” Wenifas continued and waved the weapon with contempt. “It didn’t help me when I wanted to kill the naga. It didn’t help me when I wanted to kill you. As far as I can tell, it’s worse than worthless. It’s cursed.”

Slowly, Baet took the weapon, tucked in its holster, and reverently placed the belt around his waist. “well, maybe it’s done the last of it’s killing.”

Wenifas stared at the man. “Would you have missed?”

“I wasn’t even there,” Baet shrugged. “Duty kept me with the prisoners,” he hanged his head and stared at the ground. “I like to think if I was, I might have been able to do something.”

Wenifas shrugged. “You did your duty. Is that not the thing to do?”

Baet looked down at the priestess and wondered if she knew that he asked himself questions of duty all too often. For a long second, he stared at the fine features of the exotic woman and wondered how he might make her most happy, then decided it was best if he left her alone. “Thank you,” he said as he waved the musket, then turned, and slowly walked away.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 17.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Paye found the letter on her dresser as she prepared for bed. She read it, somewhat perplexed that Homoth would be so nice, even though he left without speaking to her. The note said it was difficult to talk, what with the injuries to Komotz and the other difficulties of their travels, and he hoped she wasn’t offended by his reticence. But the small matters of years gone by was not his reason for writing. Instead, he wanted her to send the ornament that hanged over the mantle back to Hearthstone with the others. Over the years, dinge and tarnish had collected on the massive, decorative crest. Homoth said the sight of it in such a state had made his heart heavy. He wanted to polish it, and since their grandfather had not seen it in such a long time, he wanted to present it to him clean and beautiful; after which he would return it to Excergie. Indeed, it was a strange request, but Paye was eager to make her estranged brother happy, so she stood in the main room and stared at the heavy decoration, made with precious metals and pricey gems.

She thought perhaps she should deny his request. After all, the crest didn’t belong to him, and it most certainly didn’t belong to her. It belonged to the family, and it belonged at their house in Excergie. There was little use for it back in Hearthstone, where they had all manner of decoration. Still, her brother had left her quite a nice note, and she had not seen him in such a long time; so she climbed up over the mantle and pried the large ornament off the wall.

The metal crest was much heavier than Paye anticipated. It came off the hook with a pop, and promptly pulled her off balance. She would have fallen and dropped the piece to boot, if not for the helpful hands of Baetolamew.

“Easy there,” he smiled, as he steadied her, then helped her off the mantle. “Ma’am,” the Saot gave a slight bow, then turned and made his way out of the room.

Paye watched him go. There seemed to be more swagger than usual as he walked away. She noted the musket on his hip and wondered that she had not seen the peculiar Saot weapon before. He turned and glanced back as he got to the hall. A sly grin crept along his lips, and he gave her a wink.

Paye blushed and looked away—as she realized Baet was handsome devil indeed—then took the large metal crest and packed it among her clothes. It was time to go home. She only hoped the rest of her family would be as happy as Homoth to see her.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 17.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

The next morning, as they all prepared to leave for Hearthstone, a true miracle occurred—though it made Aim jump out of his skin. A massive serpent with wings like an eagle swooped out of the trees and wrapped around the priestess before anyone could do anything to stop it! One second, Wenifas was scolding her child for rolling among the ashes of a firepit, and the next this beast had her wrapped all about!

Aim saw the spectacle unfold. He saw the giant beast swoop just over the trees, as it beelined at Wenifas, then wrap itself about the priestess, and almost tumble her to the earth!

Wailing and sobbing, the priestess struggled to right herself, as the serpent twisted all about her. Cursing and sputtering, Aim pulled a blade and rushed to intervene—but Andrus grabbed his arm and stopped him.

“What’s with the blade, cousin?” Andrus beamed.

“The…” he sputtered. “That!” he finished and pointed at the wyrm.

“Yes!” Andrus gave a nod and wry smile. “She returns!”

“Who returns?” Aim asked. “What?!”

“The skin-walker,” Andrus replied. “The one you told me to watch,” he ribbed the big man. “Don’t you know that’s Meu?”

Aim frowned. “That’s not Meu,” he replied. “That’s… that’s… what is that?!”

“It’s Meu!” Andrus insisted. “Didn’t you see her when we fought the naga?!”

Aim shook his head. “I didn’t see anything like that!”

Andrus frowned. “How’d you not see that?!”

“What?! You mean with everyone screaming and fighting!? With naga, dragons, and a leviathan?!” Aim huffed. “I almost got skewered by a fish fork! If that beast was at the fight, it sure wasn’t fighting near me!”

Andrus shrugged. “So much for situational awareness.”

Aim pressed a finger against the sling that held his cousin’s bashed up arm. “You ended the fight on your back and had to ride here in a wagon! I made it through without a scratch!” he answered. He turned back to the winged serpent that wrapped around a giddy Wenifas. “That thing fought the naga?” he scratched his head.

“You’re the one that told me to keep an eye on her,” Andrus noted. “You never noticed anything strange?”

“Just that she was strange,” Aim shrugged. The big man frowned. “Meu’s a skin-walker?!” he repeated, barely believing it. Yet, he could tell that the priestess was in no danger—as she hopped about, stroked the curious beast, and laughed so hard that she cried—as she always seemed to be doing. Besides, none of the others seemed in the least bit alarmed. “Am I the only one that didn’t know?!”

With a chuckle, Andrus turned to the house and walked away.

“Where are you going?” Aim asked his retreating cousin.

“To borrow one of Paye’s dresses, so Meu has something to wear,” Andrus said as he pointed back at the serpent.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 17.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Everyone was excited by Meu’s return. Indeed, it was the big event of an uneventful day. After the initial heartfelt greetings, the company finished packing the wagons—including a tied up Maligno—and proceeded west without much to-do.

The Jindleyak decided it was best to take the duke and his men to the Trandhill Estate at the near edge of Hearthstone, instead of taking him to the City House, or the Yockupp Enclave, a few miles north of Hearthstone. Still, they had another day’s travel before they made it that far. Evening came. Camp was set.

As the others slept, Meu slipped from the priestess’ bed. She crept about, dodged the watch of Carringten, Aim, and Andrus, then lingered near the duke’s tent. She paused then scratched at the canvas.

She heard a body turn in it’s bed. “Who’s there?!” It was the harsh whisper of the duke.

Meu scratched the canvas again, then took a step back, on the off chance the duke should do something rash. She waited.

A few seconds later, the duke poked his head from the tent. There was a scowl on his face—until he saw her. “Oh,” he said. “Let me grab my pants.”

“Who’s there?” she heard Toar ask.

“It’s for me,” replied the duke.

Hand in hand, Creigal led Meu away from the camp. They found a jumble of large rocks and sat.

“I’m glad your back,” the duke nodded.

Demure, Meu feigned a blush, it’s good to be back. She licked her lips and kissed the duke, then allowed him to kiss her back, to kiss her several times and to hold her gently.

After being sweet to each other for a time, Creigal asked what had become of her after the battle.

After I got swept away? Meu smiled. Well, I thought I was dead. The beast had us tight and was crushing us, so I did the only thing I could think to do. I shifted to my stone form. Still, I knew I was doomed. Even in my stone form, that beast would crush me to dust as soon as I should be dropped into its mouth. But what else could I do?

When I flex into my stone form, my vision gets blurry, especially at the periphery—so I don’t know what Golifett did, but he managed to get the beast to let us loose—and so I was falling, she continued. As soon as I realized I was falling, I relaxed from my stone form, then it took me several seconds to correct myself and orient. Only then could I take stock of the evolving situation.

In one direction, I could just see the blue of the lake. To the other was the dark form of the sky kraken as it raced south and west—and between me and the kraken was Golifett. He descended slow and would come to little harm—a fact that angered me greatly, especially after what he did to Claiten.

“He fell slow?” Creigal asked. “How did he manage that?”

Dunno, Meu shrugged. There were long thin strands that stretched fifty, maybe a hundred feet up into the air. They twisted and glowed as they slowed his fall. He dropped softly among the trees, and when I approached, I found hundreds of these streamers draped about, dull and lifeless. How he managed to conjure them is beyond me.

“That’s a strange sort of wizardry,” Creigal frowned. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anything quite like that.”

Me neither, Meu agreed. But then, I’ve never had much exposure to naga.

“So what became of the beast?” Creigal asked.

Well, Meu began, a bit reticent. I found him limping through the woods, and I was still hot with anger, so I attacked—but he was prepared and quite wrath himself—the struggle didn’t go well for me. He lumped me on the head, then gave me this to remember him, Meu stood and lifted her dress so Creigal could see a long gash that ran across the back of each thigh, just under her butt. At that point, it was all I could do to get away, she shrugged. I flew high so he could not track me, then turned west to a rock outcropping, where I took to my stone-form again, and had a nap in the warm sun. I thought I should just sleep for a few hours, but I was so worn by my exertions that when I woke the stars were out and Oblarra hung high in the sky.

I didn’t find the ill-fated campsite until it was starting to get light. After that, I followed the road up into the mountains, then took another sleep during the heat of the day. I reached Excergie just after dark. I searched for several hours, then spent the coldest part of the night in my stone form, wrapped about a warm chimney.

“You did not see us during the trial?” Creigal asked.

I didn’t stick around, Meu noted. The next day, I decided I should follow the road east, since I knew you were bound for Hearthstone. I flew several hours, until I could see a big city that sits atop a mountain. Its a magnificent city, so I imagine it must be what these Trohls call Hearthstone. Still, I did not think you had made it that far, which is good, since I don’t think I could ever find you among such a crush of people. After seeing the city, I turned back around, and since it took me half the day to get there, it took me the rest of the day to get back. That night, I returned to the warm chimney that heated me the night before.

“You must have just missed the trial,” Creigal told her.

The next two days, I searched Excergie, and the surrounding farms. I was beginning to think I should never find you—but then I heard Wenifas scolding Evereste—and, well—you know the rest, she smiled.

“Well, I am glad you have found us, but I am bothered to hear that the naga still lives,” Creigal said. “Do you think he’ll continue to plague us?”

Meu shook her head. I could barely find you and I knew where to look.

“With luck, he’s gone back to Beletrain, and that shall be the last we ever see of him,” Creigal mused.

Enough of the naga, Meu said as she stared at the duke. Let us talk of what comes next.

“For you or for me?” Creigal asked.

For several seconds Meu simply stared at the duke. For both of us, she finally said. Come south with me. What are the chances you’ll find this thief anyway?

“If you would have have asked me a week ago, I would have said it was inevitable,” Creigal confided. “But then, the dreams have stopped. My daughter no longer visits me in my sleep, and I wonder if she didn’t bring me all the way out here just so I might meet you.”

Do you really think so?

“Yes,” Creigal began—then shook his head. “And maybe not. The last dream I had, she asked me for the impossible, and I rebuffed her. Maybe that is why she does not visit anymore.”

What makes it impossible?

“She begs forgiveness. Not for herself, mind you. She begs it for her worthless brothers,” Creigal explained.

You will not forgive them? Meu asked.

“How can I?” Creigal shrugged. “They’ve been at war with me for decades.”

Perhaps these dreams do not mean what you think they mean, Meu replied.

“No, these dreams mean exactly what I believe they mean, or they mean nothing at all,” Creigal replied. “Sometimes dreams are just dreams—full of confusion and fear—but not these dreams. Indeed, when I thought to question them, Scurra spoke of her own nightmares—and I was so opposed to forgiving my sons that I ignored her,” he stared off into the night. “We might have avoided the sky kraken altogether if only I’d paid her proper attention. If only I’d admit to my own dreams.”

If we’d paid her proper attention, Meu corrected. There were many of us content with our plans.

Creigal shook his head. “When I was a prisoner to the Ministrians, I considered quitting this hunt. It was easy to consider anything, since my fate was sealed—but the second I was freed, I meant to continue,” he turned to her and stared.

Say that you cannot find this thief’s trail, Meu countered. How long shall you search?

“I shall search until it is hopeless, until the dreams let me go,” he answered with a wan smile.

You say yourself that war comes to your home. Do you not want to be there to defend it?

“I was never going to be the one to defeat the King,” Creigal admitted. “That would take the entire people. If they are strong enough with me leading them, then I should think that they are strong enough with my nephew leading them. I am just one more man.”

If you come south, you can be with me, Meu noted.

Creigal sat up straight. “Now there is a reason to forgo my quest,” he smiled—then turned away with a shrug. “I suppose one never knows. Perhaps the thief came north only to turn around and go back home. Perhaps I will find myself returning to Gaurring while still chasing the thief.”

Meu frowned. You don’t believe that. You’re convinced this Humbert continues further afield.

“I do,” Creigal began. “I think he had a destination in mind before he ever robbed me. But then, maybe he is just running,” he shrugged. “I do not see him coming to Jindleyak lands, to live among such a kind and caring people, and I do not see him being foolish enough to go back home,” he said. “I quite suspect I will find him in Land’s End, among the Dunkels and their various attendants,” Creigal replied. “Why must you go south? Why don’t you come with me, wherever I go?”

Ahh, but we all have daughters, Meu grinned. One of mine is about to hatch her first clutch. I wish to be there for her, in the first days, when it is most difficult.

“I remember your song,” Creigal nodded. “What if I promise to come south after I deal with this Humbert?” He asked, and as he said it, his heart caught. Suddenly, he wondered, could he have the best of both worlds?

If he was forced to choose, was he sure he wanted to choose the hunt? He hadn’t dreamed of his daughter in several days, and holding Meu infused him with a passion for a more peaceful life. He hadn’t felt anything like this since his wife. Perhaps his daughter really did bring him so far north just so he might meet the skin-walker. Maybe that was the point all along.

Plans upon plans, Meu smiled. The more complicated our plottings become, the more tenuous our chances of a reunion.

“It is but two points,” Creigal argued. “First I find the thief, then I go back home. Tis not a very complicated plan.”

Well, I shall have my daughter and grandchildren to distract me, Meu replied. I suppose time shall pass quickly while I wait for your return to the Soat.

Offering up myriad possibilities to each other, they continued to talk, until it was the duke’s turn to take the watch. He relieved Carringten, then returned to the jumble of boulders where he left Meu.

They sat under the faint light of the Tears of the Broken Moon with Tristmegist high above, and gazed off into the trees. For a time, Oblarra was below the horizon, which suited Meu just fine, as she never cared for the creeping red light of that antagonistic Infinity—but it wasn’t long before the red god rose and cast her grim pallor across the dark land.

For a time, the couple continued to talk, until Meu ran out of things to say, then she leaned on the duke and rested her eyes. Before long, she’d fallen asleep. Creigal smiled and smoothed her hair, content to feel the weight of her, to hear her rhythmic breathing, to smell her delicate perfume—and as they sat, he thought of his quest. Not an assassination attempt, not a poisoning, or even the sentence of death had caused him to question his path overly much; but now he had a choice to make, and he hoped with all his heart that he’d not hear another word or whisper of Humbert, so the question might decide itself.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 17.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

The next day, as the party continued east, a rider bearing the colors and insignia of the Oak and Beast approached upon the road. Duboha introduced the grim old man to the Saots. “This is our cousin, Roustich.”

Baet leaned close to Carringten and whispered, “They have more cousins than the duke.”

Carringten shooed his commentary as Duboha continued. “…he has unsettling news out of the south.”

“There is blood,” Roustich said, getting straight to the point. “Bouge marauders have sacked the town of Solveny.”

“Solveny?” Creigal replied, curious to hear trouble for that town. “That is the county of High Plains. What trouble has fallen upon Yurand?”

“Word out of Land’s End is that Bouge marauders have sacked the town,” Roustich answered. “The marauders came out of Rynth Falls.”

“Rynth Falls,” Creigal shook his head. “I know little of the place. It is a Trohl outpost on the border of the Noeth., is it not?”

“It is, and I am not surprised to be hearing of it,” Duboha stated. “There was speculation that Kezodel was forming an army there—though nobody could figure to what end. He certainly wasn’t going to use it to protect the west lands,” he shrugged. “Perhaps they simply lashed out at the nearest Saot city?”

“If Kezodel was involved, then we can assume the Ministrians are also involved,” Creigal began. “If the Ministrians are behind it, then King Gred duReb would know of it, which means Count Drefford probably knows, and even the Dunkels are likely to be in on it,” he speculated.

“Someone was in on it,” Roustich agreed. “There were men from the kingdom that rode with these marauders. They bore a raptor as their emblem, colored red and black. I was told the duchy—but it was not one I recognized.”

Creigal glanced down at his ring of ruby and obsidian that bore the likeness of a bird, a kite, even a raptor.

“Gaurs?!” Baet shook his head. “We don’t trade in Trohl lands! Who’d believe we’re making secret alliances with a people we don’t even know?!”

“In times of war, sense goes right out the window,” Carringten noted.

“I mean, how is it that we are attacking the Bouge in the west, yet allied to them in the south?!” Baet raged. “This makes no sense, man!”

“There are more contradictions,” Carringten shrugged. “These Trohls strike south at Solveny, instead of going after Wibbeley, where their troubles truly originate? But why?”

“Because they are duped,” Duboha suggested.

With a smile, Creigal touched his nose.

“So a bunch of Trohls and Ministrians sack a Noethrin town under false colors—but to what end?” Aim wondered.

“Minist wants war between the Noeth and Gaurring,” Creigal surmised. “Minist always wants war—wherever she can get it—and Solveny is a perfect target. It is subject and very loyal to Yurand, Count of the High Plains,” he explained. “He has always struck me as an honorable man—but I had never thought he was marked.”

“Isn’t Yurand a bannerman to the Dunkels?” Roustich asked. “Why would your King and the Duke of Land’s End wish to strike against the Count of the High Plains?”

“Oh, Yurand is sworn to Land’s End,” Creigal agreed. “But they do not like each other. The animosity between these two families is well known, and goes back generations,” he continued. “Still, one finds himself with the alliances he has, and not always the alliances he wants—so although the Dunkels may not like High Plains, they will not openly attack the man. That’s not to say they won’t let the count be destroyed, so they can point the finger at me and cry foul.”

“So it’s all just a giant ruse,” Aim noted.

“It appears so,” Creigal frowned. “In the name of Solveny, the Dunkels will mount an army, drive it south to Gaurring, and raise a ruckus. At the same time, they will leave these meddlesome Bouge to destroy Yurand.”

“I see the sense of it,” Duboha nodded. “Land’s End means to blame this all on an imagined alliance between you and the Bouge, even though it is the Ministrians that are driving all of this. Then they can have their war with you, and also rid themselves of a bannerman they don’t particularly care for.”

“Such deception,” Carringten spit. “Truly disgusting.”

“Then you understand why we fight for our freedom,” Creigal replied.

Carringten frowned. “I’ve always understood.”

With a smile, Creigal put a comforting hand on his captain’s shoulder. “Still, we expect the war. Yurand does not. If Solveny is destroyed, he will not offer much resistance. High Plains is less than half its size.”

“Yes, but High Plains is a more defendable position,” Baet noted. “Solveny just has more people.”

“Had,” Roustich corrected. “It is said that quite a slaughter took place.”

“I feel for Yurand,” Creigal began. “He is a good man, and his people are a good people. I wish there was something we could do for him.”

“Perhaps there is,” Roustich noted. “When we get home, we will bring this to Azra’s attention.”

“And what will this Azra do?” Creigal wondered.

“He is wise and resourceful,” Roustich said. “If something can be done, he will do it.”

Aim turned to Creigal. “Do you think your enemies are simply taking advantage of your absence?” he asked the foreign duke.

“Perhaps our enemies think too much of me,” Creigal replied. “Or perhaps they think their Jaded Blades will be successful. Or perhaps they think I will not hear the news.”

“But you have,” Aim smiled. “And now their troubles begin.”

“Perhaps,” Creigal answered. “it is certainly another reason to go south—but perhaps we will have little to do with it.”

Baet studied his master. “Then you still hope to find Humbert’s trail.”

“We did not come all this way and at such a cost just to quit,” Cregial replied. “We are nearly to Hearthstone, and Land’s End is just a few more days. Let us answer one question at a time.”

“But war,” Aim countered.

Creigal shrugged and turned to his captain. ”How long have we been at war with the king?”

“As long as I can remember,” Carringten shrugged. “I dare say you were at war when you first found me as a child.”

“But now it is an open war,” Duboha stated. “Can you hope to stand against the other duchies of the Kingdom when they have the backing of the Empire?”

“The Empire has interests in Hof Hebrin, Borzia, and now the Trohl Freelands,” Creigal replied. “On top of all that, what makes you think they have enough men to capture Gaurring?”

“There certainly seem to be enough of them mucking about…” Aim muttered.

Creigal shook his head. “I do not see how the Empire can manage all its current conquests and still bring any bulk of men to bare against my home,” he shrugged. “But perhaps they think they will not have to. Land’s End has several armies, and if they attack us from the north, Gred duReb can pinch us from the south and west with his own forces, especially if he has the backing of Kelm and Pagladoria…” he shook his head. “With all that, perhaps it is enough to have a few legions of Ministrians to bolster their numbers.”

“His majesty shall have us on three sides,” Carringten nodded. “With our backs to the Breck,” he smiled.

Creigal shrugged. “By now the King must know that we do not war with the Breck. Indeed, I suspect he’s known for some time that the fighting between us was nothing but pretense. What are the chances he hasn’t sniffed out at least a few of our deceptions?”

Carringten shrugged. “He must know something.”

“Whatever he knows, he thinks he can win a war, and so he has acted against us,” Baet replied.

Creigal nodded. “I fear the fighting will soon reach the duchy.”

Aim shook his head. “This all seems like a lot of trouble for your king just so he can go to war with one of his own duchies.”

“But you see, he has to justify such a war, or he’ll make the other duchies nervous,” Creigal replied. “It is also a convenient way to turn enemies into allies—as he’s done with the Bouge under Kezodel’s influence. They believe they are at war with the Saot, even though it is Minist that presents all their problems. So they sack Solveny, unaware that some of the foreigners among them are painting an innocent party as the culprit. It doesn’t hurt if this ruins Yurand, since he is at odds with the Dunkels anyway. And then you also have the way it will be presented to the other duchies: Pagladoria, Ewile, and Kelm. My enemies paint me in a bad light, so although my peers may not support the king, they will not support us either.”

“Some of these other duchies will not join the King?“ Duboha asked.

“Well,” Creigal contemplated. “I could see Pagladoria sending troops and aid, even without such a ruse, but Kelm will need to be pushed.”

“What of Ewile?” Baet wondered.

“Ewile is likely to sit aside,” Creigal continued. “My father was a student of their queen, Smixsmaxmia, and I feel they have not strayed too far from her teachings. Indeed, if we should win this fight—and we do not aim to lose—we might see them also declaring themselves independent of the throne.”

“So it looks to be Gaur and the Breck against Danya, the Noeth, Kelm, Pagladoria, and the vast hordes of Empress Seveticah,” Aim summed it up.

“But at least Ewile will sit it out,” Roustich said, and shook his head. “Assuming all these duchies are equal, it does not bode well for you.”

“Assuming all these duchies are equal,” Baet smirked. “Does no one mind that we have black powder?”

The Jindleyak all glanced at each other sideways. They didn’t consider that to be any sort of advantage.

Creigal turned to the junior guard with a nod, “we have gone to great lengths to make sure no one minds that we have black powder.”

Carringten turned to Roustich. “Did you say these Trohls were burning and killing their way south, toward Gaurring, with Gaur officers among their number?”

“That is the word,” Roustich nodded.

“Do you think Banifourd and Garfindel might be among these marauders?” Carringten asked.

“I had not considered it,” Creigal replied.

“They seem the type to relish such dirty work. Especially Garf,” Baet spit.

“It does explain why they did not trail us, why they sent the Jaded Blades instead,” Creigal shook his head. “How did I ever trust such men?”

“One does not always like the alliances he has,” Carringten shrugged. “Banifourd was sworn to you. Despite open disagreements, he served you well and often. He was also at hand and known to have connections in the Noeth,” the captain stated. “There was every indication that he was the right man to bring.”

“Yet, he mislead me, and nearly killed us all,” Creigal noted. “When I needed him most, he turned coat.”

“And that,” Baet nodded. “Is how a good spy operates.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 17.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Naiphan and Bruck refused to carry any of the steel coins, leaving them all for Meriona. She huffed as she humped all five bags down the road, a good forty or fifty pounds of small steel rounds.

Thanks to the weight of the money, the two Jaded Blades were leaving Meriona behind as mile after grueling mile was ground under their boots. They were several hundred paces away when Meriona finally dropped the bags of near worthless coin and began shouting at the two men.

“Stop!” She pleaded. “Wait for me!” She called several times before they finally responded. The two men stopped, turned, and stood arms akimbo as they waited for her to catch up. Heads cocked, they stared, as Meriona slowly picked the sacks off the ground and stumbled forward once more. She was not quick about it—nor did they wait. She was still a good twenty or thirty yards out when they turned around and continued down the road ahead of her. She grit her teeth as she cursed their names.

The sun sagged as a smattering of clouds brought an on-and-off drizzle that must have lasted a good hour. The light rain was almost perfect in the way it cut the heat—though it didn’t pool enough so that Meriona could drink any of it. The lake wasn’t any better. The ground turned to mush long before there was enough water on the surface. Instead, she simply went without—which was better than getting stuck in the mud. At least the rain chased off the flies.

After the light rain let up, Naiphan and Bruck turned and began to shout at the woman. Meriona couldn’t make out what they were saying. Were they in danger? Were people coming? She thought she should get off the road and hide, except that Naiphan and Bruck made no move to conceal themselves. Instead, she hurried her steps as the Jaded Blades made impatient gestures. When she finally caught up to them, all they did was insult her. “Speed up, you dumb cooze, or we’ll never make camp before it gets dark!” Bruck scolded.

“If you’re in such a rush, you could always help with the coin,” Meriona pointed.

“You carry the coin because you’re in charge,” Naiphan told her.

“Well, if I’m in charge, then I demand you carry the coin,” she replied.

‘You got me,” Naiphan grinned and shook his head at the senior Jay. He stared her straight in the eye and added, “You’re not in charge,” then turned and continued walking.

Meriona rolled her eyes.

The marsh at the edge of the lake receded. Soon, the swamp was gone. There was now a dry edge to the lake, and Meriona realized they were approaching the campsite where the leviathan had attacked. “We’re not staying here,” she said, shaking her head. She had no interest in this cursed site.

“The beast is gone,” Naiphan replied. “It’s safe.”

“Last time it seemed safe too,” Meriona noted.

Naiphan smiled again and leered at her with haggard teeth. He turned to Bruck and chuckled.

Bruck also started to laugh. He stared between Naiphan and Meriona, then set his eyes on Naiphan. “What’s so funny?”

“Well,” Naiphan shrugged. “It’s funny because she doesn’t realize it isn’t safe this time either—at least, not for her.” With that, he reached out and grabbed her wrist.

“Hey!” Meriona jerked and tried to pull away—but the Jaded Blade had a firm grip.

Meriona dropped the coins—all but one bag that she held in her off-hand. She swung the bag of coin at Naiphan. It caught him in the shoulder and the sheer weight of it knocked him off balance. Then, Meriona kicked his shin and twisted her arm, which was enough to break his grip.

Keeping the one bag of coin, since it doubled as a weapon, Meriona turned and ran. She screamed as she sprinted down the road.

A bag of coin dropped out of the sky in front of her—then another hit her in the back and caused her to stumble. She lurched, corrected her step, and had just started to run again when Naiphan tackled her from behind.

“No!” she screamed. “Get off me!” she turned and tried to rake his face. A couple sharp nails caught Naiphan’s nose and his left cheek—but her right ring finger snagged in his mouth, and he caught the first knuckle between his teeth.

Naiphan bit down and Meriona could feel the skin breaking.

“Ow, ow, owww!” she cried, and held still, so he might not bite her finger off—but he did so all the same. Then, as she screamed and cradled what was left of her offended finger, Naiphan punched her in the face.

Woozy, Meriona opened her eyes. A fiery pain sang from her hand. With a gasp, she swung her left fist—but it was a clumsy blow, and easily turned aside. Still sitting on her, and with blood all about his mouth, Naiphan grinned, chomped her finger, and spit the pieces in her face.

Meriona shrieked.

As she screamed, Naiphan pulled back and smashed her in the face again. His heavy fist broke one of her teeth and knocked her unconscious. She swallowed the tooth so she wouldn’t choke.

Meriona was out. Naiphan tugged at her clothes, then took her in the road, as gravel scratched and scraped at her back. As he was having his way with her, Meriona came to and thought to fight him—but whenever she did, he simply hit her until she went limp again. Finally finished, Naiphan wrapped his fingers about her neck and started to squeeze.

Meriona was sure she was dead, but Naiphan let up when Bruck punched him in the side of the face. Naiphan stood and squared off against the other Jaded Blade.

“Slow down!” Bruck snapped at his friend. “I know you like ‘em dead. But I prefer ‘em squirmin’!”

Naiphan glared. “Well, take your turn—then the bitch dies!”

Bruck turned to Meriona as she tried to crawl away. She was a good dozen feet down the road when Bruck caught up to her, put a heavy boot against her hip, and pushed her on to her back.

“Please stop,” Meriona cried. “Please…”

Bruck tsked. “Still tellin’ us what to do. Still trying to be in charge,” he said. “Don’t you ever learn?” He climbed on top of her and she tried to fight him off, but she was drained, and he caught the stub of her finger in his hand and squeezed.

Meriona screamed bloody murder as pain shot up her arm.

“Well,” Bruck smiled. “I do like it when you sing,” he purred and pressed himself into her. “Now take it nice, or maybe Naiphan won’t have to kill you after all.”

Meriona whimpered as she tried to push him off, but she was too drained. Bruck simply jammed one hand into her face or squeezed a tit until she screamed. “If it weren’t for you always fightin’ and distractin’ us, we woulda had that bounty!” Bruck asserted. “But no. You gotta stir up trouble, and you got two of me brothers dead!” He snapped at her.

Meriona closed her eyes and cried.

“That’s right,” he said as he continued to push. “Cry for my dead brothers.”

Thank the gods, he finally finished. Meriona curled into a fetal position. She heard the scuff of boots approaching and expected Naiphan would either take her again or simply kill her. Probably both. She prayed he’d kill her first, and when his shadow blocked the sun, she even asked for death. “Kill me,” she pleaded.

Naiphan considered her request. “No,” he finally answered. “No… let’s leave her. What’s worse than the misery of being used and powerless?”

Bruck chuckled.

“Yeah, let’s leave her be. Then, maybe when she’s better, she’ll crawl out west,” Naiphan continued as he leaned in close. “Come back home,” he said in a soothing voice. “Come home, so when we see you, we can do this little dance again,” he grinned. “After all, you still got nine more fingers.” With that, he turned to leave.

Bruck approached, spit on her, then kicked her in the stomach for good measure. “Don’t be thinking you get to keep my seed,” he said.

Sucking air, Meriona heard the two men take the coin and stomp off. Finally regaining her breath, she relaxed against the uneven gravel, and closed her eyes.

It was dark when Meriona woke again—and thank Rauthmaug she was alone! Her dress was missing. She lifted her head, despite the throbbing pain, and searched for it in the road. Little did she know that Naiphan took it with him, then threw it in the ditch about a mile down the road. She would not find it.

Meriona was cold and sticky with her own blood; blood in her hair and eyes, on her chest, between her legs. Aside from the various pains left by Naiphan and Bruck, her biggest concern was a rock digging into her back. With a groan and her good hand, Meriona picked the stone and glanced at it, surprised to see that it wasn’t nearly as big as it felt. With a huff, she crawled off the road and rested her face on a soft patch of grass. She closed her eyes against the aches that the Jaded Blades had caused her and kept the rock, just in case they returned.

Deep in the night, something licked at the blood on her injured finger. When it bit her, Meriona woke with a fright. Not even looking, she swung the rock she’d kept cradled in her other hand. The rock bounced off bone. The beast gave a yelp and slunk away, perhaps nothing more than a coyote. After several minutes of staring off into the dark, Meriona put her face in the grass once more, prayed for death, and went back to sleep.

The next time she woke, the sun was up, bright and hot. Strong hands were lifting her off the ground. Thinking it was Bruck and Naiphan, returned to finish the job, Meriona kicked and struggled, which caused them to drop her.

“Well that’s a good sign,” a strange voice clucked. “She’s alive enough to fight…”

“We ain’t here to hurt you,” a second voice added—a soft voice—a female voice. “If you let us, we’ll tend your wounds and take you with us. Or, if you’d rather have us leave you, just keep fightin’, and we’ll get the point.”

Meriona turned and tried to see who was there, but the bright sun was blinding, and all she could see were two shadows. She closed her eyes, and this time when strong hands lifted her gently from the ground, she let them.

Homecoming

Worked on 18.2. Changed the first sighting of Hearthstone, and added Sephonie’s store — 1h02m42s — 2023/10/27

Polished 18.1 — 36m45s — 2023/10/28

Polished the entire thing — 1h20m15s — 2023/10/29

Polished — 1h03m26s — 2023/12/28

Roustich wasn’t the only one to join the duke, the shaman, and the others; as they traveled from Excergie to Hearthstone. A couple joined them right outside the town, simply headed the same direction—but they weren’t even an hour from Excergie before others came looking specifically for Krumpus. More arrived soon after that looking for others among the cousins. Indeed, the Jindleyaks were well known in the area.

As the hours crept along and the sun arched overhead, more and more people joined the growing caravan. Some of these strangers only stayed for a few minutes, walking along for maybe half a mile or so before returning the other way. Some came out to trade information, while others brought physical wares to barter. A few came to entertain: dancing, singing, and giving grand speeches as they marched.

The caravan slowed from a easy walk to a meandering shuffle. The crowd swelled and receded several times, especially as they passed through the occasional village. More friends joined, and Baet was beginning to wonder how many were going all the way to the house of Azra Trandhill—which is what the Jindleyaks were calling their eventual destination.

Shortly after noon, Elpis turned the cart onto a lesser track and nearly half the crowd proceeded down the greater path as they kissed and waved their goodbyes. Baet rode next to Scurra as they turned. He pointed after the mob that continued down the main road and away from them. “Where do they go?” he asked.

“Hearthstone,” Scurra answered.

“I thought we were going to Hearthstone,” Baet wondered.

“We’re pretty close,” Scurra shrugged. “Stay on the main road and even at our pace, you’d make it before nightfall.”

“Then we’re almost to our destination?”

“Four or five miles?” Scurra shrugged. “A couple more hours.”

There were several watch-towers along the road, often hidden among the trees, wrapped in vines, and hard to see. Many of these towers were unoccupied—or seemed unoccupied. Those they did see in the towers either waved as they watched the slow progress of the throng, or came to the road so they might have a closer look at those that passed. They exchanged pleasantries and hugs with the various members of the crowd; and also gaped at the foreigners, especially the dark man. It was still an impressive mob that proceeded up the valley.

They passed under a large iron gate, quite massive and sturdy, and with a most unconventional fence attached to it. The fence was made of large trees, thick with constricting vines and thorny undergrowth to close the distance from one trunk to the next. Much of this vegetative wall was fruiting. Baet stared at the fence, impressed by both it’s ingenuity and beauty. It was quite the wonder to see such a practical structure crafted with living materials. The various trees, brush, and vines were so intertwined that he had an impossible time trying to figure where the first one stopped and the next one started. It all made for a formidable wall—especially since much of it presented thorns. There were roses, raspberries, and honey locust to name a few—though there also appeared to be small breaks in the fence that an individual might be able to slip through.

“Don’t fall for it,” Scurra said when she caught Baet staring into a nearby break. “Some of those are secret ways through, yes, but most are dead ends, or trapped.”

“Trapped?!” Wenifas said. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“They aren’t lethal,” Scurra began. “Just embarrassing. I’d bet its once a week that someone gets tied in some crafty knot by one of the trap-setters. It happens a fair bit to the younger ones,” she shrugged. “of course, some get caught on purpose, just so they can work on ways of getting out—but even then, you have to be smarter than the knotter.”

Baet continued to stare into the trees. “I’m not so worried about the sneaky paths or the traps set between them as I am about the ones that are following us while still hiding in the trees.”

“So you noticed?” Scurra stared at the Soat guard.

"Sneaking is in my blood,” Baet answered. “How many more are out there, watching us?”

“Maybe a couple dozen?” Scurra shrugged. “There’s always a few playing wargames in the trees, so even when you’re playing with them, you never quite know how many others are about.”

“Let me guess,” Baet said. “More cousins?”

Scurra answered with her own question. “How’d you catch ‘em?”

“Your leathery brother. He did this,” Baet waved his hand and wiggled his fingers just so. “It’s pretty subtle, but I used a similar signal a few times in Rottershelm. We used it to ward each other away, to say things aren’t safe,” he explained. “Gave me a bit of start to see your brother do that,” he admitted. “Then I had to find who he was signaling, and catch my surprise when I realize he’s making gestures at folk in the trees,” he said. “So what does it mean, this sign?” he asked as he repeated the gesture.

“In Tallian Hand it means quit sneaking around and show yourself,” Scurra told him. “Some of them might, but the bulk will probably let us pass and pick up the old game right where they left it.”

Baet repeated the gesture. “Tallian Hand,” he said. “Sounds established.”

“Came from ancient Tallia,” Scurra replied. “Said to be a thousand years old—though half the tribes don’t practice it all that much. What of your signals in Rottershelm? Who established your own silent language?”

Baet shook his head. “There’s no name for what we were doing—just hand signals—made up and agreed upon by a couple dozen sneaks, spies, thieves, and assassins. We shared it with a couple drunks, several gamblers, and no few ladies of the best sort—though their reputations might suggest otherwise. We had hundreds of signals, though it’s been such a time that I might not remember half of them,” he reminisced. “The local watch called it sewer sign.”

Scurra snorted at that. “Sounds like they didn’t like it.”

“It was tradition to make up meanings for the watch, so they never had the right way about the signals,” Baet continued. “Of course, not everyone could keep the lies straight, and so the truth got muddled. There was plenty of disagreement even among some of the more polished practitioners about what meant what. It was best not to trust it unless one had prior conversations about the signals to be used, and just what they meant,” he finished with a shrug.

Beyond the verdant fence, the valley thinned and spread as it gently twisted east and north. A small stream drifted back and forth across the valley, crossed by sturdy bridges. There were several places where the stream spread into pools. Some were occupied. Footpaths forked from the road and cut through fields of thick vegetation. The trees were neat and often formed in curious patterns. There were long, elaborate beds of greens and spices at the edge of the stream, which was also crowded with cottonwoods, sycamores, willows, and a dozen other variety of trees. Many were productive. He recognized apple, peach, walnut—but most of the fruits were strange to him. Indeed there were many others that the guard could not identify, although the fruit often looked and smelled appetizing. Indeed, several proved quite tasty, as he was encouraged to take samples.

“Not that one,” Scurra cautioned. “That one is strictly for the birds. Here, try this instead.”

There were also grapes among these mixed groves, growing directly into the branches of the trees. There were blackberries ten feet up, cropped over the sides of several small cottages, climbing the legs of the watch-towers, and also among the pillars of a large and finely detailed gazebo, with many intricate and artistic flourishes about the building.

There were other outbuildings that speckled the valley; cottages, sheds, barns, and smaller homes. As they continued up the road, the ridgelines slowly closed in around them; two knuckles of a slow rising mountain. Sometimes in the large fields, Baet would see horses, cattle, goats, sheep, maybe pigs—none of it was too surprising until he noted a number of massive auroch strolling among some trees and staying out of the midday heat. The incredible beasts paid the newcomers little mind as they chewed their cud, and lounged in the shade.

It wasn’t just animals. There were people aplenty in the valley. Hands in the field paused in their duties to stare at the new arrivals. Many quit their harvesting so they might join the crowd. There were a number of little ones that rushed among the walking horses. They had all sorts of questions to ask—even among the strangers. Several showed off objects they had made or decorated.

One young boy had just caught a snake of a benign and casual manner, a beast that did not mind being caught, or even being passed among the men; all of whom were quite appreciative to see the beast and treated it with a gentle respect. As Aim held the snake, he gave veiled hints to the boys concerning the snake they managed to catch, though he coyly evaded any further investigation.

The adults also had questions for the visitors—though all were asked in a friendly manner. Some of them asked of the strangers directly, and they all found themselves genially introduced.

A good number of the locals were shocked to see Krumpus visibly scarred, both hands and face. Many were keen to hide their surprise, and a few acted as if nothing had changed, though others addressed him directly. The shaman poked back at some of the interrogators, asking after their own injuries and scars. Still, it was done in a congenial and jocular manner with no real malice. Indeed, there were many smiles and nods, and also a good amount of laugher—especially since none of them were all that much worse for the wear.

Trailing a mob of locals, the party finally arrived at a collection of buildings a couple miles above the gated entrance. At the center was the main house, built of stone and sporting a spire five stories high. Although it was all said to be one man’s estate, there were so many outbuildings and cottages that it appeared to be something of a village.

A steward stepped from the mansion with a dozen or so helpers. He hugged his cousins, turned to Paye specifically, and said, “Your grandfather will be delighted you have returned. He has been quite pained by your absence.”

Paye blushed to hear it, but realized that since the steward felt obliged to say such a thing—well—it meant that it wasn’t altogether true.

The steward turned to the foreigners and smiled. “Welcome to the home of Azra Trandhill! He is most anxious to meet you and hopes you will join him out back for some light refreshments. However, since you have been some time on the road, we suspect you’d prefer to see your rooms and the bath house first.”

“Thank you,” Creigal said as he dismounted. He took his saddle bags and his sword, then gave his reigns to a valet, and followed the steward into a barrack house. Elpis, Andrus, Homoth, and Paye left them for the main house—but several of the Jindleyaks came with the foreigners, those that did not keep residence in the main house: Duboha, Aim, Krumpus, and Scurra. Each was given a key to a neat little room, with a bed and a desk. After they had put their stuff in the rooms, they were shown to the baths.

The baths were extravagant to the same degree that the bunk house was spartan. Some of the baths were outside, while others were housed in an elaborate structure on the bank of the river. The pools were all lined with tile and neat rock. Many of the tubs were heated. They varied in temperature from as cold as the river, to as hot as a man could stand. “These are nice,” Baet breathed as he settled into a smaller pool, warm and unoccupied. They didn’t stay nearly as long as he might of liked—but then—they were expected.

In the backyard, there was food and drink aplenty. The company was introduced to Azra Trandhill, a massive old man as thick as a tree. Despite his stature, the old bear grimaced and hobbled as he approached his granddaughter, so he might wrap her in a comforting hug. He held her hand for a time, and had several quick questions for her before he turned his full attention to the foreigners. Then he talked—and he talked a lot—but mostly to ask questions. He was quite curious to hear of the company’s myriad adventures.

As the adults talked, a number of children circulated among them with pointed observations and questions all their own. These interrogations were slowed by an assortment of cookies, cakes, fruits, punches, and such. The children laughed, poked each other, and played to the far reaches of the lawn—only to to return and pilfer another handful of sweets from the desert table. They’d ask another round of superficial questions to the newcomers while picking apart their pastries. Then, once the cakes were finished, they disappeared to the far corners of the yard, to rub the stickiness off their hands, onto the grass, or one another’s clothes. These young rapscallions were most curious about the dark man—but Carringten kept all but the bravest at bay with the slightest touch of a scowl—a maneuver that only added to his intrigue and mystique.

For a long time, Azra talked to Creigal of the duke’s quest, and also of his home. The Saot and the Trohl both spoke affably, though they did so in Ministrian—which intrigued Toar to no end. He found it fascinating that these two congenial gentlemen found peace while speaking the language of a common enemy. A consummate host, Azra pledged his house and plenty to the duke and his men. In return, Creigal assured that he would not stay long, and promised restitution. After a couple hours, Azra begged off, and left the duke to his leisure, so he might attend other responsibilities.

Slowly, the gathering broke up. Roustich took his horse and rode for the city proper with a description of Humbert, so anyone that had been in Land’s End might speak of his passing. Krumpus took Meu and Wenifas to meet his wife. She lived in the next valley, just a few miles from the main house. Scurra went with them. Toar went to explore—as Celesi stalked after him. Creigal retired to his room so he might write letters. Aim talked Duboha and Carringten into joining some of the locals for a game of touches. Baet was preparing to return to the baths, when Paye offered to escort him back to the barracks, as Homoth stalked in the distance.

“Do you like my grandfather’s house?” she asked as she led him through a twist of halls and common rooms.

“It’s very opulent,” Beat answered. “It’s quite at the center of Hearthstone—though I expected the town to be a bit bigger,” he shrugged.

Paye snickered. “Surely you must know that this is just my grandfather’s estate.”

“This is just a country house?!” Baet protested. “But it is practically a village!”

“It is all just a house, a home to perhaps a hundred of my family,” Paye shook her head. “Although it is a very nice house, and there is a smattering of smaller homes all about the estate, this is not a proper village, and we are a minor spur compared to the great city.”

“How far is it to the city proper?” Baet wondered.

“To the first wall?” Paye shrugged. “Well, go back to the main road, and then its at least another dozen miles,” she said. “The fort is still a day’s travel, especially if one gets distracted on the way. But the roads are twisting, and the eyes can travel much faster. Would you like to see the great city?”

“Of course,” Baet agreed. “I have few duties until we continue north. Perhaps we can go one of these next few days? I think the duke would quite like my opinion of the place.”

“Why wait? Lets take a look now!” Paye stepped into the road.

For a half a second, Baet balked, thinking the town was too far away—but not wanting to contradict the lady, he decided to follow instead.

They made their way down the road and passed several buildings, then stepped onto a footpath that cut east through a rich field. The path dodged among the trees, then began to switch right and left as it climbed the eastern ridge of the valley. They didn’t hike for long before they crested the ridge—maybe half an hour—and the view was well worth the effort! Several miles to the east, and just a touch south, was a tall flat mountain. Approaching the mountain was a number of estates similar to Azra’s, with long lines of trees and patchy green fields. The occasional great house sat surrounded by a slight crowd of outbuildings. Then, as one got closer to the foot of the mountain, the houses and towers crowded in upon each other and jostled for position as they girded the slopes. Finally, at the very top of the long flat of the mountain’s summit, was a fort with a series of watch towers capped with flags of every color that waved and snapped in the wind.

“So that’s Hearthstone,” Baet said with reverence. He was astounded to see it and realized it would take an unimaginable army to assail such a city—especially the fort at its summit! “I should think no one could ever capture it—unless they came out of the sky!”

Paye turned to him, curious that he should say such a thing. “You mean, like the leviathan?”

“Yeah, or the dragons,” Baet shook his head. “Its quite the sight!” he smiled, then turned and smoldered at the girl. “I must say it’s the second prettiest thing I’ve seen all day!”

“Ugh!” Paye groaned as she turned away and started back down the path. “Is that how you get women in the south?! By comparing them to cities?!”

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

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

“Is it far?” Wenifas wondered. “Shall we take horses?” she asked, not really wanting to walk beyond the numerous outbuildings around the mansion.

“Not far enough to bother with horses,” Scurra said.

Krumpus stared at the priestess and asked with his eyes. Maybe just long enough? he asked.

“Nah,” Scurra answered without hearing the question. “The trail sucks. You wouldn’t want to take a horse. If you need to, we can try with one of the donkeys. Either way, let’s get this over with.”

Wenifas noticed reticence in the shaman’s gaze, but didn’t want to address it with him. Instead, she went to the sister, since Scurra seemed openly critical of the task at hand, only going along out of a sense of obligation. The priestess leaned close to the archer and whispered, “Is this wife of his really so bad?”

Normally, the priestess wasn’t quite so forward, but Meu had given her a kiss, honeyed with venom, so she had the wyrm’s alacrity to bolster her courage. She also had the wyrm in her head, and since Meu was quite excited to go, the skin-walker rebuked her friend.

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

The path up the ridge was thin and twisting enough that Wenifas preferred to be on her feet rather than the back of some beast—but it steep enough that she found herself panting like a horse. Thankfully, they all took turns carrying Evereste—once the child tired of her own feet—which was nice for the winded priestess. She wasn’t used to such heights. She was born by the sea, and had always hoped that she might stay near the beaches—but circumstance had inevitably led her to climb ever higher in this strange world. She paused to take in the view and wondered that the distant ridgelines all looked like the waves of the Hebron Straits caught in stone.

As they hiked, Krumpus stopped several times, so he might gather his breath. At first Wenifas thought he too was getting winded, but after the third of fourth time, she realized he was stopping only on her behalf, and simply pretended to be tired. She was thankful to have the pauses without having to complain for them, but chagrined that he had noticed. Then, after a couple more pauses, Wenifas realized that Krumpus wasn’t breaking for her at all. He was using her as a pretense! She was just an excuse to stall! That intrigued and worried her all the more. Something was wrong, and for whatever reason, it was not to be addressed directly.

At the top of the ridge, Meu caught sight of something and paused in awe. A pleasant smile crept across her face as she stared on in shock. Krumpus and Scurra watched her expression and smiled at her stricken face. “Pretty neat, isn’t it?” Scurra nodded.

“What is it?” Wenifas asked, puzzled by her friend’s reaction.

Hearthstone! The skin-walker said in her mind.

“Hearthstone?” Wenifas crested the ridge and peeked between the trees, more and more intrigued by what she saw. “Naharahna, lift me from the pits!” she cried as caught sight of the city proper. What a sight it was! There was a massive fort at the very top of a mountain, with banners and flags whipping in the wind, and large buildings all about the sides! Indeed, it seemed the entire mountain was covered with dwellings! Only a number of sheer massive cliffs cut natural edges in the human works—but even the cliffs were dotted with mines, quarries, and lined with ropes! It was like nothing she had ever seen!

Still, there were several more miles to the base of the mountain, and Wenifas was not interested in going so far. “Tell me this cottage is a bit closer than all that!?” She said, suddenly worried that the hike was going to take the rest of the day.

Scurra chuckled then pointed toward the wooded base of the ridge. “Sephonie has her store just down the other side of this ridge.”

Wenifas blinked. “Down in the middle of the wilds?” she wondered, since she couldn’t see nor hear anything that might hint at a human settlement below.

Going down was much easier, though they still paused several times—only now it was, “to take in the view”. Once they reached the base, it wasn’t long before they glimpsed a simple building with a hefty door and a few small windows. “Is that it?” the priestess pointed between the trees.

“Non,” Scurra answered. “That’s just the store.”

“Curious,” Wenifas began. “Why would anyone build a store way out here?”

“Because it’s at a crossroads,” Scurra began. “That way goes down to the main road, and the opposite forks up onto this mountain. Go straight ahead and you will eventually get to the city,” she pointed. “And back over that ridge are several hundred of my closer cousins. Besides, Sephonie likes the quiet—and there’s plenty of that! No neighbors for almost a mile in any direction!” she smiled. “Come, come! You must see her wares!”

Indeed, the store was filled with a remarkable collection of food, camping supplies, and small comforts. “Oh my goodness! She has just about anything in here!”

Scurra gave an enthusiastic nod. “She makes some of it, like these tinctures. That dark wild honey comes from her hives. She also does some of the leatherwork, though the leather comes from a tanner that lives in my uncle’s valley.”

“And where does the rest of this come from?”

“Mostly from people that bring it to trade,” Scurra explained, then leaned in close. “A fair portion of what she trades is gossip.”

Wenifas blinked.

“She would call it news, of course, but there’s nothing that’s been said to that woman that she doesn’t remember,” Scurra shook her head. “And she’s got a mouth like few you’ve ever met.”

“How interesting, to have such a fabulous store, and to be so remote,” Wenifas said diplomatically, then wondered what it must be like to live so far from everything and still be known as a gossip. She’d always lived crammed amongst so many others, and valued her privacy so much so that only her best friends ever shared her inner most thoughts, like Delonias.

“Remote!” Scurra chuckled. “Remote is that way for three days, halfway to Gopi lands, sandwiched between the Untu Highlands and the Knife’s Edge, which is that ridge that overlooks the great lake before you climb the pass to Excergie.”

“The leviathan’s lake?” Wenifas asked with reverence.

Scurra gave an affirming nod. “I’d wager a king’s ransom that’s where the beast kicked up those dragons,” she frowned. “Thankfully, they don’t bother us much.”

Shortly after leaving the store, they found the main house, which was rather grand, even opulent, though seeming quite modest compared to Azra’s mansion. The priestess noticed that the nervous air of the shaman had increased. The sister was also stiff. Once again, she turned to the skin-walked and thought, this is not a proper homecoming.

Indeed, the only one that was oblivious to the strangeness of the visit was Evereste, as she sauntered among the bushes at the edge of the path. She smiled and blew bubbles at the tiny fairies that danced among the flowers and drank nectar in the evening glow.

With a gulp, Krumpus mounted the covered porch and reached for the door. He gave the others an awkward grin, then knocked.

For several seconds he waited.

He was about to knock again, when the door flung open, and a short squat lady appeared, squawked some question about the number of strangers at her door, then noticed Krumpus—as he stood beaming at her like an fool.

For a long second, the woman gaped. She turned bright red, then threw open the door and flew at Krumpus with a maniacal shriek. She collided with the shaman, drove him back into the tall grass, and slapped at the little man as he rolled into a ball.

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

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

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

How can you be so sure? the skin-walker persisted.

“She’s been fighting my brother for over a decade, and although they get a little rough, to pull something cheap would be be risking the coin he sends—and despite her complaints, she rather likes her fine house,” she said of the cabin.

“What about the store?” Wenifas wondered.

Scurra turned to her with a weird questioning smirk. “You think she makes much money out here? In the middle of nowhere?” she shook her head. “Trust me. Stay out of it.”

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

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

“Did you say it’s worse when he’s not around?” Wenifas asked.

“Well, worse for me,” Scurra shrugged. “Still, she don’t dare hit me, because I’d hit her back. She made that mistake a time or two. Still, she can be rather shrill, and I’d rather not listen to her berating my sweet brother in his absence.”

The fighting continued. Krumpus squawked and cried as he struggled against Sephonie. Yet, Sephonie wasn’t all that big. The shaman was stronger and wrestled well. After a minute of suffering her hollow blows, he had the upper hand—until a child barely old enough to run, flopped through the door of the cabin and flailed down the steps. With an awkward jaunt, the tyke finally reached the shaman’s leg, then shrieked with the fury of a banshee, and sunk her teeth in to healer’s calf muscle.

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

Another girl burst from the cabin, this one much older and larger than the first. Unlike the tyke, this one recognized her father immediately. “Pa!” she cried, then scolded her sister, and pulled biter from his leg. “Aspen, you git them chompers for your own daddy’s flesh!” the older girl scolded—as Krumpus howled at the savage wound inflected by his youngest.

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

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

Now both children begged their mother to stop—but the pleas fell on deaf ears as Sephonie continued to assault her husband. Suddenly, she paused in her cursing, and stared at his brittle hands. “What in the sweet name of Jeiju happened to you?!” She asked—then took several more potshots at the man—though they were no longer aimed at his soft spots.

“Sephonie…” Scurra reached for the woman.

“Don't you ‘Sephonie’ me!” she turned and glared at the sister. “He deserves this abuse and you know it!” she screeched.

“And you!” the vindictive little woman turned on Meu. “Are you the one he’s sleeping with?!” The small round woman glared daggers at the svelte redhead, as the older woman backed several steps. “You have the smell of a real man upon you,” she accused.

Meu backed another step.

Sephonie turned on Wenifas next and looked like she’d have at her too—but after one aggressive step, she recoiled from the priestess with wide eyes. “You may have the curse upon you,” she began, “but not by my man!”

“The curse?” Wenifas wondered.

Then Sephonie’s eyes fell upon Evereste—and the child gave the lady a brilliant smile accompanied by an energetic squeal of delight. Sephonie lit up with pleasure. “Oh, what a precious treasure!” she said, and scratched at the girl’s cheek. As the rotund woman made this introduction, Krumpus made the mistake of setting a gentle hand on her shoulder. She turned on him in an instant and started the swinging again. “Who are these people, and why do you only consort with women?!” she shrieked. “Even the baby is female!”

“Sephonie!” Scurra shouted.

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe we should go…” Wenifas pointed back up the ridge, toward the manse of Arza Trandhill. ‘If we go now, we can get back before dark.”

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

Why does he return to such a woman? Meu asked.

“My brother has always attracted the difficult sort. I just wish I didn’t get dragged into it too,” Scurra sighed. “But the ruckus only lasts so long—and likely as not they’ll attempt to give me another niece—before my brother wonders off with dreams of saving the world,” she rolled her eyes, then turned to the quiet house. “See?” she smirked. ”Listen.”

The three cocked their ears—though there was nothing to hear. Scurra put a finger to her lips, then tiptoed to the door, followed closely by Wenifas and Meu. They peaked inside. Sure enough, there was Krumpus and Sephonie, snogging, as their two children snickered.

Sephonie caught sight of the three intruders. She pulled away from Krumpus and rushed at the door. “Can’t a lady have a little privacy in her own house?!” she snapped. She turned on her children as they beamed at their reconciling parents. “Go see to the entertainment of our guests! Show them the berry patches, or the duck pond, or… something,” she carried off as she beamed at Krumpus. “Just—give us an hour!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scurra smiled, and said, “Yes she is,” to the little girl. She winked at the priestess, then gave Aspen a soft swat on her butt. “Now be a good girl and show us to the strawberries.”

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

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

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

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

Toar wanted to be alone. No. Toar needed to be alone.

Jindleyak lands were nothing like he’d ever seen before, rich and prosperous. The people were numerous, humble, and so very friendly. They were the type of people one wants to be around. Indeed, they were the type of people one wants to be.

Which was all quite bothersome to the somber wanderer. Their prosperity highlighted his lack. He wondered how he could possibly live among them, and hoped the duke moved on quickly—so he might go too. This was no place for a miserable, dejected castaway, he thought. He needed to be upon his search once more.

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

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

Toar turned and scowled, though the young lady ignored this sour act. For some reason, she never thought he was scowling at her, that the scowl was somehow for the rest of the world, even though he showed it to her plenty when they were alone.

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

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

Celesi glowed as she gathered a kitten in her hands and scratched behind its ears. The tiny creature grabbed at a finger and gnawed it with sharp, but wholly insufficient, teeth.

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

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

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

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

With a snort, she stared at him, suddenly serious. “Are you really so thick?” she asked and continued to stare for several long seconds. “You,” she finally blinked and smiled. “I want you, you dummy,” and with that, she leaned forward and tried to kiss him.

Toar veered away, and crashed back in the hay—so he might avoid her lips—as kittens scampered out from under his falling form.

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

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

“Of course I know,” she answered, her hand upon his knee as she stared back at the petulant guide. “I ask that you love me.”

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

“I’ve spent the last several years groomed for the sexual pleasure of my enemies,” Celesi stared back. “Although I’ve never known a lover’s touch, I’ve more exposure than I care for,” she settled several errant strands behind her ear. “I realize that a meaningful love must be difficult at times,” she continued. “I know that it will require us both to be at our best, but I am happy to devote myself to such work—to you,” she said as she climbed over and pressed herself upon him. “Don’t resist,” she urged and kissed his lips. “I win, you win. What’s not to like?”

“Celesi…,” he protested with tears thick in his eyes.

She couldn’t imagine why. Was she not young and becoming? She was certainly eager! What sort of a man would push her away? She wondered if perhaps she was not nearly as pretty as she hoped, as so many had proffered, including the duke. Were they simply being nice?

But she could not believe that! Not since Meriona had taken her in. Meriona was too cold and calculating, and had often made comments about her unusual beauty.

Yet, Toar did not find her enticing—and that was all that mattered.

“Please,” Celesi begged him. “Please love me,” she breathed and pressed herself against him, in hopes that his desire might swell. They were alone and she loved him so. If he wanted, she would have him now. She knew what she was asking—of the dangers it entailed. Indeed, she hoped he might put a child inside her, and then become the father that such a beautiful baby deserved. She kissed his lips.

Toar stared back at her, frightened and almost out of his wits. As she pressed upon him, he did not even pucker.

She could tell there was no interest as she pressed her hips into his. She could feel his frame beneath her, but all she felt was his agitation. Something was off. Why was he so full of tears? She pulled away. “What am I missing?” she asked, suddenly suspicious.

“I can’t!” Toar exclaimed. “I can’t be that man!” he snapped at her.

It seemed an accusation.

Something obvious and terrible was escaping Celesi, something that her mind wasn’t willing to admit, and she began to wonder if she really wanted to know…

…still, she pressed. “I don’t understand,” she replied, shaken, suddenly feeling like she’d betrayed and injured him. Why was he so mad at her—and why did she feel like she deserved it?! She knew he was hiding something—and somehow she had discovered it—even though she had not yet managed to wrap her mind around it… “tell me,” she begged.

“I’ve never been whole!” Toar exclaimed. “One does not come up among a house of concubines fully intact! Not as a man!” He raged. “Would you see what I am missing?!” he snarled as his hands reached for his fly.

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

Still beneath her, Toar turned his face. “This is a world of filth and savagery...” he turned away.

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

“Why do you think?!” he glared. “It they’d managed to sell you among the Baradha, do you think your new master would allow such a prize to wander among the man servants, bored and neglected?! No! Those men would not be men!”

Aghast, Celesi could make no reply.

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

“I wouldn’t!” Celesi promised. “I could never…!” Her tears were so thick she could barely see. “I’m so sorry!” she pleaded and threw herself upon him once more. “I didn’t mean to pry! I’ve always thought the world of you!” she bawled. “I’ll always love you! You’re still man enough for me!”

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

She wanted to say that wasn’t so, that sex wasn’t everything—and yet, she knew he was right. She couldn’t settle for a loveless existence. She wanted the touch of a man, the feel of an honest love. She needed to gift her lover with babies.

It was all too much. Celesi pulled herself up, and through a flood of tears, fled from the shed. She wasn’t surprised when Toar didn’t follow.

A Settling of Debts and A Parting of Ways

Polished — 1h16m01s — 2023/11/5

Polished — 1h00m47s — 2023/12/29

Baet anticipated slow days with little responsibility among the Jindleyak. The duke was as safe as he’d been in years—probably safer—so when Carringten told them they were staying a week or two, the guard expected a long leash and plenty of time for leisure.

Baet didn’t do much the first few days. He wandered among the fields and watched the locals toil. At times, he would find a secluded spot, take out his weapons, and go through the motions. He hiked the ridges and stared after the city, curious what he might see there, but didn’t bother to go just yet. He was a little weary of travel. He visited the baths often—but the highlight of his days was when he sat for breakfast, or supper, and had an opportunity to make eyes at Paye.

For her own part, Paye was playing coy. On the few occasions Baet did have the chance to talk with her, she claimed to be busy, having to visit with friends, or see after some chore. So Baet waited, sure that she would talk to him eventually.

After dinner on the third day, Baet was strolling the gardens, thinking of Paye when Carringten arrived and interrupted his tranquility. “Baetolamew,” his captain said in a serious voice.

Baet turned and stood at attention. His gut told him there’d been a dramatic shift in the winds. “Sir, what is it?”

“Your presence is required,” Carringten ordered.

Baet frowned. He didn’t like the captain’s tone. With a gulp, he gave a nod, and motioned for Carringten to lead the way—thinking that surprises requiring one’s own eyes could rarely be good.

The junior guard followed his captain to a large banquet hall. There were a number of frowning natives, shuffling about, and avoiding eye contact.

Not the duke. He was staring.

“Is it the naga?” Baet asked, hoping that the creature had somehow got loose and caused havoc. With luck, he only needed to clear up some formality, and all this fidgeting was for a trouble that belonged to someone else. He stepped further into the room and blanched as the issue became apparent.

With a deep frown on his grizzled face, Azra held the ornamental crest that Paye had pried off the wall of the house in Excergie, trimmed with several pounds of precious metals, and a good deal of pricey jewels—and at the old man’s feet was Baet’s open pack.

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

“What with all this gold and silver?” Azra replied.

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

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

Standing next to her grandfather, Paye stared back at Baet. Her face was red and it was apparent she’d been crying. She gave him a pleading look, then turned on Homoth and screamed at him. “You did this!” she accused, then ran from the room as she covered her face.

Baet turned and glared at Homoth. “This is your doing?!” He challenged and took a step toward the youth.

Carringten grabbed Baet and held him back.

“So this is how you repay us?!” Homoth jumped from his seat and stood to his full height. “We bring you out of Ebertin, to the safety of our own homes, and despite our kindness, you seek to rob us?! You’re worse than the Ministrians—and you should be kicked off our land all the same!”

Baet turned to Creigal and began to plead his case. “You have to believe me, I would never do such a thing! This rogue frames me!”

Creigal shook his head and stared at the floor.

“No,” Baet continued to deny the charges. He turned and locked eyes with Azra. ”This is not my doing.”

“Can you tell me why it was in your bag?” Azra asked.

Baet pointed at Homoth. “I’m betting he can!”

With a snort, the older brother said something that sounded rather insulting.

Baet was livid—especially since he could think of several other crimes he’d actually committed over the years for which no one had ever confronted him—including himself. He swung at Homoth, then grabbed the big brother and tumbled him into a low cabinet. Criminy, the kid was strong!

Neither one of the combatants was able to do any real damage before they were separated—but as they were pulled apart, Homoth slapped Baet and yelled, “I shall prove your folly with your death!”

Baet couldn’t believe his ears. He turned to Homoth. “Did you just challenge me?!” he replied, shocked that the young rogue might do such a thing. At one time, the Saot guard had considered the young man to be his friend. Yet, Homoth had set him up—over cards and a handful of silver—and now he was expecting a duel?!

With a nod, Homoth stared back and seethed.

Baet’s eyes narrowed. “It’s your funeral,” he answered. He’d faced death before and had yet to flinch. He stared back at the large youth as a fire raged in his stomach. It didn’t matter how well Homoth fought through the streets of Ebertin, or that he’d bloodied Baet when it was supposed to be a restrained and gentlemanly contest. Duels were not fought hot. They were cold and calculating, and Baet knew he would win just as soon as the question of weapons was raised.

Azra turned to Creigal and shook his head. “I ask that we be allowed to detain your man until this matter can be resolved.”

For a long second, Creigal turned and stared at Baet. Eventually, he turned back to Azra and gave a nod.

Carringten stripped Baet of his weapons. While the others watched. Homoth started to say something, but Azra snapped at him, and the youth stood quiet.

“I didn’t do this,” Baet said—though he didn’t resist.

“Trust that we will get to the bottom of this,” Carringten assured him.

After that, Carringten and a half dozen armed Jindleyaks escorted Baet through the house; including Aim, and Duboha. They traveled through numerous twisting halls, down a couple flights of stairs, and several confining tunnels. Eventually, he and his escort arrived at a large room with a series of cells; one of which held the naga, Maligno.

Thoroughly turned around and despondent, Baet was placed in his own cell. Without a fuss, he sat on the cot and ignored the chuckles of the serpent.

“I will come to you when there is something to tell,” Carringten stated. He gave the junior guard a salute, then turned and left.

“We will try to talk Homoth out of a duel,” Duboha stated, while Aim nodded. “Whether or not you are guilty, that old crest is not worth a man’s blood.” they followed Carringten out.

At least they weren’t all against him. Baet turned and glanced about the room. For a second, he locked eyes with Maligno, but the snake only glared back if he bothered to pay him any mind at all.

An hour passed. Then another.

The door creaked open, and two unknown cousins stepped into the room, each with a plate. “What?!” Baet huffed when given his. “I get a sorry lump of bread and some weak broth—yet you bring the naga fresh fried fish?!” he complained. “You treat me worse than the beast!”

The jailers frowned, turned, and walked out without a word. The cooks obviously sympathized with Homoth.

Of late, Baet was well fed, so he ignored the crusty lump and tepid broth. Instead, he paced the small cell. He exercised about the little room and wondered at his situation. Questions returned. Why was Paye so upset? Could she not set the record straight? How long would it be before Creigal could see him freed? Would Homoth really insist on a duel? Could the boy be that dumb?!

Baet wondered how long he might be in this pickle before Creigal could clear his name. That’s what he expected. He felt it fair that the duke should handle this mess for him. It was all a misunderstanding anyway, and the duke owed him a fair bit for all the guarding.

What would it cost the duke to free his man? Baet thought about ransoms and how much he’d seen put on the price of a head—even an innocent one. What if he was expected to repay a ransom? His eyes got wide as he realized he might not have the money for that little cabin by the sea after all. Then, for a time, Baet wondered if the duke might not be convinced of his guard’s innocence. His throat grew tight, and he thought that maybe the duke believed the charges against him. Wouldn’t that be a fine bit of misplaced justice!

Baet paused as he realized his fate rested somewhere between the good word of Paye and the want of Creigal’s negotiation. He expected either one should be sufficient, if properly applied, yet wondered if he would get either. He calculated that Creigal was likely to help him out, especially since he saved his life in Wibbeley—and hoped with all his longing heart that Paye would speak with a silver tongue propelled by truth—but a nagging pit of fear told him he was going to have to kill a boy for this folly.

Minutes crawled by, slowly adding to the growing hours. The shadows from the single small window were getting long when the door to the jail creaked open. A plate appeared around the corner and Baet wondered that they should bring him another meal so soon. Then he noticed the smell: roasted beef and vegetables, fresh fruit and delicate cakes—and that wasn’t even the best part! The best part was that the plate was carried by the beautiful Paye!

Paye put on a strong front. She smiled despite her puffy red eyes, as she slowly entered with the heaping plate in front of her. She carried the food as if it were an apology.

At least she wasn’t openly against him, hostile for the sake of her vile countryman!

Or was she? After all, he barely knew her. Was this all some elaborate front? Some diabolic ruse? Did she help set the trap? Would she try to talk him into taking the fall? Now that he considered it, he realized she could easily be in league with Homoth.

As Paye approached with the warm plate, Baet stared into her eyes, and his heart melted. How could he not trust those pearly blues, cursed with tears? No. He had to believe that she was genuine. Her face was soaked with suffering—as a pathetic attempt at a smile tried to break through.

“Thank you,” Baet accepted the bountiful plate. “So did you tell them?” he began in a low tone. “Did you admit that it was you that took the precious curiosity?”

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

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

“I’m not well trusted among my family,” Paye admitted.

“Why is that?” Baet blinked. “What’d you do?”

“Maybe a decade ago, I stole a ring from my aunt. I had it for years, until two springs ago, when she found out, and tried to take it back,” Paye admitted. “I didn’t want to lose it, so I beat her for her the effort.”

“What…?” Baet croaked, horrified by the story.

“The ring belonged to my mom. She wore it often and I loved it. When she died, it was given to my aunt. I was terribly jealous—so one day I stole it. I had it for years, before I got impetuous and wore it before the family,” Paye explained. “Someone noticed, and it was brought to my aunt’s attention that I had my mother’s ring. At first, she tried to reason with me so I would give it to her. When that failed, and she tried to take of me. She’s not a very big woman, and never given much thought to fighting. I bloodied her something good.”

“Oh…” Shocked as he was, Baet couldn’t think of anything else to add.

“Beside, Komotz also swore to your villainy,” Paye stated.

“But that’s absurd!” Baet huffed. “He’s been stuck in bed since the leviathan!”

“He spoke of you as a cheater and a coward,” Paye shook her head. “Andrus also gave his word against you, and they’ve convinced several of their other cousins that you are not to be trusted. I fear they want your blood,” she whispered with wide eyes.

“Balls,” Baet cursed. Paye offered little hope of avoiding the duel, but he was convinced that she was on his side, and in his book that counted for a lot. He looked her in the eyes. “You do me great favor. You let me know that you tried.”

“I was duped,” Paye shrugged. “Homoth was very kind to me in Excergie, and the letter he wrote said he wanted the ornament so he could shine it and show it to our grandfather. I was convinced he’d forgiven me for what I did to his favorite aunt.”

“There’s a letter?!” Baet said, hanging his hope on such evidence.

“There was a letter,” Paye shrugged. “I went to get it from my room, to prove my case, but it was not there. I think Homoth must have stolen it. It is quite likely destroyed. My brother is not the type to keep incriminating evidence.”

Baet blinked. “Did you just say that Homoth is your brother?”

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

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

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

“And why wouldn’t I?” Baet replied. “He demands a duel—so I will kill him! I don’t want to kill him—but it sure beats dying!”

“But he is my brother!” Paye snapped.

“Tell him to drop the charge,” Baet stared at the lady. “Ain’t nobody gotta die—but that’s on him—not me. I’m not demanding satisfaction!”

Paye glared at the man. She shook the bars of the cell door. “Don’t you dare kill my brother!” she raged. “Don’t you dare!”

Baet shook his head. “It’s justice! Homoth has framed us both, and hubris has led him to commit a great folly! Now, before the gods, he has threatened to prove a thing that cannot be proved, for I am not guilty, just as you are not guilty! Indeed, he has wronged you too!”

“I WON’T HAVE IT!” she screamed.

There was a long silence before the Saot finally replied. “And what would you have me do?!” Baet whispered as he leaned between the bars. “Would you have me die in his stead?”

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

As heated as he was, and staring at such a beautiful and passionate woman, Baet couldn’t help himself. He wrapped his hands around her head, and planted his lips against hers before she could deny him. Engrossed with the silky fineness of her lips, Baet slowly pulled away. Did she feel it too? With a dreamy fog filling his head, Baet stared longingly into the lady’s eyes.

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

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

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

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

“Oh shut up!” Baet glared. “You do nothing but rot, you sniveling baby-eater!”

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

An hour after dark, Roustich returned from Hearthstone with a man that claimed to have seen Humbert. Aim and Duboha also joined as their sour old cousin ushered the stranger into a sitting room where Creigal repeated the question. “I’m told you’ve seen the thief?”

The stranger was dressed in simple clothes, though they were neat and clean. “I’m convinced of it,” he nodded. “We spoke at length, as we shared a meal of mutton and mead. He was quite free with his coin, so I was free with my appetite and company.”

“When was this?” Creigal asked.

“More than a month ago, less than two,” the simpleton calculated. “This Humbert looked and smelled as if he’d traveled long and hard. His threads were soiled. It was obvious he’d spent several nights on the side of the road. Indeed, he reeked so much, it might of put me off my mutton—if it hadn’t been free.”

“And what convinces you that you spoke with this thief?” Creigal continued.

“Well, he said nothing of thievery,” the man shrugged. “But he certainly seemed the troublesome sort. Indeed, it doesn’t surprise me that one such as yourself comes looking for him. I can say that I was happy to see him leave—especially when he told me he was looking for the Dreadlord Lasitus.”

“Lasitus,” Creigal leaned back. “Now that is a name I had not expected to hear. And you say he was looking for this Lasitus?”

“The one and only!” the stranger began, then thought about his statement and waxed a touch philosophical. “Or should I say that I hope he is the one and only. Could the world handle two of such a calamitous being?”

Creigal leaned forward. “What can you tell me of this Lasitus?”

“Just the rumors that every man knows,” the stranger shrugged. “Tales of a thousand crimes most vile and reprehensible.”

“Lasitus was a long time ago,” Roustich noted. “If he was ever real, he certainly isn’t anymore.”

The commoner turned on Roustich, shaking his head. “Lasitus caused the blight! He is not some superstition!” he turned to Creigal. “Your thief was convinced he is still alive!”

“Lasitus came north over two hundred years ago,” Roustich countered. “How could he possibly still be alive?”

“Ahh…” Creigal cut in. “Lasitus was said to be a hundred and seventy-three when he stole the King’s Nnak Stone and rode north with a regimen of the King’s army hot on his heels,” he explained. “Indeed, it is said that he looked not a day over fifty—and save for maybe a dozen men, the regimen that pursued him was completely destroyed.”

“One hundred and seventy-three?!” Aim frowned. “How can anyone live so long?!”

“There are ways if one is well versed in the dark arts,” Creigal answered. “But you say he settled in the wilds? He did not settle in one of your cities or towns?”

“He settled in a small village, ringed by high mountains,” Roustich replied. “Now, there is nothing in the blight. There is no one. It is death to enter—even now—whether or not this Dreadlord survives.”

Duboha leaned toward the duke. “Do you really think this Lasitus might still be alive?”

Creigal shrugged. “I have met some that have lived so long—though most are in little condition to do much of anything without their entourage of sycophants—and it takes a gross amount of blood magick, which requires a gross amount of blood. How Lasitus could continue without at least a good sized village to prey upon is beyond me.”

“This thief of yours spoke most convincingly of Lasitus,” the stranger said, a wildness catching in the corner of his eyes. “Not that I need convincing! I’m from the north, a Melmor, and our people have long heard whispers of the Dreadlord’s cruelty,” he shook his head.

“Power and cruelty,” Cregial shrugged. “The two often go hand in hand.”

The lackadaisical air with which the duke spoke of such darkness disturbed the stranger. Bright red and bothered, he took a step forward and pointed at Creigal. “It would serve you well not to piss on the devil!” he snapped. “Lasitus is very much alive and still a danger to anyone that dares approach the blight!”

In response to this stranger’s aggressive air, Carringten stepped in front of the duke and glared down at the man—though the stranger was taller by half a hand. The stranger realized the danger of being so forward with the duke and shrunk away from the menacing dark man.

Creigal raised an arm to appease the good simpleton, “I may despise evil, but I am not dumb enough to be caught mocking it,” he answered. “Tell me more of this blight.”

“Few go in to the blight because fewer ever return,” the commoner said. “Those that do manage to come back are all too often chased by the worst kinds of abominations. Mudmen, mandingo, the muttering mistwalker….”

“Well, despite all that, if Humbert goes to find Lasitus, and we go to find Humbert, it seems we must seek out this Dreadlord and at the very least try to treat with him,” Creigal stated. “Will you guide us?” he said to the stranger. “We will pay you handsomely.”

The stranger blanched and shook head. “Sir, I’ve never been in the blight. I once saw it from afar, and I shudder to remember even that! Indeed, if you had all the gold in the south, I would still not venture into that pit!”

“Leave him be,” Roustich said to the duke. “He is not wrong to fear the blight. But there are others, others that have been. I know a few—though I know none that profess to seeing this Lasitus.”

Creigal nodded and stood from his chair. “Thank you, good sir,” he said, and shook the man’s hand. Carringten gave him a gold sovereign and escorted the stranger from the room.

“I shall find some of my friends, that they may tell us more of the blight,” Roustich said, then turned and left. Duboha and Aim followed after him.

“So we know where Humbert goes after all,” Carringten said to his duke.

Creigal gave a nod and stared out the window with a finger on his chin. “It appears so,” he said. “What do you think? Should Lasitus worry us? He certainly has a fine new title.”

“We’ve faced evil men before, including our King and his cadre of wizards,” Carringten shrugged. “Still, there is always the threat of danger, even if this Lasitus is just some backwater mystic,” he noted.

“The king has few good wizards, especially since Lasitus managed to spoil so many of their grimoires,” Creigal rubbed his growing beard and continued to stare out the window.

“You suddenly seem uncertain,” Carringten stepped toward his liege. “Does this Dreadlord bother you? Are you reconsidering?”

Creigal turned to his captain and stared him in the eye. For a long second he did not answer. “I think I shall have a word with the shaman,” he said with a nod, then turned and stepped from the room.

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

Krumpus wasn’t hard to find. He was watching as several men loaded crates into a wagon. The crates were full of foxbane. Although another shipment had already gone north with instructions on how to use the flower, Krumpus meant to return to Melmorahn with ample supplies—just in case the distress still raged.

Creigal approached and realized the shaman had developed a bit of a limp. “Are you okay?” He asked, and pointed to his leg.

Krumpus shrugged and gave a nod. He lifted the leg of his pants and showed a bloody imprint of a small set of teeth. Children, he stared the word at the duke, then rolled his eyes while a proud grin gripped his face.

Creigal smirked. “You know, for a healer you certainly seem to get hurt a lot,” he said—then realized he’d never really thought of the man as a healer. He mostly thought of him as a mystic that predicted the fall of the meteor. A possibility struck him. “It was you that healed me, back at the camp,” he realized. “It was you that got me over the rot.”

Krumpus smiled and gave the slightest nod. And how have my ministrations treated you? he asked. Are you well?

“I am, thank you,” Creigal smiled, suddenly certain this strange man would indeed have the answers he sought. “Can we have a minute?” he asked as a nervousness, an apprehension, tightened his chest. That was something unusual. The duke was not one to get nervous around others.

With a nod, Krumpus led the duke away.

“I am reticent to tell you,” Creigal began. “For I know that no one will ever be able to tell me just what I should do for the sake of myself. When it is a matter of policy, when it comes to governance, then I might give my decision to an advisor who is better suited to make a judgement—but when it comes to personal matters,” the duke shook his head. “This is that sort of question. This is not concerning my people. This is not about my title. This is just about me.”

Well, let us assume that whatever is best for you is also best for your people, Krumpus postulated. In that way, maybe I can still help.

“One cannot do well for the world if one does not take care of himself,” Creigal agreed. “Yet I am at an impasse,” he continued. “I have a choice to make. I wonder if I should go north and pursue this thief, a pursuit that has already cost me far too much—and yet I am willing to sacrifice so much more—or do I return home? Do I return to a war that’s been raging in secret for decades, a war that is escalating, that shall soon be on the streets? Do I go home to give grand speeches and rally the public, now that there will be open fighting?”

Krumpus stared into Creigal’s eyes and shook his head. These are not all the reasons you would go one way or another. These are simply the justifications you would give to others. You shroud your true motivations so that others cannot use your desires against you.

Creigal considered the shaman’s words, and with a nod, he admitted their truth. “I have no interest in going to war,” he confessed. “Just as it is not justice that drives me north. It is little more than the memory of my daughter that spurs me on. If I should catch the thief, it will change little in the greater world. All I shall have is a locket—and perhaps a touch of inner peace, knowing that I honored her memory. And if I go south, it is not to fight the war. It is because there is a lady in my life. If I go south, it might be my home once more. If I go south, it will be for love—and who am I to deny love?” he wondered.

Well, they would not call it a decision if the course was already decided, Krumpus smiled. Perhaps add this to your considerations: I have business in Melmorahn. I go north no matter what you do. If you should like to join me—well—it would not surprise me if we found good men willing to see you into the blight. There are many that wish to destroy the evil that lives there.

And if you go south, the shaman continued, you now have friends that can help you in your war, for we can provide you with intelligence of what occurs in Trohl lands. Indeed, we have friends and family from Ebertin to Gramgoar, from Land’s End to Melmorahn.

“Yes I have talked with your uncle, and he has already promised to help with a rather significant matter,” Creigal nodded. “So what is it that you think I should do? Should I go north with a single-minded determination to recover my daughter’s trinket and bring a crook to justice; or should I go south and open my life up to all the toil, triumph, and torture that love and war entail?”

And why do you not consider what you shall do after you go north? Krumpus wondered. After you catch this thief, what shall you do? Shall you stay in the north?

“I would return home,” Creigal blinked.

Then why not do both?

“I dunno,” Creigal admitted. “I’ve paid much to get this far, but something tells me there is more I must give. If I am willing, I suspect I may not want—or even be able—to return home when all is said and done,” he answered.

Then I expect that there must be a good reason for that, Krumpus noted. Very well. Going north means staying north, and going south means staying south—though I suppose you could go hunting for Humbert after the war ends. It is not as if he shall cease to exist just because you no longer pursue him.

“If I should live another fifty years, I dunno that I should see the end of the war,” Creigal shrugged.

Krumpus stared into the duke’s eyes, then slowly smiled. I think you should sit. You should sit open to the question. Sit, and let the answer rise out of you. Then, once the answer arises, it will bolster you so much so that nothing but death itself will be able to drive you from your path. There will be no doubts, no second guessing. There will only be one way forward.

Creigal considered his words, then gave a nod, for he thought they were wise. “Well then, I will let you know,” the duke said. “As soon as I know, you know.”

Then I will wait, Krumpus smiled. Besides, you do not strike me as the type to vacillate and dawdle. I expect I shall not have to wait long. Even if it should take a week, there is still plenty for me to do here. There are many games for me to play with my daughters. Indeed, what could be more important than that? He smiled; and with that, the shaman turned and walked away, intent on seeing to his preparations.

Creigal turned. He stepped through the gardens and thought nothing of his question. Instead, he simply took in the beauty of the scenery, the finery of Azra’s estate, and the business of his people. He considered their industry and the way the fields lay.

The sun began to set.

Creigal joined the others for dinner; and though he sat next to Meu, he offered her no promises and divulged no considerations. When they talked, they said nothing of the future, nothing of what would come tomorrow, but spoke only of the food and their concerns for the others. He smiled at her, and drank in her beauty. Indeed, he even went to bed with her and held her through the night. But that night—as he lay with the skin-walker and considered the fine home they might yet make together—he slept. And as he slept, he dreamed of his daughter. There, in the shifting phantasmagoria of his inner world, Daphne begged him to continue—so when he woke, he knew his path was set.

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

Knowing that he would go north, Creigal sat down and wrote several letters. The first was addressed to the Dunkels of Land’s End. The letter said that Gaurring played no part in the sacking of Solveny—and insinuated that the Dunkels already knew this. He also stated that any Gaur among the invading army was acting against his interests. They were traitors to be captured and punished according to their crimes. He added that Gaurring would broke no interference in her own affairs, and that any retaliation against the duchy would be seen as an act of war. He made a copy of this letter and addressed it to Yurand, so that the count of High Plains might also have the duke’s words—though he offered further considerations to the count, since the duke considered him to be a good and just man. He offered assistance in small but meaningful ways. Then he wrote to Varius and his other councilmen, that they may have his instructions going forward. After that, he set down several quick notes to advisors and relatives, then began a final letter that was addressed to the Gaurring public. Upon receipt, Varius was to read it and disseminate its words throughout the duchy with all possible haste.

With this correspondence written, Creigal needed a courier. He felt that ideally he’d be able to send Baet, and in this way he could be done with the man—but Homoth was downright hostile when asked to drop the issue. Indeed, Creigal was puzzled by the young man’s vehemence, and even tried to explain that the Saot was a seasoned and cunning fighter. He was not among the duke’s personal guard for his good looks and charm. Why would anyone risk their lives against a man such as Baet, a man that loved to dance with chance? Still, Homoth persisted and would not even hear the end of the duke’s argument, so Criegal had to consider someone else to run his messages.

Creigal didn’t even consider sending Carringten—not that his adopted son would agree to go anyway—and so he’d have to hire from among the native population. Reluctantly, he spread word through Duboha—and was surprised when Andrus volunteered. “I’ll go,” the young cousin said. “The weather turns, and winter isn't far behind. I've never had much love of the snow.”

Creigal frowned since he felt the answer was flippant and made light of the dangers. “I doubt your mission should take that long,” he answered. “And if it should, well, there is snow in Gaurring when it grows cold.”

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

“Your duties would not oblige you to go all the way to the ocean,” the duke shook his head. "And the journey is not without its dangers. If the wrong people catch you carrying my letters, it’ll be your death, and it will spoil a number of my secrets.”

“Then I shall not get caught,” Andrus replied. He stared back at the duke, his manner suddenly serious. “Nothing in this world is without risk, and when taking risks it is best to focus on the aspects that bring joy to the adventure.”

Still unconvinced, Creigal shook his head. “Your Saot is not the strongest,” he noted.

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

Creigal smiled, as he was beginning to enjoy the young man’s banter. He liked Andrus, although he felt the youth was a touch impetuous. Maybe if he was away from his cousins, Homoth and Komotz… He turned to Duboha, to see if the second had any objections.

“I was teaching him to be a sneak in Ebertin,” Duboha noted. “He might be a touch green, but he took his lessons well and has learned a good deal. Indeed, he was to go west with Scurra, before they got caught.”

“You’ve taken my debt to Traust as your own,” Creigal said to Duboha. “It is your money that I entrust to him.”

The second nodded. “He’ll be fine, as long as he keeps his head down and his eyes up.”

“Alright then,” the duke said, then turned to Andrus, that he might give him a bit more instruction. “We shall have you stay clear of Gaurring Heart. Even at the best of times, it is crawling with spies—and only about half of them are mine. Instead, you will go to Bastion's Crossing—but it is not really the duchy that worries me. Once you are in Gaurring, I have people and systems in place. I think it will be easy for you to find my loyal men and avoid my enemies. No. I'm more concerned with the Noeth, with Land's End, and the delivery of the letter to the Dunkels. It must be done with great care.”

“Once I am in town, shall I take on a costume and hire a post runner to see it delivered?” Andrus asked.

Creigal smiled, happy to hear such quick thinking from the man. Yet he shook his head. “I’d prefer the letter appear as a mystery to the Dunkels—and within their personal quarters—if it can be managed. I’d like them to think that I can get closer than they find comfortable, and I cannot ask you to do such a dangerous thing. It would be suicide for you. Instead, I ask that you deliver it to a spy of mine. Tahoran is his name. He’s a careful and cunning man that’s been in that city for years. He shall see that the letter is delivered. He is also the man to see the letter delivered to Yurand,” Creigal explained. “How soon can you leave?”

“Well, there are a few things I’d like to square away before such a long journey,” Andrus shrugged. “Give me three days, and on the fourth, I shall leave at dawn, so long as you don’t mind me going through Hearthstone.”

Creigal nodded. “I have no money of my own. I shall give you a letter for the price of your employ. Of course, you are also agreeing to bring back the coin that I borrowed from Duboha, and more that I have now borrowed from Azra.”

“How long do you think this shall take me?” Andrus asked.

“If you move with care—and I expect you to—I suppose it shall take a couple of months,” Cregial answered. “Money matters such as these are best completed the first time, so do not rush.”

“Speaking of danger, I fear I cannot do all this for less than two sovereign,” Andrus replied. “One for the way there, and one for the way back.”

Creigal smiled. “If It was only your time—but your very person will be at risk,” he replied. “I shall pay you three for the trip down, and I shall pay you three more for your return. After all, your charge is not finished until the money I owe Azra and Duboha is delivered.”

Andrus smiled, gave a nod, and shook the duke’s hand. Six sovereign! What a sum! he thought. “If it is okay with you, and if it is okay with my grandfather, I would like to go all the way south to the ocean.”

“It’ll take you weeks out of your way,” Creigal replied—then gave a shrug. “Yet, my letters will be delivered and my money given to your people,” he noted. “If there is objection, it will be from Duboha and Azra. It is their ascent you should seek.”

Duboha gave a shrug. “I am not opposed. After all, it is the ocean, and I imagine it is quite a thing to see,” he smiled. “Now you just have to get Azra to agree.”

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

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

Andrus glared, and Celesi figured he was mad at her—not that it bothered her. After all, she was rather mad at the world and didn’t mind a fight.

“What happened to you?!” Andrus asked. “Did Toar finally tell you off?!”

Celesi glared back at him, embarrassed, as tears filled her eyes.

For a long second, Andrus stared at her, then figured he was right. “Where is he?” the Jindleyak glanced around. “If he hurt you, I’ll snap his fingers!”

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

Andrus stood straight and stiff. “I carry mail for the duke. I go south, and it shall be months before I return. I wanted to see you before I left,” he confessed. “I wanted to see you, and…” he paused.

Celesi wondered why Toar couldn’t stare at her in such a manner—but then she knew why. Still, she didn’t want this attention. There was nothing special about Andrus. He was the least talented of the Jindleyak, and always staring! He was almost as bad as the tea-drinker—so very thirsty! “What makes you think I’m not okay?” she snipped.

“The only one sulking more than you is Toar,” Andrus stated. “Everyone knows something must have happened between you two.”

“And do you also check on him?” Celesi asked. “But no! You have lusting eyes, like the Saot guard that rots in his jail! If you aren’t careful, you’ll end up like him!”

Andrus felt that was unfair. Why would she compare him to the tea-drinker?! He protested with a sorry sigh.

For a long second, Celesi stared at the young man, and her unprovoked quips made her feel sorry for him. “Well, I do appreciate you checking up on me,” she admitted. “But I promise I am quite alright. I am free, among friends, and well fed. So what if Toar should go north! So what if I shall never see him again?”

“What makes you think you shall never see him again?” Andrus asked.

“And even if I should…?” she shrugged and kicked dirt. “Or perhaps it is simply that I do not want to see him again,” she said—although she could barely speak the words—they tasted so bitter. With a gulp, she changed the subject. “What of you?” She asked. “So you go south to carry post. Do you intend to stay in the south?”

“It is my mission to return,” Andrus answered. “Will you be here when I return?”

“I suppose,” Celesi shrugged. “I thought for a time I would go to Melmorahn when Toar first insisted he would follow the duke, but now I do not see the point of it. I rather like it here. Scurra and the others all assure me that I can stay as long as I like,” she shrugged.

For a long second, Andrus simply stared at her with a question in his eyes.

“What is it?” Celesi asked, not particularly wanting to know, as she assumed she already knew. Yet he was likely going to tell her one way or another—but at least this way she could expedite the process.

“Can I show you something?” Andrus asked, a suspicious grin creeping over his face. Before she could answer, he was pulling off his shirt.

When he started to unbutton his pants, Celesi turned and protested. “What?! No! What are you doing?!” She backed several steps. “Stop!” she ordered and turned away.

“It’s okay,” he said, as stripped himself naked.

“Not at all!” Celesi complained. “This is not okay! Not in the least!” she shrieked, especially since she realized she was backed into a corner.

Suddenly, the light of the day became overpowering, as if there was a great fire before her, so intense that it blinded her. Shocked to have such light come over her, Celesi turned away from Andrus, confused that he should emit such a brightness. Then, when the light receded, Andrus was no longer there! Celesi couldn’t help but stare at the creature that stood before her.

“Do it again,” Celesi said. The blinding light appeared once more, and Andrus shifted back to his human form. Naked and smiling, he covered himself.

“Again,” Celesi ordered, and as Andrus shifted form once more, Celesi blinked, then shook her head, and beamed at the Jindleyak, and said to him, “so that’s how it’s done!”

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

Carringten led Baet to a barn. There were several Jindleyak lounging about, trying to act inconspicuous, yet Baet knew that they were there to make sure the Saots didn’t try anything funny.

None of the natives were inside. There was only Creigal, sitting in a chair, with a small table and another chair, in the middle of a wide open area. Carringten waited at the door while Baet approached and sat with the duke.

“You must know I was framed,” Baet said.

“Were you now?” Creigal replied, unconcerned.

“By Homoth!” Baet nodded. “Ask Paye, the sister! She will tell you the truth of it!”

Eyebrows arched as Creigal continued to stare. “And what did you do that Homoth would frame you?”

“He believes that I cheated him,” Baet complained.

“I have talked with him too,” Creigal shook his head. “I told him it is a mistake to fight you. I told him you are more dangerous than you appear. But he does not listen. Not to any of us,” Creigal shrugged. “Somehow he blames you for what happened to Komotz.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Baet recoiled. “That was done by the leviathan!”

“I know,” Creigal shrugged. “I fear that he means to kill you.”

“Then I shall have to kill him first,” Baet realized. “I’d rather not. His sister will hate me for it.”

“However it happens, I shall not be here to see the sordid affair to its grisly finish,” Creigal told him. “In a few more days, we leave. We go north, after the thief.”

“You would go without me?!” Baet asked. “But I have pledged to keep you safe! I cannot honor my oath if you leave me here. Will you not stay for the duel, to see that they release me once it is over?”

“Now I see your concerns,” Creigal grinned and locked eyes with his guard. “So you wish to honor your oath?" he mused.

Baet made to reply, but the duke lifted a finger and shook his head. He was not finished, and would not have his guard answer just yet.

Without a word, Creigal stood and began to pace around the table. He looked the guard up and down, then began to speak again. "Honor is a thing I take very seriously. Honor, fidelity, courage; is that not your oath?”

“It is,” Baet answered.

“Honor, fidelity, courage,” Creigal repeated. “I have not forgotten your valiant protection of my person near Wibbeley,” he stated with a momentary smile. It was quickly replaced with a frown. "I have also not forgotten your association with Humbert."

Baet's heart dropped into his stomach. His eyes went wide and he stared at the rafters of the barn. "I..." He began, in hopes of defending himself—but thoughts of Haddelton, thoughts of Vearing, thoughts of all his other friends that had died in the duke’s loyal service convinced him it was best to admit the truth and let the chips fall where they may. “I failed,” he ended lamely, then refused to look at his lordship, and stared at his boots instead.

For several beats, Creigal let Baet soak in his admission. The duke simply stared at the guard until Baet raised his eyes and looked at the duke once more. Still the duke said nothing, and so Baet decided to give a full confession.

"I failed you," he repeated. "I spoke of matters to the clerk. I answered his questions about the habits of the watch quite candidly—though I knew the information was not to be shared. Then, once I was compromised, he talked me into letting him onto the grounds. He claimed he only wanted a bit of seed from your garden—though I’ve long known that the words of a liar are not to be trusted. I allowed myself to believe he would stay in the garden, that he would forget the house and all its possessions, that he would only take from the flowers," Baet held out the palms of his hands. “Out of convenience, I believed his lies, and believing his lies made me into a liar.”

“Do you have anything else to confess?”

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

Creigal nodded, his demeanor calm. “I meant to wait for this, to confront you once I’d captured the thief,” he began. “I meant to accuse you in his presence, so I might ascertain the degree of your guilt. But you have complicated things; first outside of Wibbeley with your heroic effort, and then by this stupidity among our newfound friends.”

Baet began to protest, but Creigal held up a hand.

“I do believe you when you say you’ve been set up. You are normally not so stupid that you might steal a garish ornament, no matter how pretty or pricey—but I also believe that Homoth would not sabotage you if he had no reason—so I find myself wondering,” the duke continued. “Why does he hate you, Baetolamew? What have you done that he’d risk his own good name to tarnish yours? Why would he risk his life to kill you?” Creigal stared at his guard. “Since Wibbeley you’ve served me well—but I cannot say there’s been a single-minded determination about it,” he shook his head. "Do you not see the difficulties you cause me with these natives? We are in a foreign land and we are fortunate to have these friends—yet, you provoke them. You have allowed your own interests to interfere with our mission. You have become too independent. You pretend to serve me while serving yourself first and foremost.”

Baet shook his head. “Does it not matter that I am framed?”

“And why are you framed?” Creigal repeated.

“The brothers hate me.”

“And what reasons have you given them to hate you? Can you tell me honestly that there are no reasons, or that the reasons are without cause?” Creigal stared at his guard. Baet did not answer, and so the duke continued. “You are careless, just as you were with Humbert. Homoth and Komotz—have you not noticed their rising anger? Did it come upon you so unexpected? Are you not a talented and decorated spy? Have you lost all sense of subtlety?!”

“You are right,” Baet nodded. “I’ve lost my edge, and I gave them reason. Indeed, I am dulled and serve without passion.” He looked up at the duke. “What am I to do, my lord?" he asked in a flat voice.

“First, you must stop addressing me with such terms,” Creigal noted. “I am no longer your master. We are all but settled, and after this evening, I will have nothing more to do with you," he admonished. “Yet, there is hope for you—if you can navigate yourself out of this quandary. If you can see yourself through this, there is a chance of a rich and rewarding life for you. I don’t know where you will find it, but you still have the spark it takes to light a mighty fire,” he advised. “Whatever it is that you choose to do, you and I are finished. There is nothing left between us but payment for your services."

With that, Creigal reached in his pocket, pulled out a handful of gold and silver coins. He showed them to the guard. "You have spoiled an assassination, and for that I owe you," he jangled the coins in his hand.

Eyes wide, Baet leaned forward. He longed to possess such music! He could not believe the duke was offering him so much—and yet he was right! By luck and skill—and at far too high a price—Baet did spoil an assassination.

Creigal’s face changed, suspicious and aggrieved, he stared at the guard as he closed his fist about the coins. “Yet, it was your betrayal that allowed my enemies to move against me. It was because of you that so many of my guards were killed, some of my favorite men among them—so you see my quandary,” he said as he opened and closed his fist about the coins. “If I should give you this, I am justified—and if I should drag you outside and hang you by your neck until you were dead, I am also justified," he stared at his guard.

Baet hanged his head. "I will take what I deserve," he answered with a miserable and tortured look on his face.

"And what do you deserve?” Creigal frowned. “Your heart is a mystery to me.”

Baet stared at the ground, trying to control his breath and temper. There was so much more to say, and yet he dare not confess his heart. He felt it was simply best to keep his peace and have done with it. Was he not trained to keep secrets? It seemed fitting that in the end he should remember his training.

The duke sat before him, stared at the guard, and separated a small stack of silver from the rest. He pushed thirty diems across the table. “Well then, this is it. This is all you shall have from me. Good day to you, and may Abra save your soul.”

Baet was incredulous. It was a pittance, an insult!

Still, any silver was better than nothing, and with it came freedom! He would never serve the duke another day in his life! That was something! It was certainly a lot better than Meriona and the Jaded Blades got, and they caused no blood!

Baet scooped the coin and gave Creigal a stiff bow. “Honor, loyalty, courage,” he said with just a touch of a sneer, then turned and proceeded from the barn as Carringten joined him.

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

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

Carringten glanced at the coin, then slipped it in his pocket with a grunt. “If you should ever return to Gaurring Heart, do not attempt to collect anything from the barracks that does not belong to you, understood?”

“Then I am allowed to return home?” Baet replied.

Carringten shrugged. “You are not eligible to serve among the duke’s elite ranks, but you are by no means banished. Indeed, if you wish to serve among his regulars, you may even return to a military life. But you will never again guard the duke or any of his personal properties.”

Baet considered it for a split second, then shook his head. He would never serve the duke again, not in any capacity. “There are a few items I’d like to recover,” he noted. “Perhaps not enough to bother,” he shrugged. “We shall see.”

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

Baet shook his head and turned to go—but Carringten stopped him as the question continued to hang. A spark caught in Baet’s belly, and he thought, why not?! Why not give the man such answers?! He’s asked, after all! Baet’s expression grew dark. “For a long time I believed,” he began. “It wasn’t until Pagladoria that questions arose.”

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

“You had me kill that child!” Baet snapped at the captain. “A girl! Eight?! Nine years old?!”

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

“I begged you!” Baet interrupted and stared daggers at his captain. “I begged you to reconsider!”

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

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

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

“She was so young!” Baet shook his head. "I can still feel the fine bones of her neck as I squeezed the life out of her,” he lamented, with tears welling in his eyes. “I have no problem with war, fighting men with black and selfish hearts,” he shook his head. “But I did not sign up to murder children!”

“It is more complicated than that,” Carringten stated.

“I should hope so!” Baet glared. “I had the viceroy! If I could get the child, I could certainly get the viceroy! And I asked you to switch targets—non—I begged to switch targets!” he shook his head. “But I was told it had to be the girl,” he continued with a grim face, his voice barely above a whisper, as he glared at the captain. “I didn’t want to—but I did it—and I was damned quiet! I killed her guards with no sound at all. I stuck a nursemaid that happened to get too close. Then I cornered the girl and strangled her. I stared into her eyes as they bored into mine,” he anguished. “Why did you make me do it?!” he asked. “Why did I have to be as bad as our enemies?!”

“The child had weird abilities,” Carringten told him. “How do you think her father was able to ferret out so many of our spies? And why do you think the attacks stopped as soon as you fled?” Carringten asked. “Do you even know the attacks stopped, or did you lose track of events in Rottershelm once you came back home?”

“I couldn’t hear any of it,” Baet shook his head. “Any news from Rottershelm and I thought only of that child. I thought of how the gods must hate me for what I did.”

“Well then, let me tell you,” Carringten said. “After she died, the viceroy’s intelligence dried up. Our remaining network of spies, informants, and allies were spared. We’ve been able to reestablish ourselves in the Kingdom’s largest city.”

Baet shook his head. “Was the girl a chimera?” he asked.

Carringten shrugged. “We have no idea how she knew what she knew. Indeed, it took us a long time to realize she was the source of our troubles.”

“How do you know for sure?” Baet asked.

“When we gave the order, we only had our suspicions, Carringten shrugged. “But what else could it be? She died, and suddenly the viceroy could no longer identify our spies.”

Baet shook his head. “And why, at that time, could you not tell me any of this?”

“We were suffering losses,” Carringten noted. “We had a serious leak. We weren’t telling anybody anything.”

“I’ve been under your command for nearly twenty years, and I never flinched from any other order,” Baet shook his head. He looked away and continued to shake his head “No. We have too many secrets,” he continued. “Layers and layers of secrets, until I’m not even sure we’re the good guys anymore. How can I be sure, when we are as low as our enemies?”

“It is war,” Carringten shrugged. “Men die daily. Men, women, children… do you think women and children are immune to the effects of war?” he asked. “Admittedly, we fight in secret, so we don’t have open war, so the dying is by the dozens, and not by the hundreds or thousands—and that is the way we want it, because there must be war if we would free ourselves from those that would control us.”

“Well, it may soon be open war anyway, if it is all as they say,” Baet noted.

“Yes,” Carringten agreed. “Our enemies are pushing for open war, and I think they shall have it. They’ve been losing the quiet war for years, which is why they are willing to risk more. And as the dying commences, we shall do everything we can to make sure it them that does the majority of it.” He put a finger in Baet’s chest. “You used to know this.”

Baet stared back at his captain. “I think I’ve had enough of your lectures,” he replied. “Lead me to my cell, that I might rest, that I might never have to kill again.”

“Except for one,” Carringten noted. “Just one more time.”

“Yes, well…” Baet shrugged. He turned and began to walk away. “I suppose I cannot stop others from committing suicide by my hand.”

“Almost,” Carringten nodded and grabbed the junior guard by his shoulder, “I am almost done with you.”

Baet turned and glared at his captain. He wanted to hit the dark man so bad.

Carringten pulled a small purse from his pocket and held it out.

“What is this?” Baet blinked at the man, uncertain what to think.

“The duke is thankful for your years of loyal service,” Carringten jangled the small purse. “He is thankful you saved his life. He may have been hard on you for your faults, but he has faults of his own, and recognizes that no man is perfect,” he finished.

“Well—why didn’t he say so?!” Baet replied.

The captain shrugged, “Creigal is a proud man—it is another one of his failings—so he left me to say it,” Carringten answered. “Come, let us see you to your cell,” he said as he put his arm around Baet’s shoulder. “I hear you’ve chosen the musket for your duel with Homoth.”

“I have,” Baet confirmed.

“Tis his folly,” Carringten stated. “I shall pull the man aside and tell him so. Perhaps he will yet see reason.”

With that, the captain returned the junior guard to his cell—as armed Jindleyaks followed at a discrete distance.

Carringten turned and stared through the bars once more. “It was a privilege serving with you. Honor, fidelity, courage,” he said with a salute.

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

Carringten and the Jindleyak jailers stepped out. With a sigh, Baet sat himself down.

Snickering sounds came from the cell at the far end of the room, then the naga muttered something in Trohl, something that sounded insulting.

“Oh what is it with you?!’ Baet yelled at Maligno. “In a few days I shall be released. But you?! What of you?!” he snapped. “It seems to me that you have been forgotten altogether!”

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

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

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

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

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

“And so you resign?!”

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

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

“I cannot command them if they are not here,” Carringten pointed. “Although I will continue to serve as your guard, I will not pretend there is anyone left for me to command.”

“But what of these others? What of Toar and those among the natives that we have hired to see us north?”

Carringten shook his head. “They are not Gaur. They do not look to me. A duke is not so unapproachable to them. They know you. They come to you personally,” he noted. “Yes, I may be the closest, but I am only another guard; and I will not pretend that I command anything more than my own body.”

“And what of our return home?” Cregal asked. “What shall you do when we are among our own once more?”

“Do you think the other men will respect a captain that cannot bring home any of those that he commanded?” Carringten shook his head. “No—I remain your guard, from now until the day I die—but I cannot command. Not anymore. No one in their right mind would follow,” he said.

The Howling

Polished 20.2 — 31m31s — 2023/09/15

Reworked 20.1 — 24m56s — 2023/11/07

Polished 20.2 and 20.3, then compressed 20.3 and 20.4 into the same segment — 51m36s — 2023/11/08

Polished the chapter — 1h22m05s — 2023/11/11

Polished the second half of 20.3, where Krumpus and Wenifas discuss metaphysical matters — 16m11s — 2023/12/22

Polished — 44m28s — 2023/12/29

…and what destroyed the paradisal world of the LaPeuvians so completely? It was the approach of Oblarra—the Great Catastrophe that saw the end of the Old World—with its violent shaking and flooding. It was the Interloper, that dark harbinger, which still threatens us to this day.

Some say this story is impossible, since the world has never been a paradise. These same people often claim that the world can never be a paradise, that it is made for our torment. However, I am one of those that believe this earth has always been, and will always be a paradise—but only to those that allow it, that seek it, that are blessed to find it.

You may ask, if this is a paradise, why is there so much death and destruction—especially if a people was so blessedly righteous, like the LaPeuvians? But even paradise demands its sacrifices.

And what if this story should prove to be false? What if there was never a LaPeuvia? Is there nothing to be gained from the tall tales, from the fictional sagas of our predecessors? I believe quite the opposite. I suggest that there is still much wisdom and humor that can be gleaned from the fantasies of our forefathers, as these long lies circle the great and indescribable truths of forever, and elucidate our own temporal and fickle natures.

— Reading the Ruins: The Possible History of a Nation Lost in Time, p. 131, by Wybrow the Wanderer

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

Crea crawled among the scrub oak and peaked over the crest of a hill. Clouds of dust were rising in the valley below as cavalry from High Plains chased, flanked, and fought against yet another group of marauding outriders.

Crea and Malcolm had hoped the fighting would thin as they moved east—but it had only intensified—and greatly so. Because of this, they mostly traveled at night, scurrying from one burned out hiding spot to the next. At least the rains were good, so there was plenty of water, but yesterday they ran out of food.

Crea could feel her stomach growl as she sat at the edge of a high bluff and gaped at the rolling hills covered in grass, often crisscrossed with fences, and dotted with farmsteads. There were plenty of signs of fighting: burned out houses, collapsed barns, razed fields, pillars of smoke twisting into a sky thick with ash. The road to Land’s End cut through this mess, the only part of the world that had not been attacked and twisted by the marauders—because they used it so.

Crea stared out over the difficult landscape and swore she could hear the occasional scream, the distant clank of metal on metal, the rumble of hooves thundering across the hills. Her spirit sagged and she wondered if there was anything to scavenge between here and the big city. How much further did they have to go? Were they even half way?

Side by side, Crea and Malcolm crept across the burning landscape. The first day, they found an orchard that hadn’t been completely stripped of its apples—and gorged themselves on the remainder. The second day gave them several squashes in a small garden, to fill in the corners of their packs, where there weren’t apples. The third day, Crea was answering the call of nature out back of a wrecked barn when a tall man dressed as a Trohl appeared out of the trees. She didn’t see him until he was halfway across the small field—then her heart nearly stopped. There was blood all over him, a sword in his hand, and a haunted look to his bothered eyes.

Crea cut off her business, inched up her small clothes, and picked up her falchion. She crept toward the edge of the building—but the man looked up and spotted her. The blood-splattered stranger pointed and gave a rough “Hey!” Then ran at her with manic determination.

Crea bolted. She ran for her pack which was sitting in a ditch on the way to the road. She hoped to see Malcolm there with his sword—but he had wondered off to the gods only knew. She screamed bloody murder as she ran.

Crea could feel the man catching up, so she glanced back and just happened to dodge out of his reach—but he was quick, and managed to get a hand on her ankle at the next turn. He tripped her up, and caused her to lose her grip on the sword. The falchion flew from her as she crashed to the earth.

Crea tumbled to the ground, still screaming. Her weapon was too far and the man had her by the foot. She kicked, as the man slowly climbed her leg, but only one of her blows landed very square, and it only flinched the man as his rough hands brought her under his control.

The bloody stranger got a good hold of her other leg. Despite Crea’s flailing strikes and banshee cries, he slowly brought her arms under his power. He sat on her hips, and with her hands pinned in his own, he crushed his face into her chest. Crea realized she was likely to live—but only after he took her—only after she was defiled once more. She closed her eyes and hoped he would not hurt her as much as the first one had. “Just let me live,” she heard herself saying, “just let me live…”

With drunken desire on his leering lips, the attacker began to drool—when suddenly he jerked. Crea could feel his body slacken as his eyes rolled back, then he flopped to the side and dropped off her.

Malcolm stood over Crea and the bloody stranger with a large rock in one hand. Dazed, the rough-looking foreigner began to mutter, then attempted to lift his sword. The young post-carrier lifted the rock and smashed the man in the head—then smashed him again for good measure. He considered a fourth strike—but the man didn’t move as he splayed in the field. He hadn’t even cringed away from the last blow, so the boy figured he was already done.

Malcolm dropped the rock, turned, and offered a hand to Crea. “Did he hurt you?” he asked with worry in his eyes.

Crea shook her head, and allowed Malcolm to pull her to her feet, then gave him a long hug. “Let’s go,” she said and grabbed her sword and bag. As they fled, they wondered why the man was alone, but could only speculate. Luckily, they saw no other marauders. “I can tell you one thing,” Crea said as they traveled. “He weren’t no Trohl.”

“I don’t reckon he was anything but ugly,” Malcolm shrugged. “What do you think he was?”

“Ministrian,” she answered. “And he’s the second one I seen dressed as a Trohl.”

“Are they all Ministrians?” Malcolm asked.

“Dunno,” Crea shrugged. “The only other one I saw up close was a Saot—but then, that one was dressed as a Saot,” she explained. “Red and black.”

“From Gaurring?” Malcolm wondered. “You think he was a real Gaur?”

“He spoke the tongue,” Crea noted.

“What do you make of it?” Malcolm asked.

Crea shrugged again. What did she know of war?

After the lone attacker, they didn’t see or hear anyone else, so they walked several miles before settling themselves in a clump of trees at the edge of a ruined farmstead.

While Crea rested, Malcolm had a look about. She was nearly asleep when he came sauntering back with a live chicken in hand. “And there’s at least a half dozen more where this came from!” he grinned.

They agreed on a fire, and he twisted the poor bird’s neck. They found a sheltered spot, and as Malcolm gathered wood and got the fire going, Crea plucked the prize. They ate squash and apple with the bird, and wondered if it wasn’t the best meal they’d ever tasted. They laughed and smiled as they told jokes and reminisced about their previous lives. But the revelry only lasted as long as the food. As the shadows began to stretch, Crea grew more and more sullen.

“What is it?” Malcolm asked. “What’s wrong?”

She smiled, since she knew he suspected something small, something immediate, like a mote that had drifted into her eye; or maybe some minor cut she had only just discovered. He did not consider the war that raged around them, the calamity of their current circumstance, the fact that their lives were completely upside down. He was naïve and sweet, and so she kissed him for it.

At first, the kiss was just a peck—then another and another peck—but it wasn’t long before Malcolm was kissing her back, and with a passion.

She liked it. She liked the kind touch of his soft hands, the heat of his body. Her head said that she shouldn’t, that the gods would be mad—but her heart raged. The gods that allowed her to be defiled and repeatedly attacked. As the darkness grew around them, she wanted to know a sweet lover’s touch. Although Malcolm was young, he had proved to be good company, and had showed more and more bravery as their troubles continued. He’d been a faithful companion and an honest friend. He had helped her search the family farm. He had killed to protect her. He hadn’t flinched or even asked a question afterward. He certainly didn’t blame her. Slowly, she took off his clothes, and then her own. For her sake, Crea just wanted to know a soft touch. She didn’t care that the clerics called it sin. She felt that the gods had forgotten her. She was fairly certain she was already in hell.

Nor was she worried that Malcolm might put a child in her. She was certain the heathen that attacked her in Solveny had already cursed her. She swore she could feel it already, growing inside her. She was convinced, and figured that some things a girl just knows. At least here and with Malcolm the decision was hers.

As Crea took him in, she tried to imagine a cottage with him and half a dozen babies to raise—but the vision remained hazy—since she couldn’t figure a way from here to there. She loved him simply to keep the shadows at bay. She held him and kissed him and caressed his thin muscles, sure that any second the night would come alive with malicious forces and devour them both. They would never make it to Land’s End.

The push and pull of her emotions swept her along, and despite the pleasure of Malcolm’s soft touch, Crea realized a small part of her was repulsed by what they were doing. This was not the way it should be! She felt she was making things difficult in a way she didn’t understand. She was muddying the waters. She was complicating what were already impossible circumstances. A pit in her stomach said this pleasure would come at a steep price.

And yet, she loved the feel of him. Each day as they reached the end of their slinking, and bedded down for a rest, she held him close and kissed him softly, telling him to sleep—until the sky began to light. Then she let the impulse wake him, and they made love as the sun came up.

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

How many times must I mourn this child?! Wenifas wondered as she held the urn full of Claiten’s ashes. She wasn’t interested in yet another ceremony meant to honor the fallen—but when she heard that the families of Traust and Apulton had gathered, she didn’t want to seem churlish.

Still, she hadn’t expected to participate! Indeed, she almost screamed when Krumpus took Claiten’s urn off her desk and brought it along.

Now, standing somewhere in the never-ending gardens of Azra’s estate, Wenifas stood and stared at the massive oak before her, as Azra himself droned on in his native tongue. She imagined his comments were poignant and well versed—not that she cared to hear them. No matter the sweetness of his sentiments, they would not bring back her son. But this isn’t for me, she reminded herself. This is for these others.

The wife of Traust stood next to the priestess, and on the other side of Traust’s wife stood the mother of Apulton. They had hugged her and gave her pats when she first arrived, but now were standing resolute, as the patriarch continued to talk. Each of them also held an urn, and tears touched the corners of their eyes. All around them stood their children and relatives, a giant circle of mourners.

Driven by the endless grief, Wenifas cried in streams. She was a watery soul, and she hoped they’d finish soon, before she had too much time to remember her boy, before the tears could soak the edge of her collar to the point where she’d have to change her shirt.

Finally, Azra left off his words. The wife of Traust and the mother of Apulton lifted the lids from their urns. They stepped toward the massive tree, and with heartfelt words of their own, they slowly dusted the base of the behemoth with the ashes of their loved ones.

Taking a cue from these strangers, Wenifas pulled the lid off her son’s urn. The other two women were now sobbing as they slowly circled the tree and sprinkled its roots with ash. Not wanting to give the tears any more time, Wenifas turned her urn upside down and dumped its contents in a single heap.

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

Wenifas lifted her ash covered finger to her forehead and smudged her brow. Then, still not feeling the presence of Claiten, she licked her dirty finger—then looked up to see the mother of Apulton and some number of the others that had gathered. They were staring at her. Some were curious and questioning of her actions, while others were simply appalled. Indignant, the priestess stood straight. She dropped the urn, faced the crowd, then pushed her way through.

Meu joined her with Evereste in her arms, and Celesi joined on her other side. They each slipped an arm around the Ministrian’s back and offered their shoulders as they returned to the barracks. Only a few hours ago, they had told her they’d both be going south in the morning, so their company was little comfort.

Yet, little was better than none. The tears stopped. When she got to her room, Wenifas laid on her bed, until Naharahna blessed her with sleep.

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

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

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

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

“Honor Komotz?” The priestess stared at him. “Is he not stiull alive? What is a howling?” she asked.

He told her. Will you go?

Wenifas blanched and wondered that there was still room for her heart to fall. She knew the young man’s mending had suffered numerous setbacks—but had figured he would get better eventually. She put her hand on her aching chest. “I feel like it just keeps raining. Will this mourning ever end?” she squeaked, then slipped on her shoes and ignored the heavy wrinkling of her dress. She hoped that most of it would settle out. “I don’t get it,” she continued. “Aren’t there easier ways to go?”

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

Long before she was ready, Wenifas and the shaman arrived at a cottage, to find many others already there.

They’ve begun, Krumpus noted and led her into the somber crowd. They hugged those they knew and tried to smile. There was little real conversation as they continued forward.

It took a minute before Wenifas realized they were drifting closer and closer to Komotz. She had not seen him since the day they left Excergie. He was propped against a board with a large rest about halfway down, so he was sitting almost as much as he was standing. He was thin and sallow, barely recognizable as the energetic youth she had first met in Ebertin some weeks before.

There was a line waiting to see the injured man. One at a time, they hugged, kissed, and whispered to Komotz as they held his pale weak hands—then gathered in tight knots, to hold each other and cry—while the others in the line kissed and whispered to their cousin. Wenifas realized she was in line to speak with him. “What can I possibly say?!” she blanched. “He doesn’t even speak my language!”

Krumpus patted her back. He knows why we’re here. Say what you’d say to anyone in his position and he’ll understand it, no matter the language.

Wenifas stepped closer and closer to Komotz. All too quickly, she was in front of him—shocked to see the boisterous youth reduced to a mere husk. Before, he’d been so carefree, so full of charm and vigor. Now he was gaunt and sickly pale, with a number of heavy bandages, half bloody and spoiled. His hair was patchy and thin. His neck and the bit of his chest that she could see were still purple and yellow with heavy bruising. Emaciated, he labored to breathe. His pain was obvious and overwhelming. It hurt her just to look at him. It hurt even more when he recognized her and twisted his lips into a tortured smile. Those pleading eyes!—at least Claiten’s death was quick! The thought jumped into her head.

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

Although not the last in line, Krumpus was close. He was followed by Aim, Andrus, and Homoth. They were slow to say their goodbyes, and wept openly as they hugged their dear kin.

Finally, the line was done. Finished with the goodbyes, Komotz leaned back onto the board and was lifted by six men, including Duboha and Elpis—with his funny eye. The bearers carried Komotz through the large garden, past the great family tree—where the lump of Claiten’s dust sat with a divot from his mother’s finger—and further up the ridge. The rest followed and sang a mournful song as they trundled along. They walked a good mile or so before they came to a cliff that overlooked a ravine, some two or three hundred feet down. The men that carried Komotz proceeded to set the foot of the platform on the ground, and slowly raised the head so Komotz was standing once more.

Most of the others had backed away and formed a wide semi-circle which opened at the cliff. Komotz leaned forward, and with the help of his grandfather and brother, he took to his hands and knees. Homoth and Azra backed away from Komotz—though the sickly youth shook. Pained and agitated, he crawled. Nearly at the edge of the cliff, he lowered himself to his stomach, then slithered as he pulled himself closer and closer to the precipice. Wenifas couldn’t believe it! Would he really?!

Komotz pulled himself over the lip of the cliff, his body sliding over the edge, dragging gravel with it. Wenifas heard a hollow thud and flinched as she imagined the impact.

And then the howling began. She jumped as a chill cry rose from all around her. The others poured their pain and grief at the uncaring sky—in the manner of wolves—as the priestess wondered if they’d all gone mad!

Altogether, the howling was uncanny, eerie, even unnerving as it continued and redoubled off the stone walls of the rising ridges. It carried on for far too long—though in all actuality it was nothing more than a couple minutes. With that, the others turned and walked away in silence. For some time, no one spoke. Beyond the family tree, whispers began, and soon there was open conversation.

“That was ghastly!” Wenifas whispered to the shaman as they walked back to the main house. “Is this why you call yourselves the Oak and Beast?!”

Kurmpus shook his head. This is not a thing for our militia alone. Indeed, it is quite common among other Jindleyak, along with the Melmore, Untu, and Indrah…

“Was there nothing else to be done?” Wenifas cut in. “Nothing else to be tried?” She asked as she wondered at the waste of the young man’s life.

What would you have us do? Krumpus shrugged. The poor boy was destroyed the moment the leviathan got a hold of him. Despite the excellent care of Giscelda, his suffering only increased. Indeed, some are surprised he lasted this long. You should have seen all the potions and medicines we gave him just so he could crawl to the edge! He shook his head. At least none will ever question the courage of Komotz!

“And what did you do?!” she snapped at him.

I prayed long and hard to our ancestors, but was given no special guidance, he shrugged.

“It isn’t right!” Wenifas complained.

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

“But how?!”

It is a honored tradition, Krumpus shrugged. It’s been done by a thousand warriors of the bravest face when their wounds are too great.

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

The shaman shrugged. At least a dozen times a month?

That seemed like far too often. Wenifas blinked, and stared at nothing. “This is all very distressing,” she said to the dirt. “Why so many?”

It is not as many as you think when you consider the size of the city, Krumpus stated. Usually it is done by the old and infirm, when their time is nigh.

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

As you should, Krumpus agreed. What must it be like to feel so cornered that you’d rather crawl off a cliff than live?! he stared. But Komotz was suffering, and his family was suffering too. His injuries were so dire and varied that we were having an impossible time trying to fix one thing without aggravating another, he shook his head. This howling was deserved—but I’ve seen bad ones. I’ve seen howlings where family members have begged and supplicated themselves to the one that would go. I’ve seen those that cursed and threw insults and stones after the one that fell, because they felt they were simply quitting, the shaman shook his head. At least these are rare. I hear of these only a few times a year.

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

An understandable question, Krumpus nodded.

“If the gods are good, how can there be so much pain and suffering in the world?” the priestess wondered.

Ahh, the old question of pain, Krumpus mused.

“And do you have an answer?!” she glared at him.

Of course! he grinned. The question is whether or not the answer is any good!

“Shoulda figured,” Wenifas huffed.

Let me start with a different question, Krumpus continued. Why do you think bad things happen to good people?

“No idea,” Wenifas shrugged. "What would you say?”

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

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

Is it? Krumpus replied. God is in the business of saving souls—not coddling those that just happen to be right. In order to save souls, god must speak to them, and there’s no better way to reach a sinner than to give him some undeserved grace!

“And so he must torture the good?” she asked.

Krumpus shrugged. The good that the wicked are given must be balanced, so perhaps it is necessary to foist some evil onto the shoulders of the good, that they might help bare the burden.

“Well, that sounds like a terrible way to operate!” Wenifas complained. “Why not just let the wicked suffer?”

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

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

Not much, Krumpus shrugged. Especially when it comes to the gods.

Wenifas pointed to his scarred face. “Did you deserve this?!” she snapped.

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

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

We are all holy, Krumpus replied, at least to a degree. Do not fret! Everything must fall by the wayside, so there is space for new things, new adventures! That is why no one escapes, so the world can be renewed!

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

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

“You make me sound like a coward,” Wenifas replied—then burst into tears. “I am a coward! Let me come with you!” she pleaded. “I don’t want to be alone!” she grabbed the shaman. “If it’s so dangerous where you go, maybe you should stay too!”

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

"And why does it matter?!” Wenifas huffed. “Even you say that everything shall be swept up by the storm, destroyed like all that came before! It is an impotent magic to build sandcastles on the beach!"

Krumpus shook his head. All castles crumble. The earth itself shall one day perish—but much of what we build persists long beyond our lives—and those that remain will build upon the things we leave. So the question becomes, do we leave them poisoned spines of our own shame, guilt, and fear; to corrupt their flesh, and speed them to their graves? Or do we leave them hearth and home, that they might raise a new generation, to value the things that nourished and kept us?

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

Krumpus gave an emphatic nod. Without the slow build of life itself, there can be no meaningful death. Without the slow build of life, there is nothing. There is just the gaping maw of the unquenchable abyss.

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

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

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

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

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

Do not fear death, for you or anyone else, Krumpus smiled. If life is not permanent, what does that say about death?

Wenifas blinked.

We must return here again and again so that we might right our wrongs, the shaman told her. Beside, is this not the greatest game? To live and love? To lose and leave? He asked. The price for life is death. Even Jeiju died.

“So I am born into debt?” Wenifas frowned. “You sound like the church—only I know them to be hypocrites."

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

"And where are you wrong?" Wenifas snipped.

Krumpus smiled a big toothy grin. Now you learn—and that is why you must go within—that you know what to believe. But you must also know that you will get some parts of it wrong, and this is why you must listen to others—because sometimes, others will see what you cannot, even when it is right under your nose, he smiled.

“More circles,” Wenifas rolled her eyes. “For a mute you sure do talk a lot,” she glared. “Yet, I feel there is something you are trying to get at. What is the point of all this?! What is so impacting that I must stay here and be safe?!” she sneered the last word.

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

The priestess flinched away, then put her own hands on her stomach. Suddenly, wide-eyed, and feeling thick, Wenifas shook her head. “No!” She asserted. “But how?!”

With a knowing grin, Krumpus made a circle with his thumb and finger—then plunged a finger from his other hand through the ring.

“I know how it’s done!” she snapped at him. “I am a priestess after all! What I mean to say is that I have not slept with anyone since...” Her eyes got wide and she covered her mouth. She remembered quite well the last man that slept with her. His easy grin. His trusting eyes. She thought of him constantly. “I shall have his baby,” she whispered. Tears of joy flowed. With a wide grin, she grabbed Krumpus and wrapped him in a hug. “Blessed Naharahna! She gives me his child!” she roared as she squeezed his delicate hand. He winced—so she dropped his brittle fingers, wrapped him in a hug, and continued to squeal.

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

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

Carringten was in the room.

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

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

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

Carringten shrugged. “I don’t know that Creigal intends anything at all—but from the very first moment, he was the duke’s prisoner.”

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

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

“He’s a fool,” Baet shook his head. “Does he really think he can beat me after a few days of shooting?”

“I doubt that he’s thinking much at all,” Carringten replied. “You were always a thinker,” he reached through the bars and put a hand on Baet’s shoulder. “I suppose it’s a blessing and a curse,” he said with a nod. “You are backed in a corner my friend, and I have done what little I can to help. I am sorry it is not more.”

“I’ve always admired you, Carringten. May the wind be at your back,” Baet stated.

“Courage, honor, fidelity, my brother,” Carringten replied, then, having nothing else to say, he gave a nod and followed the Jindleyaks as they led Maligno from the room.

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

He knew the answer immediately. Deep down he knew that she’d never forgive him. Women could be like that—irrational and resolute in their irrationality. He shook his head. it figured that he’d find a right proper woman—only to lose her at the start!

But there was nothing else for it. Once the duel happened—and assuming that he won—Baet figured he’d go south. He’d go to the coast of Ewile with the money Creigal gave him. He’d settle near the sea and become a member of some local watch—just another poke hoping to keep the peace. There are women aplenty in the south, he thought—though his heart rejected these remote prospects.

Of course, all that was assuming the Jindleyak would let him out and not just keep him locked up for killing their kin.

Or worse.

By the gods, there was always an ‘or worse’!

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

Baet picked at the plate, unable to eat. The only feeding was done by the worry and fear that gnawed at the Saot’s stomach.

At noon, several guards arrived. “Today’s the day,” they told him, then let him out of the cell and led him through the house. They took him to the back lawn where there was a table with two muskets on it: Cloud Breaker, and a stranger. Homoth stood on the far side of the table.

Baet stared at the older brother. “Tell them it was a misunderstanding,” he said to his enemy. “Tell them Paye simply meant to clean that fancy crest, that she never intended to keep it, and that I had nothing to do with it all together.”

Homoth simply glared at the guard, then, once he was sure the Saot was done talking, he stared him in the eye and said. “I’m going to kill you.”

“You’re a fool,” Baet replied.

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

“Oh, so you fired it?” Baet feigned shock. “Well… I imagine you must have practiced the whole week! By now you must be an absolute terror among the squirrels,” he snipped, then pointed to the other musket. “What of that one? Does it pull to the left? Does it have a hair trigger? Does it have a hard recoil—so hard that you jerk it before you fire?” Baet stared.

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

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

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

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

“You will turn on ten,” Azra told them. “If either man turns before ten, he gets an arrow.” To prove the threat, several archers gave a nod.

“Including him?” Baet pointed at his opponent and wondered if they’d really do it. Would they shoot one of their own as he dueled a foreigner? Despite accusations going the other way, Homoth really was a cheater. He’d cheated when they’d played touches—and that was just a game. Hell, he’d lied about the crest! What would keep the youth from cheating in a duel?! As he considered the possibilities, darker thoughts entered his mind. Baet wondered if perhaps he’d catch an arrow, even if he waited. Would they simply claim he cheated, just like Homoth had done before they played touches? Was it a whole family of cheaters?

But the worry would do him no good, so Baet pushed it aside as much as he could. Let the chips fall where they may, and if he was lucky, he’d take his sweet time picking them up. After all, his captors must have some sense of decorum. They let him keep the coin Carringten gave him, and also the meteor he picked from the rubble of Kezodel’s court house (not that he told them what it was). Could he expect Paye to raise a ruckus if he was given a raw deal? Somehow equal treatment seemed possible. Perhaps others would be upset if Homoth was allowed to cheat. Could he possibly retain his pristine image if he openly cheated another man of his life? Even a stranger? Even a foreigner?

Baet turned and scanned the crowd. He saw several fine ladies among the crowd of men—but none could hold his attention—until he caught sight of Paye. She stood in black, cutting a fine silhouette against the earthy tones of the garden. He realized the outcome didn’t matter to her. Either way she was mourning. Indeed, her face was red and puffy from tears, and he wondered that she could be so beautiful and dour at the same time.

For her part, Paye didn’t understand any of this. Homoth had refused to hear her arguments, had refused to even see her. How was it that no one should listen to her?

And now, she could hear the others. The conversations all about her was incomprehensible. The heavy beating of her heart drowned out the meaning of their words. Only the nervous giggles seemed to make sense—a cruel mockery of her pain. It seemed flippant and incredibly rude. It didn’t matter who died. Either way it was an absolute tragedy—and it became more and more unbearable as the scene proceeded!

Baet and Homoth were placed back to back. “One…! Two…! Three…!” Azra began the count, as the men slowly stepped away.

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

“Four…! Five…! Six…!”

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

“Seven…! Eight…! Nine…!”

Why wouldn’t Homoth listen to reason?! It was in his power to stop this! She was so mad at him! Suddenly, she wanted Baet to kill him! She wouldn’t even be mad about it!

Yet, she knew that she would be, and she realized she’d hate herself too. She had to do something to stop this! Anything!

With no further thought, her feet carried her forward. “NO!” she screamed as she pushed past the others. Would they listen? They had to listen! They lost Komotz—among so many others! There was no reason for anyone else to die! “NO!” she repeated, as her feet carried her forward.

“Ten!” Azra called, and the two men took their last step. Paye was too far away, and the two men turned. Baet was quicker as he turned halfway and stood sideways. He raised his gun with a surety, while Homoth turned all the way around and took a second to aim—yet Homoth was the one that fired.

Why do you pause? Paye wondered as she stared at the Saot. Why do you glance at me before you set your sight on Homoth? Are you not committed?!

BOOM! the pistol sounded.

Paye flinched and horror filled her heart as Homoth’s musket gave off a deafening pop. She thought her heart would explode as tears flooded and confused her vision. An overwhelming grief filled her as she crumbled to the ground, refusing to see anything more. The crowd gasped—and Paye realized that she hated them all for letting this happen! She hated each and every one of them!

Unbound

Polished — 11m46s — 2023/11/11

Polished — 12m49s — 2023/12/29

After several weeks of crisscrossing back and forth across the central plain of the Noeth, Brankellus doubted he'd ever catch Petaerus. There were signs of his quarry everywhere; burned out villages, the mournful wailing of desperate survivors, and always a couple more ghosts to join his entourage—but the marauder himself was never at hand. Brankellus began to wonder if he would ever catch the man. Would the murderer ever pay for his crimes?

Although Brankellus could not catch Petaerus, he often saw his enemy riding this way or that, leaving a burned out town, or charging into one of the villages that was lucky enough to still be standing. But Petaerus never held still for long, and his horse was far too fast for the ghost. The spirit was beginning to think he’d never catch the soldier…

…and then, one morning, he made the edge of camp before the riders woke and began to pack. For some time, maybe an hour in all, he stared at Petaerus as the man slept, and tried a thousand ways to strike him. Many of the ghosts did the same—or tried to hurt the other marauders—all to no avail.

Or perhaps it did have an effect? In his sleep, Petaerus began to toss and fidget, as if he could sense the animosity of the dead. Suddenly, he woke, frightened and disturbed. He stared about, as if his enemies were upon him—but he saw nothing—only the slow shift in the sky as the sun was getting ready to rise. Then Petaerus roused his men and the camp prepared to depart—as the ghosts cried and screamed their hate for these men—all to no effect. Like so many times before, Petaerus and his marauders were on their way to the next village; to murder, rape, and pillage, if the village wasn’t well defended, if they were not swollen with Yurand’s cavalry.

Brankellus ignored the wider war, though Petaerus could not. For nearly a month, Petaerus and his marauders played cat and mouse with the riders from High Plains. For his part, Gliedian had taken the bulk of his men and encircled High Plains. They laid siege to the fortified town, which effectively cut off any of the Count’s troops that were outside the high-walled town. Catapults and siege towers were built as the attack was prepared—but until the order was given, there was little to do but wait. Most of the fighting took place in the county around High Plains, as villages loyal to Yurand were pillaged and sacked.

The inhabitants of these villages weren’t altogether alone. Yurand’s cavalry was outside the city, and had been since word of Solveny’s demise had reached the count. Despite their losses, these units harassed and vexed the invader’s army with determination and tenacity, taking refuge to the east and south, while Gliedian’s marauders lashed out at the increasingly distant villages.

Having nothing else to do but trail after his quarry, Brankellus stepped through a village early in the morning. He expected he would simply step out the far side and continue after Petaerus, when all at once he noticed dust rising off the road. Riders, a great number, were heading this way, and at a gallop. Brankellus feared what was about to happen to the town, but was positively electric with anticipation. For once, his prey was coming to him!

A compliment of marauders charged from the trees and swarmed toward the hovels and cottages of the simple folk. The horsemen reached the first of the homes and havoc ensued—but it was not the unsuspecting slaughter Brankellus thought it would be. Cavalry from High Plains had slipped into the sleepy village the night before. Armed and dangerous, they poured out of the small buildings, often atop their mounts, as they wore the orange and gray of High Plains.

Expecting only a token of resistance, the marauders were surprised when fighting men continued to pour from the tiny huts. Many of the attackers were cut down before the mixed force of marauders realized their mistake. The ambush was done in such a clandestine manner that even Brankellus was caught by surprise—though it was quite to his liking. Perhaps he should finally see Petaerus die as the marauders turned and attempted to flee—especially since there were more men hiding in the fields!

As the marauders turned, a large band of infantry rose from hide-outs they’d dug in the fields and cut off the marauders retreat. The slaughter continued—though Petaerus, Dolif, and some of the others still managed to make the edge of the trees.

The ambush was a thorough victory for the locals and nearly destroyed this band of marauders—though there were many others that continued to sack and pillage the countryside. A mere handful of the attackers escaped the slaughter—Petaerus among them—though he suffered several wounds.

Brankellus trudged onward, but he and his entourage of spirits were not the only ones in pursuit. The men from High Plains sought to kill every last one of these marauders and followed them into the woods. They entered a wild area near the border of Gaurring. Although they hunted and ferreted out several survivors (some that they took as prisoners), Petaerus escaped undetected.

But Brankellus could not be deceived. He knew without any sign on the earth that Petaerus had slipped away from his living pursuers. His horse was dead and long abandoned. Injured, and fearing the men from High Plains, Petaerus made his way deep into the wild. Brankellus and the other spirits soon found him, hiding in a hollow near the edge of a lake. He was wounded on his side, his shoulder, and also his leg. He had bandaged himself, and none of the injuries seemed life threatening on their own—but all together they'd taken a great toll on the man.

For days, Brankellus cursed and railed at his injured enemy. He stuck his fingers in the man's wounds and begged them to spoil. For a night and a day, the soldier was bothered by the taunting spirits—but then, after a time, he simply ignored the invisible chill that hung over him.

Brankellus raged and called down the fury of the gods as Petaerus rested at the edge of the lake, and slowly regained his strength. After a day of hiding and conserving his energy, Petaerus set several traps, put lines in the lake, and foraged fruits and vegetables. By lunch, he had a trout and enough forage for a decent meal.

Brankellus was astounded by the man's resourcefulness, and as the first few days came to an end, he despaired to know the soldier would live. Anguished at his inability to do anything to this vile man, he stood near a trap and wailed for a time, then collapsed and cried.

The other ghosts gathered around Brankellus and made the Trohl sign for mourning, as he had done for them. With their hands to their bowed faces, they looked up to the sky and threw their arms out. Again and again they made the sign as Brankellus continued to thrash and mourn.

Then, something approached along the game trail and stepped into the small thicket. It was a deer, curious and cautious, as it approached the baited trap set by Petaerus. It would be quite a boon for the wounded trooper if the deer should step into the snare. Indeed, such a bounty would all but guarantee his recovery!

Brankellus screamed and yelled at the stupid animal. Would it really die for the small boon of a couple wild apples?! He charged forward as he raged—then, as he struck the beast—a shiver of fear shot through the creature. It pulled away from the ghost and backed from the fruit that laid in the trap. Thoroughly spooked, the deer turned and bolted in the other direction.

Brankellus stared after the animal and remembered how he'd panicked the horses so very long ago. He turned to see the other ghosts talking excitedly and gesturing about the woods in a wild manner. Brankellus had spooked the deer! It was not caught, and now Petaerus could not eat it! Many of them understood what had happened and knew the significance, and so they spread the discovery to the others.

Smiles lit among the host of dead as they spread about, searching for traps and snares in the woods, while others stepped into the lake and followed the lines set in the water, then proceeded to spook any fish that approached the wormed hooks.

Petaerus was still quite weak, and the few fruits and vegetables he could forage was not enough to carry him through his plight. He caught one more fish before the lines dried up—and despite seeing several animals in the woods, none of his traps were successful. Suddenly, Petaerus was unable to catch anything—as the ghosts spooked away any game that ventured near.

Despite his lack of food, the soldier's wounds healed clean—all but the deep cut on his leg. With nothing but water, and a few leaves and berries for succor, the captain's strength ebbed, then dwindled. He grew weak. In his weakened state, infection appeared about his persisting wound. Petaerus became delirious and began to panic. He could not understand why his fishing lines that worked so well the first two days were now failing him! Initially, he was sure there was plenty to catch and eat in the area, and that he should be fine—if only the men of High Plains didn’t catch him. But now, nothing bit, nothing was caught in his ingenious snares. The woods were quiet, as if all the game had simply turned and went elsewhere. He did not know there was such a host of ghosts all about him, some that climbed the trees, and spooked the squirrels, and even chased the crows away.

The slow march of days continued, and Petaerus wept and moaned as he feverishly checked one trap after the next, only to find them all empty. In his dizzy condition, Petaerus broke several of his snares, which caused him to cry. The same happened with the fishing lines. Petaerus cast them back, not realizing the bait had slipped the hook, or that he broke the line and now the hook was forever lost. Several of the lines were tangled and useless. Soon, there was little need for the ghosts to sabotage him at all. In his weak and hazy condition, Petaerus had unwittingly sabotaged himself.

Now that most of the traps and lines were ruined, the ghosts gathered around the delirious copal and watched him slip closer and closer to death. Petaerus sobbed and wailed, then fell into a fitful sleep, only to wake, check the one trap he could remember—before collapsing in the grass and moaning over his condition. Flies and biting insects followed and tortured the man. In a stupor, he languished at the edge of the lake, as the chill of night overcame him. He shivered and woke repeatedly as the night continued, but had not the strength to make it back to his blankets.

As the man’s misery increased, more and more of the ghosts could not abide it. With tears of their own, many turned and walked away from the dying man's suffering. Some looked up into the starry sky and begged their gods to rescue them—all of which were taken. They rose slowly from the ground, or shot into the sky, while others simply walked off into the woods. To do what? Brankellus wondered. To wander the world unseen? He could not fathom it. Among a few others, Brankellus relished the pain and suffering of his quarry. Though he could not remember why, he felt he was justified as he watched Petaerus squirm and thrash about. He stayed until the bitter end.

For over a day, Petaerus did not stir from his spot, except to stretch or shift his position—or simply to whimper and beg of the twin gods of Minist. He did not even have the strength to properly weep anymore. His breathing was ragged and labored. As Brankellus watched the man die, he realized he could not even remember why he wanted the man to die. He figured the soldier must have done something awful to justify such a troubled end—but the specifics were lost.

Finally, the death rattle sounded, and the spirit of Petaerus lifted out of his corpse. He stood, and the Ministrian soldier saw Brankellus and the other ghosts gathered all about him. Confusion, suspicion, and fear stared back at Brankellus.

Brankellus wondered why he loathed this spirit. He knew he had reason, but forgot exactly why. Whatever it was, Petaerus had the look of it. He hissed and cursed at the ghosts all around him, then turned and slumped away into the dark woods. He snorted and bellowed and trudged away on heavy feet—looking for something, looking for the gods only know.

Brankellus watched after the angry ghost, but since the man was dead, there was nothing to pull him, to make him follow. He let him go. Indeed, he wondered if Petaerus remembered why they were angry with each other in the first place. For a time, he thought to follow the ghost and to ask the reason. For a time, he thought to follow the ghost and torment him a bit more—but Brankellus was tired and did not want to see Petaerus ever again. Indeed, now that he was dead, he wanted to forget the man all together. Instead of following, Brankellus turned and walked into the woods in the other direction. He scratched at his head as he stepped among the dark trees. Why was he still here? What was it he meant to do? He continued to walk, one tired step after the last, not knowing where he might go or what he was looking for, only hoping to know it when he found it. Indeed, there was a time when Brankellus still knew what he was doing among the living—but that time had passed. Now there was nothing, and the spirit of Brankellus separated from the others and wandered into the wilds, searching for… searching for… what was he searching for?

Brankellus turned to the east and stared at the Red Moon as it crested the horizon. Oblarra stared back at the ghost and whispered, “there are more that require your wrath—so many more,” it spoke. “Keep hunting,” it told him, then shared visions of other men that deserved his vexing.

Brankellus turned from the red god as a renewed sense of vengeance surged through his heart. He stalked north, toward High Plains, as the dark god Oblarra laughed and lapped at his misery.