The Dreadlord Lasitus

Birth of the Blight

Polished — 42m18s — 2023/09/30

Polished — 40m16s — 2023/11/16

Lasitus found the valley in the middle of summer, lush with life. The mountains were painted with trees, both familiar and strange. He noted a wide range of flowers—many that even graced the royal gardens of Danya—but these were easily outdone in both quality and quantity by those he didn’t know.

Among these trees were birds. There were thousands of birds. Charms of finches, bevies of pigeons, even a dance of cranes graced the far side of a large pond. There were hawks, falcons—and although he never saw the owls, he heard them at night quite frequently. Indeed, it was an untamed wild of richness and splendor, full of vigor and fecundity.

There were giants among the animals. The wilder-elk were bigger than moose, and the spirit bears were nearly as big—and incredibly stealthy despite their conspicuous patchwork of white and black fur. Once they were noticed, the massive beasts were impossible to ignore, until they moved on—but twice now he’d been shocked to see a bear uncomfortably close. Thankfully, the beasts always moved on.

Family after family of flat-tails dammed up the rivers to create their log houses and fishing ponds. Little bears roamed the night with dark eyes and thieving paws. The slight grasses were filled with vermin, slithers, hoppers, and snails.

This was the quality of the valley when the Dreadlord found it—but it did not last. Now, nearly two hundred years later, only the strongest plants and the most foolhardy animals attempted to grow in this blighted land. Even the shrubs and stunted oak were brown, dead and dying, as their limbs sagged under the mere weight of a smattering of under-developed leaves. The few trees that remained were scraggly and tragic, and mostly hugged the corrupted streams and ponds of the valley. Only the fetid waters offered any respite from the Dreadlord’s crushing magicks.

The only animals that were about anymore were scavengers and scroungers, looking for anything that might have been chased from the bordering lands, that had come here to die, likely diseased, and often in terrible condition. When they died, as they almost always did, their corpses formed a transient oasis for the only life that really thrived in the valley: beetles, flies, mites, and other imbibers of rot and decay. Which isn’t to say that the valley was empty. There were the lumbering amalgamations of death, dross, and dirt among the waste; elementals melded with the impressive blood and earth magicks of the Dreadlord. They sat or shambled about in a thoughtless manner—until they observed the trespass of something living—then they became dauntless and formidable hulks, bent on death. All too often, they drifted to the edge of the blight, then charged into the bordering wilds, thrashing about the brush after rabbits and sparrows. Lasitus had to call them back nightly, so they would not get lost, smashing at the verdant life that stretched from the edges of the blight. Left to their own devices, these mud golems would eventually batter themselves into nothing—though they’d create a thick line of death and destruction in their wake. Over the years, how many had he lost, especially when he first started making them?

The wilds beyond were proof that there was still resistance to the Dreadlord’s domination. Indeed, even among the blighted valley were harbingers of life tucked between the rot of logs and carcass, usually at the edges of the streams. In many places the streams were lined with a thin veneer of cottonwoods and oaks that leaned heavily into the water, in study of the life-giving liquid as it rippled and passed over their roots. These trees seemed to have their backs turned to Lasitus, as if hoping to ignore the evil that festered in the valley, persistently staring into the water. The streams all branched together and formed a fan of thin green fingers overlaying the dusty wasteland. Despite their resistance to the Dreadlord’s dominance, the thin waters of the valley were still bent to his purpose. The waters offered up a conundrum: the resilience of the streams were keeping Lasitus alive—but his inability to completely dominate them meant that he still aged. Unless he could conquer the streams and turn them completely to his use, he would eventually die. Indeed, his bones were old, lacking the muscle of years gone by. His skin was sallow with dark growing splotches. His posture was slumping, strangely twisted, and often quite uncomfortable.

The water of the streams spilled before him, implacable proof that nature is not nearly as fragile or malleable as she might appear. Despite his many years, there were numerous aspects of the natural world that Lasitus could not yet fathom. The various streams brought the only bounty of life into his valley that he harvested in several ways, for his numerous needs—but he knew there was still untapped potential. If only he could increase his harvest, one day he might be able to put off aging altogether—maybe even turn it back—and so he now concentrated his efforts on these waters as they poured downstream.

There was more to Lasitus than his frail and faltering physical form. He often left his body in the inner sanctum of his keep, where it might rest. At these times, he stalked the valley in his astral form, more than capable of defending his territory, even as a mere phantom. At the edges of his blight, his despoiling step claimed thin ribbons of the virginal forest, as he stripped the fine ingredients of blood and spoil that fueled his intricate blend of earth and death magick. He muttered his curses, verse after ever shifting verse—his territory slowly growing with each twisted footfall—as he intoned the spells that bound the land. It took him days to circle his domain. He always needed more, and as the circle expanded so too the time it took to circle it. Yet he could only stay away from his body for so long before he had to return and go through the slow rituals that kept him as strong as it was. It’d been years since his domain had grown by more than a couple hundred feet in any given direction. The growth of the blight was slow—but grow it did.

Lasitus didn’t have to ask how long it'd been since he came to this valley. Indeed, he counted the years, months, weeks, and days, one after the next, jealous of each second that slipped away. He first came to the valley 216 years ago, at the height of summer, shortly before the refugees of Tallia arrived with Tronde and Rigel. It’d been so long that the old life—indeed the old lives—were in many parts faded. Still, the Dreadlord remembered the highlights. He was 137 when he committed the crimes that forced him to flee Danya for the wilds of the far away Bunderhilt Mountains. He poisoned a guard and murdered one of his teachers that he might steal rare copies of the Abr, Acad, and Ab'ra scriptures—one of the few copies he had not spoiled or corrupted before. He also stole the king’s Nnak Stone, and numerous smaller treasures concerned the spellings, curses, sigils, and alchemies of the royal academy—most notably of the blood magick so popular among the ruling elite. Then he fled, so he might study in peace.

In his first century, Lasitus learned well under his parochial teachers, whom were all too often little more than snide charlatans and confidence men, looking to conceal more than they revealed. A few of them were formidable. A few he feared. But that was all so very long ago—back when there were any men that caused him fear. Now there was only death to respect. Only death offered a challenge. Indeed, Lasitus was his own king. He had been so for so long that he could not remember the face of the old king. He was master of all he saw, and unlike other kings, he refused to die. Now he was more of a god. One day Lasitus hoped to see Oblarra wither and crumble away, taking her blasted red light with her. Then he should have quite the puzzle to solve. How was he to survive the destruction of the earth itself when it should finally die? Still, he imagined there were centuries available—if not millennia—for such ruminations…

Since the day he left, nearly a dozen generations had come and gone among the courts of Danya. He wondered if they remembered him at all. He imagined he was just a name; a thief that managed to escape with a few of the king's curiosities. Did anyone that knew him still survive? He’d murdered the man he considered the greatest among his colleagues, and without a Nnak Stone, the king and his fops could not create the Immortal Taste.

They called it a taste because although it kept them alive, it could not make them immortal. Now that he had the Kingdom’s only Nnak Stone, those that needed the Taste were forced to look to Minist, where the Baradha had the other four Nnak Stones. At the time, they’d kept one in Umsuppa, and another in Tikatis. Was there still a third in Hof Hebrin, and the final one in Borzia? He could only speculate.

Lasitus smirked as he thought of Minist. He was quite convinced that Minist was a place where blood magick went to stagnate and fester—and rarely progress.

Not Lasitus. His talents stretched and his magick increased. Now Lasitus considered the Immortal Taste akin to pablum, thin and weak, only for those in their infancy. Not to say that the Nnak Stone didn’t have its uses. Indeed, it was his most prized possession and key to many of his most potent magicks. It was a wonder beyond wonders.

Suffering the unending cycle of birth and death, was it even possible for the Court of Danya to remember anything about the Dreadlord and his stolen magicks? He often hoped some desperate lord would uncover the old robberies and venture north with an army—that he might harvest their vigor. So far, no such thing had happened. A few of the locals might come and poke around, to scurry and scamper about the edges of the blight, only to turn home—or to die if they persisted. Of armies, there was only ever the one pursuit to deal with, even though he’d expected others, had even taken measures. He still remembered setting traps and ambushing the king’s men as they followed, all those years ago. The first attack only killed a handful of men; as he lured them through a maze of snares, poisons, and punishments. There were a couple skin-walkers among his pursuers that managed to cause trouble, though they could not bring him down. A handful of wizards also proved difficult to defeat—though he managed them all eventually. Even several of the fighting men were hard to kill—but most of the army crumbled under the slightest pressure. As their talent dwindled and their number decreased, the king’s army limped along after the Dreadlord in a pitiful fashion, while he gutted them of their remaining worth. In the end, there was the most oblivious of officers and common of commoners that he could pick off at will—until they realized they had lost. Only a few score of his enemy were left when their spirit finally broke. Whatever else their faults, the king’s army was very disciplined.

The fighting lasted for weeks, maybe so long as a month. Then, one evening—for he preferred to hunt in the evenings—Lasitus discovered the remnants of the army were running south. He pursued with glee. Some got away, those that were the first to turn: the healthiest, the swiftest. Lasitus picked off the rest: the weak, the injured. He killed them slowly and savored his victory.

Once he’d destroyed the pursuit, Lasitus wandered deep into the Bunderhilt, until he came upon this valley. The ranging mountains nearly formed a complete ring of steep, high walls. He explored the wide and well watered valley, surprised to discover inhabitants—a tranquil and helpful people, of which there were not too many—and shortly after decided to make this place his home.

Back then, there were several small villages in the valley, home to a few thousand Yak natives. They were a simple people with plenty of food and water, women and wine. He spent years with them, sharing supplies, wisdom, and shelter; all while studying how he might control them. Most had weapons of hard stone, though a few had weak metal swords, made ages ago, and by people living far from this place. He came only a few years before the refugees of mighty Tallia, with their ironworks, and war-like ways—and these were some of the most backward of the Yak, living far from their brothers and sisters, still wearing clothes made from hides and bark. The only thing that truly impressed the Dreadlord was their knowledge of the forest; which was intricate, reverent, perhaps a touch obsessive. For a score of years, he studied with their elders and learned their earth magicks: ponderous, yet formidable. Indeed, it was in large part thanks to their magics that he could lock the hearts of their young men in the abominations that still roamed the valley, the mud behemoths that protected his citadel.

In the early days, before he revealed his true self, many of the locals came to revere Lasitus. He looked different in those days; his hair was dark, his eyes an electric emerald. His skin was young. Despite over a century of living, he stood strong and as tall as any of them. Many among the natives considered him handsome and as the decades passed, they wondered that he aged so slowly. Some desired such powers. Some became sycophants, as the Dreadlord doled out small magicks, often tempered with errors, so they might not learn too much or too quickly.

The murders started slowly, but eventually grew until it became too much to cover up. For this, some among the natives challenged his rule. One, two—or even a dozen at a time—might stand against him. It did not matter. None was his match with magick or metal. Several times the Dreadlord was ambushed. He lost a number of faithful servants, and was even injured on occasion, though he eventually overcame them all. He put down these uprisings in a brutal fashion, with mothers, wives, and children often suffering for the acts of their fathers, husbands, and brothers. Eventually, the insurrections ended, and the people of the valley accepted their subjugation—or fled.

Once he had the people fully under his thumb, the Dreadlord Lasitus devised a use for these people; for their numerous strong backs, feet, and hands. With carrot and stick he persuaded the natives to build his keep. They were his laborers; some even willing at the start—though many became lethargic and resentful as they realized their compensation would always be so much less than the work deserved. Despite what they might think, they toiled on the massive project all the same, for not working was a death sentence.

The number of the natives that fled only increased—yet now that he had a use for them Lasitus hoped to keep all that he could. He would not be finishing his citadel on his own! To this end, he devised traps and ambushes for those that were running away—then left their grisly tortured corpses where any others that hoped to escape were sure to find them. Others were too keen on living, and so they returned to the valley and toiled under the whip of the Dreadlord’s enforcers.

Over time, some of the natives became careful craftsmen. Long hours, repetitive labor, and a dauntless master taught them their business. Those that served best were gifted with various tainted pleasures; to hook them, to keep them clamoring for the Dreadlord’s favor. All too often, he succored them with vice.

As the natives continued their work, Lasitus wandered the valley, as he now hated being among the people. They had become petty and contemptable—though he’d taught them to be just so. Their increasing reek, constant bickering, and absolute joylessness made them intolerable. It did not matter that Lasitus had groomed—even enforced—these terrible qualities into them. He checked back at will, staying and leaving as he would, making sure construction continued, making sure the natives were not escaping in droves.

In his wanderings, Lasitus met Chelle. She was young at the time, free and wild, as few still were in the valley. She was old enough to marry, perhaps—and then, perhaps not. Lasitus didn’t care. He would have this girl, like so many others before her.

Chelle was far from the first he took, and nowhere near the last—but she was singular among the others. He often wondered if she did not practice some subtle forms of her own witchery against him—though he was never able to catch her doing anything that he considered untoward. Yes, he remembered Chelle as being quite separate from the rest; her eyes were silver blue and sparkled with mirth. Her blonde hair rippled like the shallows of the stream. Her skin was cream, though summer saw it heavily freckled by the sun. Although none of her attributes were unique among her people, she wore them better than most. She was witty. Above all, she had a mysterious influence over the Dreadlord. She was often able to calm his fury, to intercede when he felt like punishing some ineptitude. She was a balm to her beleaguered people.

Lasitus allowed Chelle to do as she wished; so long as she didn’t get in the way of his study, so long as she shared his bed on cold nights, and so long as her kind presence encouraged the hard work of her idiot people. Years passed. The keep continued to grow. The outer walls were finished. Eventually the natives began the intricate work of his inner sanctum. This was to be the jewel of his citadel; his true home, his final study.

The inner sanctum took form and Lasitus devised an eternal roll for his aging lover, as Chelle was no longer the young beauty he had first discovered. The delicate bloom had matured and was beginning to fade from her; so he summoned her to the great rotunda of his sanctum, a giant circular room with a dozen alcoves. There was only one way out, and only one way further in—though there were a dozen more doors which led to dead ends set with traps. He stood Chelle in the center of the room and did the incantations as he painted the sigils he would need to lock her soul forever in this place. She smiled as he did this, adding her own words—a song he’d never heard before, bright and lively, as it boomed and echoed off the walls. She dropped flowers about the floor and sprinkled her own tinctures—though she was careful that none of her silliness should touch the great work of her master; a thing that might spoil his spells, and thus make him irate. Once before she had disrupted the sacred sigils that powered his magick. Lasitus did not beat her, as that might spoil her perfect beauty. Instead, he forced her to watch as he beat and crippled a child. He made it known that the next time she disrupted his magick, she would have to watch him kill. After that, it took him almost a month to spread her legs—a month that was very hard for the people, and also hard for Chelle, though her suffering was never physical.

Chelle was beautiful, and as smart as any of these idiot savages, but she was still dumb enough to gather the herbs that Lasitus would spoil and use in her eternal damnation. She certainly drank of the tincture he’d prepared without qualm, simply putting it to her lips and downing the mixture, as he ordered. She could not possibly know what it was meant to do, or she would not have drunk it at all. Either that, or she was finally given to death, to feeling her own end. Despite the fetid taste of the concoction, she smiled, stared, and sang as she continued to stand in the middle of the foyer.

Lasitus felt a pang. Was it conscience? Was it love? The sensation was strange; a mix of longing and loss, something he was quite unprepared to endure. Yet the moment came, and he wrapped Chelle in his arms, his chest to her back—then stuck a slow knife between her ribs. Chelle struggled of course, as soon as she felt the tip of the blade. She squirmed and tried to escape. Did it really take her so long to realize she must die? He overpowered her easily enough, and despite her screams, the others knew not to interfere. The shrieks and panting seemed to go on forever as he slowly twisted the knife, deeper and deeper. He was meticulous about it so he might be sure of the exact moment she died.

Finally, Chelle gasped and rattled as her eyes grew faint and steeled to gray. Her spirit broke from her body, a slight blue pearl that was almost the color of her eyes. It lifted and dimmed as it rose. Lasitus whispered the words, and her essence stopped. Using the careful magicks he’d prepared and preformed at least a dozen times prior, he anchored the blue pearl of her spirit to her cold dead body once more.

Having brought her back to life, Lasitus entombed Chelle in the wall, her spirit forever locked to the decaying flesh, unable to pass the great seals he’d put at the entrance of his inner sanctum, and also at the door that led out. As long as the seals stood, she’d remain to guard him. On the rare occasion when a stranger should enter this rotunda, the lesser seals would remind her of his great betrayal. Then she should come out of the wall: murderous, vengeful, and quite capable of killing—yet another layer of security so he would not be bothered.

Despite frequent cullings, the population of the valley continued to rise. Once the keep was finished, Lasitus decided the natives took more time to attend than he could allow. He was still aging and needed time for his study, to fight the decay of his own flesh. He shuffled through his materials and found the summoning he’d once done to bring forth a demon from the abyss—but this time he would not pull one as great as Khinsae. Instead, he brought forth a minor imp that he hoped would prove too much for this maligned and broken people. Thus, Grim’dron came into the valley.

Grim’dron stood only two feet tall, but he had the fires of hell—not to mention the formidable powers of Lasitus—behind him. Together, they slaughtered the survivors wholesale, then made elementals of their bones and the blood soaked soil. Although the Dreadlord was not fond of the imp—or the mud elementals for that matter—their service was unblemished for nearly a hundred years.

After so much time, how was it that a minor court official managed to make it through the wastes and find his way to the great rotunda? Lasitus walked the valley in his astral form when the harem of dead women that protected his frail body called him back. This stranger begged their ghosts for an audience with their master. Lasitus called back to Chelle, to tell her that they were not to kill him. Not yet. The stranger’s words echoed through the dark of the sanctum as he beseeched the warlock to hear him out. He needed a new master and was willing to do whatever the Dreadlord might ask. He’d traveled from the far reaches of the Saot Kingdom, and he’d brought a number of precious gifts.

Returned to his body, Lasitus slowly sat up and smiled. To think that after centuries he was still remembered in the kingdom! Questions blossomed in his mind as he stretched, then crept from his study, and went to see about this unexpected visitor. Was he likely to see more?

From Out of the Wilderness

Polished and extended 1.1 — 1h04m42s — 2023/09/15

Polished 1.1 — 1h22m40s — 2023/09/17

Adjusted the ending of 1.1 and worked on fleshing out 1.2 — 57m05s — 2023/09/19

Massive formatting effort. Rearranged chapters 1 and 2, then split off chapters 3-8. Also got through must of /book3miscellany — 1h08m38s — 2023/09/25

Polished — 48m46s — 2023/09/29

Polished — 29m56s — 2023/09/30

Polished — 47m17s — 2023/11/16

Lilyanah sifted through the detritus of a deserted blacksmith’s hut. On a high bench, pushed in a far corner, she found a small leather sack. She examined the contents, smiled to herself, then closed the bag and pulled it halfway through her belt.

An old man searched with her. “What is it you’ve found?” he asked. “Is it better than this?” he smiled and held a dagger out to her.

“Perhaps,” Lilyanah said, as she tested the weight of the dagger in her hand. “It’s some fire powder.”

“That the Saots use?” The old man shook his head. “We have no pistols.”

Lilyanah smiled. “There are other uses for such things.”

“Well, I’m glad you came with, because I never would have brought that back,” the old man replied.

“And why would I stay in the slave pens, where everything is known to be useless?” Lilyanah asked, then stepped from the ramshackle hut. A shiver ran up her spine as she tried to ignore the ash drifting and spinning in the air of the ruined fort. “That’s a nice sword you found,” she added. “Where did you get that?”

“I thought so myself!” he beamed as he followed her into the open air, and brandished the weapon in the day’s hazy light. “It was in the big house, where the soldiers are always going. It was half hidden under a mountain of Saot tabards, decorated with birds of red and black.”

“What a strange weapon,” Lilyanah stared as she ran a finger over its steel. “It has a name,” she told him. “Haddie’s Revenge.”

“How do you know that?” the old man asked.

“It told me,” the young lady shrugged.

“Who is this Haddie?” the old man continued. “Does it matter?”

“It must,” Lilyanah asserted, then shrugged again for a lack of answers. “Perhaps it is looking for this Haddie.”

“Or perhaps it is simply looking for his revenge,” the old man offered. “More importantly, will it fight against the bugbear?”

Lilyanah nodded. “It says it will.”

“FIVE MINUTES TO MUSTER!” someone called in the distance—one of the Ministrians—summoning people to the south gate. There had been several such calls, so they knew their time was running short.

“Let’s get back to the others,” Lilyanah nodded. “Shall we be ready?”

The old man shrugged. “I do not see that we have any choice.”

Lilyanah and the rest of the free slaves—a few more than a hundred in all—gathered about a small gate in the southeast corner of the wall. It wasn’t long before they heard the Ministrians charge from the south gate with a blast of their war horns. The bugbear raised the alarm—then scattered before the trample of a couple dozen war horses and the charge of several hundred men. Further afield, bugbear answered the call of their brothers and came running—but not before the line was broken. Ministrians surged through with hopes of making it all the way south to Rynth Falls.

And so it was time to go.

Cautiously, the former slaves poked open the gate and gazed about the trees. They could hear bugbear rushing to the west and south. Thankfully, the creatures were moving away from them, intent on catching the escaping Ministrians. Slowly, the slaves crept from the Invader’s Fort and started into the trees, heading toward the south edge of Camp Calderhal.

Behind them, and still in the Invader’s Fort, Brankellus began to howl his pain. Lilyanah flinched. Still inside the fort, the man that had forced her to seal his soul to black intentions now cried to the sky, in hopes that he might further distract any bugbear from noticing the escape of his countrymen. It was a noble and foolish act, and it would have grave consequences.

But that was for another time. For now, the slaves crept along with the whispers of conversation. They excelled at keeping quiet, at eschewing attention. They were well served by the harsh lessons of their captivity.

The cries of Brankellus turned to a rage, shifted to exclamations of pain, then ended abruptly. Only then did they hear Wil scream. “What are you waiting for?! KILL ME!”

Intent on getting away, the slaves picked up the pace. Many thought they had evaded the bugbear altogether—but a troop of the beasts noticed their silent passage as they were just about to clear the far corner of Camp Calderhal. The beasts snuck up behind them, and attacked with darts and thrown weapons. Several slaves fell, as panic drove the rest forward.

Near the middle, Lilyanah ran. She followed a path that dipped into a gulch where the trees and undergrowth squeezed in on them, before widening on the other side. Lilyanah noticed the narrowing, stopped, and pulled her powder from her belt. She grabbed a passing woman that carried a torch and pulled her to the side. “Get ready to throw your fire.” As the last of the slaves scampered through the narrow—Lilyanah flung the fistful of powder at the rampaging beasts that followed. “Now!” she called.

The old woman threw the torch as the first of the bugbear poured through the narrow. With a blinding flash and a burst of heat, the powder ignited, then dropped onto their pursuers. Several bugbear caught fire, along with the trees that bent over the narrow. The remaining bugbear pulled up short.

Lilyanah and her surprised neighbor ran after the others, having frustrated the bugbear pursuit—but they did not get away cleanly. The slaves were malnourished and slow. It wasn’t long before the bugbear caught up to them. Many turned with a grim determination, born of a hellish mix of courage, desperation, and rage. A battle ensued.

Despite their vigor, the slaves had little training and pitiful weapons. The fight turned against them, so much so, that Lilyanah had to use her knife. Then, from the direction of the ruined camp, several dozen armed men and women charged into the remaining bugbear and turned the tide. A number of the bugbear died, while the others fled, howling and threatening revenge.

For a long moment, these joiners stared after the defeated bugbear, grinning, and rather happy with themselves. Pleased, they turned to notice a mass of frowning and prickly slaves.

“Well met,” a thin, tall Trohl held out his hand. “I’m Tehris.”

The slaves glared at him, including Lilyanah, for they suspected correctly that he was one of Kezodel’s men, a Degorouth. Still, they were all far from home, with danger lurking—so Lilyanah took his hand and said. “We go east, as free people. If you would come with us, we will share the road.”

Wanting to be away from the place, and suspecting safety in numbers, the joiners—which were all Degorouth or Ministrians—readily agreed to her terms. They turned and followed the former slaves as they all worked their way east.

It wasn’t an hour before they arrived at a small slow stream. Tehris turned and looked about the survivors. “Let us set some traps and false trails to confound our pursuers.”

Several of the Ministrians agreed.

“Who among you will help us?” Tehris asked the slaves. When no volunteers were immediate, he began to glare. “Will you not help save your own?!”

Lilyanah raised her hand, and a few others followed. The old man took Lilyanah’s hand and lowered it. “Stay with the others,” he said. “I will go in your place.” Before long, there were a couple dozen volunteers.

Tehris turned to Lilyanah. “Take these others down stream until it connects to the river proper. You should find it maybe a day and a half from here. Once you find the big river, follow it upstream and it will eventually lead you all the way to Lake Kundiliae,” he said. “As you go, walk in the water as long as you can. It will disguise your scent.”

“And you?” she asked. “Where shall you go?”

“We’ll go straight across the river, and with any luck we will convince them it is not worth their trouble to follow us,” he said.

“How will you find us?”

“I know this area as well as anyone,” Tehris answered. “Just follow this water, and if we don’t see you tomorrow, we will find you the next day.”

Lilyanah led the others among the rocks of the water. When the creek got rough, they stepped along it’s banks until it was shallow again, then stepped back into the water. For the rest of the day, they followed the stream, then set up camp as the day got dark, and huddled together for warmth.

Through the dark of the night, the band of survivors listened for any sounds of their enemies among the strange noises of the night. Then, as the sun began to light, they broke camp and continued to follow the water, happy to see there was no sign of pursuit.

The second day was easier than the first. Although they walked in the shallows several more times, they slowed their pace, and searched among the trees for anything to eat. Several were adept foragers and managed to find some vegetables and fruits. A few were skilled fishers, and a good dozen trout were caught. That night, they risked a quick fire, and had a warm dinner of cooked vegetables and fish.

About halfway through the next day, the small stream connected with a much larger river. Many agreed that this was the River Kundilae. They followed it up stream, assured that they would soon come to the lake.

The next day their pace became even more leisurely. Though not full, their bellies were attended, and any pursuit was largely forgotten—though from time to time, one or another would glance over their shoulder with an air of worry, then step quickly to the front of the train. Still, Lilyanah could feel her spirit soaring as she stared through the trees. She figured they’d hear nothing more of the bugbear—but two days later, Tehris found them with less than a dozen men, all battered and bloody. Several were sick with the rot. Thankfully, Lilyanah found just the herbs she’d need to make a rub that would slow its spread. It was not ideal, but it would give them a couple days.

Lilyanah was treating a gruff Ministrian that had rot spreading over his right shoulder, and also at his waist, when she noticed his sword. “Where did you get that?” she asked as she stared at Haddie’s Revenge.

“I took it from the corpse of another, after I lost my own weapon,” the big man said. “Why do you ask?”

“It belonged to a friend,” Lilyanah stared, going numb as she remembered her old neighbor.

The big man nodded. “We had many fights, and some of them didn’t go as we might have liked. Your friend was brave and fought hard. It was an honor to fight at his side.”

Lilyanah sniffed her tears, gave a nod, then continued her treatment. “By chance is your name Haddie?”

The large man shook his head, “my name is Cairn.”

That night, as they sat about a small fire and fried some fish, Lilyanah noticed that Cairn was crying. “What is it?” she asked, worried that her treatment had accidentally made things worse.

“Oh, it’s just those beasts,” Cairn said as he wiped his eyes. “They killed my best friend, and now they kill me.” He shook his head. “At least he died to one of the quick poisons. At least he didn’t linger and wilt.”

Lilyanah sat next to the man. Leaning against him, she put a comforting hand on his own.

His breathing calmed. after a minute of such tender touching, Cairn whispered to her. “Will you dance in my arms and sing praise with me?” he asked.

Lilyanah’s eyes went wide. She knew a bit about the lives of Ministrians and had an immediate insight that this man asked for more than music.

“I have good coin,” he said with lust in his eyes.

Lilyanah stood and marched from the ring of firelight. She glanced back to make sure he did not follow.

That night was a tense. The return of Tehris and his fighters made the others worry. Tehris, several of the fighters, and many of the othersrefused to sleep. Instead, they crept at the edges of the camp, making sure they were still safe.

The next day, many thought they had escaped, until midafternoon, when the men that protected their van caught a bugbear patrol that was searching for their trail. The fighting was fierce, but brief, since the bugbear realized their enemies among a swarm of traps. The beasts dodged back into the forest, looking to collect reinforcements.

And so the chase was on. The survivors trekked along the river, their pace slowed by the injured and infirm—but it wasn’t long before they reached Lake Kundilae, then followed the bank, in hopes of finding a boat. They found a road and a slight peninsula, where a larger vessel drifted not far from the coast with lines in the water. Howls from the forest signified that a large mass of bugbear had found their trail and were crashing down upon them once more. Those on the bank called and screamed at the boat, which finally noticed them. They pulled in their lines, then began the slow and lumbrous act of turning and approaching the bank. The calls and screams from the forest grew as the boat finally reached them and set a plank for them to board.

“What is that racket?!” the boat’s captain asked; then pushed back at the those that boarded, and tried to slow them. “You are too many!” he scolded. “Some of you will have to wait! We will come back for you in a few days!”

“You will take us all!” Tehris snapped as the rest simply ignored him and piled onto the vessel. “Those beasts won’t leave us, and neither will we—unless it be you!”

The captain blanched as the cries of bugbear grew. “What is out there?” he asked.

“The devil and all his hordes,” Tehris said with all earnestness.

The captain could do nothing but believe him. “Jeiju save us,” he said as he waved them on. “Hurry up!” he cried. “Prepare to shove off!” he called to his men.

It took a good effort to get Cairn and the other two men that suffered from the rot into the boat—and while they struggled, the remaining stragglers forgot the board, jumped into the lake, and climbed over the sides of the ship.

“We should have left them to die in the wilderness,” Tehris complained. “The rot will take them anyway.”

Since they were now on board, Lilyanah bit her lip. “Push off!” she called. “Push off, and get us into deep water!” The others took up the call.

The sailors took to their oars, and several big men took up the few extra. Slowly, the boat swung around and drifted from the land. Although it was quite a large vessel, the mass of humanity that crowded aboard caused it to ride dangerously low in the water—yet all were aboard—and when the bugbear finally appeared on the shores of the lake, the people were relieved to see that their darts and arrows fell short, dotting the waters of the lake with a lot of harmless ripples.

“What the devil is all that?!” the captain asked as he stared back at the mass of hostility that clamored at the bank.

“It is a war of bugbear,” Lilyanah told him. “Do you think they will try to follow us across the water?”

“Well, they seem hesitant to enter the lake. Perhaps that is the last we shall see of them,” he said. Still, he shook his head. “It’ll take us most the night to get across the water, and we’ll be lucky if we aren’t swamped in the process.” Indeed, the trip across Lake Kundilae was slow and delicate. Any major shifting of those that rode the boat caused water to slip over the edges and threatened to swamp the boat altogether, just as the captain had feared. The captain cursed them several times for their restlessness. “Sit still, or you’ll drown us all!” he yelled. A few of the smaller ones that weighed the least and seemed to have the most energy, were tasked with bailing any water that found its way into the boat.

Night approached and brought with it a glimmer of hope. Sparks of light beamed across the water, far in the distance. “Is that…?” someone began to ask.

“Ebertin,” a deckhand confirmed.

Lilyanah felt her heart soar, despite cold feet and a wet rump. She shivered between Cairn and another of the sick men, this one a Trohl, as he suffered from both the cold and the rot.

They finally made the docks as the sky was lighting, just before the sun came up. Tehris was the first one off, and he immediately had word with the port master. “Dead?!” Lilyanah heard him say. “Kezodel’s dead?! When did this happen?!”

“Yesterday morning,” the man answered. “The magician and the Saot general that murdered him are still at large...”

Lilyanah decided this had nothing to do with her, and ignored the rest of the conversation, especially as they began to talk of revenge.

An older man, a small Ministrian with a wild shock of hair, helped Lilyanah get Cairn off the boat. “Do you really think you can cure them?” he asked her of the three sick men with rot.

“I cannot,” Lilyanah began. “But if they can be saved, it is my master that can do it.”

“Is she here? In Ebertin?”

“She is,” Lilyanah smiled.

“Very well, then,” the old man continued. “I shall come with you, for I would know how to treat such a terrible condition,” he said, then offered a hand. “My name is Celt.”

“Welcome, Celt. Now if we would see them healed, we must find the house of my master. Do you know the way to Edgewater?” she asked.

“But we are already here!” Celt smiled. “So tell me, what is the street, and what is the number, for I imagine we shall be there within the hour.”

Lilyanah told him. Celt led the way as the other survivors followed—all except Tehris and the handful of men he led that were still healthy. She did not care where they went.

Some eighty stong, the survivors arrived at a large house with an immaculate garden. Lilyanah knocked on the door. She didn’t have to wait long to be answered. The door cracked open and a half dozen children stared up at them with mixed emotions.

“Who is it?” an adult voice asked.

“They’ve come!” one of the young girl’s beamed. “Gramma’s people have finally come!”

Recruits to the Cause

Extended the work — 30m09s — 2023/09/11

Worked on Crea and Malcolm, and introduced the Deputy High Cleric of the Noeth — 1h36m05s — 2023/09/23

Polished 2.1, 2.2, 2.3, and 2.4 — 1h39m43s — 2023/09/24

Polished — 50m44s — 2023/09/28

Polished — 1h31m57s — 2023/10/01

Polished — 1h02m03s — 2023/10/22

Added a brief note about the new 1.3 (Maligno is released) — 2m52s — 2023/10/23

Creigal and Carringten visit the fort atop the mountain in 2.1 — 54m15s — 2023/11/17

Did more work on 2.1. Polished the first bit, then started the fight between Roustich and Carringten — 57m11s — 2023/11/18

Polished 1.1 and 1.2. Separated the second half of 1.1 and moved it to 1.3 (for now…) — 1h23m59s — 2023/11/19

Creigal was feeling solid in his decision to go north. He’d sent a number of letters with Andrus, and he felt his concerns in the south were well addressed. The only matter that bothered him, the fact that Meu insisted on going south with the post-runner—well, he understood why she must go, and wished her safe travels—but now that Meu was out of the picture, Creigal was quite content to focus on Humbert once more. Indeed, he was having dreams of his daughter again, and they were of a supportive and encouraging nature. On top of all that, Creigal was traveling through friendly lands at a leisurely pace. It seemed as if the world was at peace, and not on the verge of fire and open war.

The first day from Azra’s Estate, they travelled through Hearthstone, and while Krumpus, Scurra, and much of the party skirted the city, Creigal, Roustich, and a few others went to the fort at the crest of the mountain.

“Who lives here?” Creigal asked as they trudged the last few steps of a terribly steep and narrow road.

Roustich answered the question with a question of his own. “Why would anyone live here?” he asked.

“Because it is safe, or presumably so,” Creigal replied.

Roustich gave a nod. “So its true what they say about the south? That in your lands there are those that rule and those that serve—as if this man or that man is better than the rest?”

“It is not so much that they are better, but that they have more, and come from powerful families,” Creigal explained.

“And you come from such a family?” Roustich asked.

“I do,” Creigal admitted.

“And why do you think you are better than the men you rule?” Roustich continued.

Creigal smiled. He liked Roustich with his skeptical manner and direct questions, and so he would answer. “It is not that I am better, so much that I have resources and the leisure for study. Mine is a station well respected, so the people do as I say.”

“Your people need to be told what to do?” Roustich asked.

“Less often than you’d imagine,” Creigal smiled. “Though there are those of my station that would claim quite the opposite. Of course, our king and many of his nobles obscure themselves and look to confuse their people, so they might take better advantage.”

“And what is it that you do with your own people?”

“My work of late has been the untangling of our obligations to the throne.”

“Sounds delicate,” Roustich nodded.

Creigal shrugged. “It is impossible, which is why we’re at the verge of war.”

Roustich stared at Creigal. “If your king treats the people as chattel, it is best if you are at odds with him.”

“It wasn’t always such,” Creigal continued. “My ancestors wrote that the Kingdom of the Saot used to be a righteous and forthright place—though it was corrupted long before I was born.”

“Who corrupted it?”

Creigal turned and stared at Roustich for a long second. “I feel you may sense this already, but I don’t think it can be repeated often enough: beware of Ministrians and their gifts.”

“And what gift did they give to your kingdom?” Roustich wondered.

“They gave our king a nnak stone, and then they taught him how to use it,” Creigal answered. “They also gave one to the Sultan of Hof Hebrin, and to the Council of Chiefs in Borzia—which is how they subverted those lands.”

“And you think the Empress might try to give one of our respected elders a shiny rock?” Roustich asked

“It is always a danger, but then, maybe not. The wizard that made them died several hundred years ago, and I am told that no other has managed to replicate his magicks,” Creigal said.

Roustich gave a snort. “Let the Empress keep her fancy nnak. We have plenty of our own stones,” he said as he waved at the walls. Indeed, the fort was made of them, all topped with the snapping pendants of a hundred different militias.

Inside the massive stone walls, the space was wide open and quite empty—except for the men that gathered about. Some trained. Others talked. A few kept to their own business, whether it was strange, or mundane, or incomprehensible.

There were few buildings in the fort, except for the massive towers that were connected to the walls. For the most part, it seemed as if the massive long walls of the fort protected nothing but an oversized parade grounds.

“So this place is open to all?” Creigal asked.

Roustich nodded. “It is everyone’s home, as it is our shelter of last resort. Indeed, Tronde himself planted the first stone, though the south tower dates back before the Broken Legions.”

“And none of these men live up here?” Creigal repeated, unable to believe it.

“Some may stay a week, or even a month. But none would claim its their home. They come up here to practice for its defense, or to look after its upkeep, or to experiment with whatever has caught their fancy. They may stay as long as they like, but none would be so daft to press a claim upon the place.”

“What if one was to make such a claim? What if I was to say that this was my corner?”

“No one would believe yuo. And if you should insist on it, you would be roundly mocked, and eventually tossed out on your ears,” Roustich answered.

“And the ones that stay, do they sleep out in the open?” Creigal wondered. “It might be nice on clear nights, but what do you do in the weather?”

Roustich laughed. “There are plenty of quarters in the caves. Go into any of these towers and simply follow the stairs down if you wish to nap.”

“I feel it is a bit early for a nap, but I would like to examine the place,” Creigal said as he marveled at the fortifications.

Roustich wanted to stay and practice among the men, so Elpis volunteered to show the duke around. Toar tagged along, but Carringten stayed. “Will you train with us?” Roustich asked the dark man as they tied their horses near a trough. “I have yet to see you play touches. Duboha and Aim told wild tales of how you defeated so many of the others.”

Carringten gave a nod and followed after the large dour Trohl.

Creigal wandered about the massive fort, surprised that it was so large, and yet carefully crafted. A great amount of thought was put into its design, even into the caverns that twisted under their feet. “If there was a fight—say some grand army actually managed to make its way through the rest of the city—these tunnels are where the bulk of the fighting would actually take place,” Elpis began. “They all have defensive measures to keep any invaders out. Some have sheer shafts, and all we’d have to do is raise or cut the lifts. Other tunnels have massive steel doors. My favorite is the grand staircase, which is long and straight with a groove cut through the middle of the stairs. At the top of the stairs are large, smooth, round boulders. If there was an army coming up the stairs, we simply roll one of the boulders—which is guided by the groove,” Elpis smiled.

They explored the fort for several hours, and Creigal was sure that Carringten would be worried with his long absence—but when they came back to the dark man and Roustich, the two were oblivious to their absence, as they glared at each other over their practice sticks.

“What’s the score?” Creigal asked an engrossed observer.

“Naughts!” said the man. “They’ve been at it for over an hour, and neither can seem to score!”

Indeed, there was quite a large audience as the two men went back and forth. Their blows echoed across the grounds as they roared at each other and smashed with incomprehensible speed and strength—only to pause and reset after long, ineffective trades. Glaring at each other, the two men panted, then stormed back at each other. Still, neither could find a gap, so the blows hit a defensive stick, or simply nothing at all, as they circled and circled.

One such exchange had gone on for over a minute, when a blow from Carringten snapped one of the sticks held by Roustich. With a broken edge, the Trohl was unable to defend himself and took a touch.

“It counts!” the friendly observer exclaimed. “Weapons break in battle! Weapons break in games!” he beamed.

Roustich cursed and flung the broken stick against the stone wall. He yelled and snarled and cussed about, as he took a stick from an observer and set for the next point. Carringten gave a polite nod, and just like that the two were back at it, hammering at each other, as they danced back and forth.

Creigal watched as the frenzy continued—but the two were so evenly matched—and he began to grow bored. Sweat dripped down the combatants as they glared at each other and panted. The duke turned to Elpis, “This is all very engaging, but I have seen my men train all too often. I would prefer to explore your most excellent city,” he said, as the native managed to stare at his guest, and simultaneously at the fight, with his wonky eyes.

Elpis gave a nod. He tapped the friendly observer on the shoulder. “Are you staying to watch this end?”

“Why would I ever leave before it this is over?!” He said without even looking at Elpis, he was so engrossed.

“When they finish, will you tell them that we have gone on and will meet them at the Yockupp Enclave?”

“You would give me a reason to talk with them?!” The spectator gave a vigorous nod. “The Yockupp Enclave,” he smiled, without ever taking his eyes off the fight. “They will meet you at the Yockupp Enclave!”

“Good man,“ Elpis said as he gave the stranger a pat on the shoulder. With that, he led Creigal and Toar into the tunnels, then took them through the neighborhoods built on the northern slope.

~!@#$5^&*()_+ 2.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

After growing up on her farm and only going among a few local villages, Crea used to think that Solveny was impossibly large. But that old town was dwarfed by Land’s End, which seemed to go on and on forever. Indeed, the walls of Land’s End didn’t appear until they’d walked at least an hour among houses and buildings all crammed together.

And the people! It was an unending sea of people! She had never seen so many people, all crowding around, as if it was normal to brush and jostle others while simply trying to walk!

The markets were the worst, nearly impassible with withered old women selling their fruits, leather bags, and just about anything else one could wish to find.

Crea followed as Malcolm led the way. The young man had rarely been out of Solveny, making only a few trips to Land’s End, so he knew the city, but not overly well. He did know where to find the Keep of the Post, which he said was at the heart of the city, quite close to the Dunkel’s own castle. “You will not believe the place!” Malcolm told her. “It is so regal and opulent, it is almost deserving of the likes of you!” he grinned.

Crea gave a long-suffering smile and turned away. Still, she held Malcolm’s hand, as the other clutched at her falchion, and she felt like she was suffocating. She liked the boy. She liked him quite a lot—but he was making things impossible! He talked incessantly about how he and Crea would find a place here, that they would get married and have babies together. If he was to be believed, they were about to make a fine new start, with nothing but milk and honey before them!

That is, once the marauders were brought to justice…

It was the one stipulation that gave Malcolm pause, while Crea suffered an unending number of questions, of which the war was only a minor concern! Yes, Malcolm was quite sure they’d be all too happy together—once the men that destroyed Solveny were driven away, or slaughtered for their evil! Malcolm was quite convinced that since the Keep of the Post was sacked, that the Silver Service would take up arms and defend itself. Indeed the Silver Service had more men than the King’s Regulars! It was well known that the Silver Service was the largest army in the entire Kingdom—though it was also spread across the entire kingdom. Still, be a formidable number in the Noeth! Hundreds, if not thousands!

It took Crea and Malcolm half the day to get to the heart of the city, and it was just as grand as Malcolm had said. The Keep of the Silver Service was practically a fortress, many times larger than their Keep in Solveny. The two of them walked hand in hand as Malcolm flashed his badge at the guards. Once inside, Malcolm stepped forward and threw his bag on the counter. “I bring word from Solveny,” he said to the clerk, and placed the post he’d carried on the counter.

“Solveny?” the clerk questioned, his interest piqued. “And you are…?”

“Malcolm, apprentice runner to Master Doidge. He has gone on to Danya, to see the Holy Shrivner, and has tasked me to deliver this word,” the young man said as he pushed the pile of envelopes toward the clerk.

“Put it back in your pack, for it is not to me that will take delivery,” the clerk said, then turned to Crea. “And who is this with you?”

“This is Crea, my friend and companion. She is also from Solveny and can attest to the authenticity of my words,” Malcolm explained as he stuffed the post back in his bag.

“Is she a wench of the service? Is she just some commoner?” the clerk asked.

Crea bristled.

“She is not sworn to the service, nor is there anything common about her,” Malcolm stared daggers back at the clerk.

The clerk frowned. “I mean no insult, but she is not one of ours, so I must ask her to wait here, while you must see the Deputy High Cleric. He has ordered that anyone coming from Solveny be brought to him immediately.”

“Have others' arrived?” Malcolm asked.

“Not since the fighting started,” the clerk answered. “Come,” he said with a nod.

Malcolm turned to Crea and frowned. “I’m sorry. I have to ask you to wait,” he said, pained that they should be separated.

Crea pointed behind her with a thumb over her shoulder. “I’ll wait back at the fountain,” she answered.

With a nod, Malcolm turned to the clerk, and the clerk led him away. They climbed several sets of stairs, often interrupted by long hallways, and packed with men of every size and demeanor. Eventually, they found their way to the top of a high tower, to the Deputy High Cleric’s office, where Malcolm was left to wait, while another meeting concluded.

How long was it that Malcolm sat waiting? It was far longer than he would have liked—yet, he was fulfilling his oath—and to think that he would meet the Deputy High Cleric of the Noeth! He smiled as he considered the force of men that would soon ride out to the rescue of High Plains, and he meant to be at their lead, to show them where the enemy camps were set!

Finally, the door to the opened, and a gaggle of well-heeled men stepped from the deputy’s office. Some were high clerks of the order, while the rest were men of other means.

“The Deputy High Cleric will see you now,” his secretary, a portly and officious man, said.

Malcolm stood, gathered his bag, and stepped into the ornate office of the Deputy High Cleric. “Welcome! Welcome!” the official stated as he approached and shook hands with the much younger man. Just like his secretary, the Deputy High Cleric was a portly and officious man, only a grander version, with more decorative pins on his shirt. “Yes, yes! I hear you have come from Solveny, that you have brought post and word of what has happened! I have heard truly savage and egregious things from the west,” he added with a tsk. “You have no idea how happy I am to finally have official word from one of our own!” he finished with a smile. “Well then, let’s see the post!”

Malcolm pulled the letters from his bag and set them before the Deputy High Cleric, who immediately began sorting them. “The town was sacked, including our Keep,” Malcolm began his report.

“My, how dreadful! How did they do it? How did you escape?”

“They chopped down a tree and used it to bash the gate. They were slaughtering our brothers in the courtyard, all while Doidge and I snuck into a tunnel that came out in the neighboring park,” Malcolm told him.

The Deputy High Cleric shook his head. “This shall not go unanswered,” he glanced up. “These wild Trohls and their clandestine allies,” he tsked once again.

“They may dress as Trohls, but I believe many of them are secretly Ministrians, if not all,” Malcolm countered.

“Ministrians?” The Deputy High Cleric stared. “What of the Gaurs?”

“If most are pretending to be Trohls, then I assume that some are simply pretending to be Gaurs,” Malcolm answered.

“Well, this is quite the accusation!” The Deputy High Cleric recoiled. “Are you sure of this?!”

“We get plenty of Ministrians from the west, out of Wibbeley; and we used to see a fair number of Trohls from Rynth Falls—until a few years ago, when they cut themselves off,” Malcolm explained. “Trohls tend to be of a light complexion with round faces, while Ministrians usually have dark hair and often appear more gaunt. As for Gaur, we’ve never had many Gaur in Solveny.”

“Well, sounds as if you do know your peoples—but not every individual adheres to the propensities of the masses,” the Deputy High Cleric considered. “Perhaps you are wrong about who you saw.”

Malcolm thought about it for a long second, then shook his head. Although he only saw the one marauder up close, he believed Crea’s estimation of who they were. “We saw Ministrians,” he insisted.

“We?” the Deputy High Cleric asked with an arched eyebrow. “Do you mean that Doidge shared your view?”

“No. Crea and I,” Malcolm said. “She saw several up close. I saw just the one.”

“Crea?”

“My travel companion. Doidge and I rescued her just outside the keep, and she has been with me ever since,” Malcolm said.

“A woman?”

Malcolm nodded.

The Deputy High Cleric smiled to hear this. “Well, it sounds as if you’ve allowed the opinions of an hysterical lady to override your own senses, for I am assured by a great many others that it is Trohls and officials from Gaurring that have caused the calamity out west.”

Malcolm stared at the Deputy High Cleric, taken aback that the man should so easily disregard his testimony. “I would be happy to go down stairs and get my friend. She can tell you for herself all that she saw, and I can promise you, she is not hysteric.”

“No, no, no,” The Deputy High Cleric raised a hand. “There’s no need for all that. It is not as if I blame her, as it is the nature of women to get the details wrong,” he grinned. “Now, I suspect that our business is all but concluded. The only question left is the matter of your assignment. After all, we can’t ask you to return to Solveny,” he snorted.

Malcolm flinched from the inconsiderate joke, then sat up straight. “Indeed, I do wish to return to Solveny,” he answered. “I should like to ride with whatever men are go to reclaim the town from our enemies.”

The Deputy High Cleric considered the request for half a beat, then shook his head. “I wouldn’t dare ask you to return to the horror of an active war,” he replied. “Why don’t we send you to Kelm? Or maybe you would like to work in Pagladoria?”

Malcolm didn’t like either option—not in the least! “Can I not stay in the Noeth?!” he asked. “May I not defend my home?!”

The Deputy High Cleric shook his head. “Solveny is not your home. The post is your home!” he shook his head with yet another tsk. “No, it is certainly best if we stretch your views, that we give you some ground to cover, and let you see the world a bit! Yes, that is the way of it! You will go south.”

Malcolm frowned. “I cannot stay?” he asked one final time.

The Deputy High Cleric simply shook his head.

The young post-runner had not considered any other possibility, and now that he thought on it, there was nowhere else that held much interest. For several long seconds he blinked at the Deputy High Cleric, then wondered to whom he might the appeal such a decision.

Finally, Malcolm lit on his answer. “How about Danya?” he asked. “I’ve always wanted to see the capital,” he lied. His only thought was that perhaps he could talk to the Holy Shrivner—and then he would return to the Noeth with an army behind him!

“Danya it is!” The Deputy High Cleric smiled. “Well then, if there isn’t anything we missed…” he wrote out the boy’s orders and handed them over. “Give this to the entry clerk. He will see you outfitted and paid!”

Malcolm stood with a nod, took his orders, and shook the man’s hand. He gathered his bag, opened the door, and stepped out as the Deputy High Cleric called after him.

“You’ve done us a fine service, my boy! A fine service indeed!”

Malcolm gave another nod, waved at the secretary, then continued on his way. Although he gave no outward appearance of his dissatisfaction, he couldn’t believe that he had been summarily ignored, then pushed to the far end of the kingdom! He shook his head. If things didn’t get better in Danya, well, he only had four more months until his eighteenth birthday—and then he’d be free to quit the service altogether!

Yet, perhaps there was no need to be so dramatic. Perhaps in four months, the war would be over. For now, he would simply give the news to Crea and see what she made of it. Would she be willing to follow him all the way to Danya? She seemed to hate the war so much that maybe she’d be thrilled to go so far away from it! Indeed, by the time he got down all the stairs, he’d convinced himself that she would be quite happy with the development. She wouldn’t sulk if there was no possibility of him dying in the war. And he had a bit of money. It wasn’t much, but it would keep a roof over their heads, and food on their plates. By the time he reached the ground floor, Malcolm couldn’t wait to tell her—yet when he finally made his way to the fountain, outfitted with post he would take to Danya, he couldn’t find her anywhere! Indeed, he spent the next hour searching every corner of the square, questioning bystanders, and shop owners, all to no avail.

“Crea?” he called. “Crea!”

He searched all over, then returned to the fountain and paced the square, hour after hour, until it got dark.

Yet, Crea was nowhere to be found.

What had become of her?! Around midnight, he got a room, and suffered a fitful sleep. Exhausted, he rose before the sun. He spent the first half of the day questioning the watch. Had they seen her? Would they help him find her?! But the watch simply shrugged him aside. They had real work to do! There was a war on, if the boy too slow to notice!

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 2.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

The spectator is drinking and carousing with Roustich and Carringten when we find them at the Yockupp enclave.

Indeed, it took them a day just to get to the north end of Hearthstone, where they came upon an enclave of Yockupps that meant to talk and catch up with their cousins. Indeed, they stayed several days. At leas the people were welcoming, hospitable, even generous. Indeed, it was a life of luxury—though Creigal longed to arrive at the blight, even though he was assured that the journey would turn deadly serious once they reached that cursed land.

The first day from Azra’s estate, Creigal was generally ignored, while Krumpus and the others were the center of attention. The second night at the enclave, matters changed, and Creigal felt as if the shaman was looking to embarrass him. As they all ate, Krumpus was telling stories with subtle glances and surreptitious whispers. At first, the duke just thought the shaman was circulating through friends and family—but then he began to notice that others were staring. Uneasy, Creigal wondered what the healer was saying. After so much of this, the duke grabbed the scarred and silent man by the arm and asked him point blank, “what is the meaning of this?!”

I am spreading your legend, Krumpus said with his eyes, as he patted the duke’s hand. Don’t let this worry you. Indeed, it will serve you well in the end, he laughed, then sauntered off among the happy crowd.

“it is unbelievable that he should talk to you in such a manner,” Carringten glared.

Creigal shook his head. “I would have liked to travel through these lands anonymous, but our friend seems intent on letting everyone know who we are. Still, I cannot believe he means us any harm, and he is not fickle or oblivious. If he thinks it wise to tell them who I am, then it must be so. They may stare, but they simply seem astonished and bewildered, and despite the attention, they are kind and genuine,” he said, then shook his head. “Still, I do not see why he is so intent on letting everyone know what we are up to.” That’s what he said shortly before they retired to their beds. In the morning, Criegal’s attitude had slipped. “What the devil?!” he flinched as he came out of the inn.

Before them were some eighty or ninety people, all well armed and in good health. They all had horses or wagons, and all seemed quite prepared for a long trek. They smiled at the duke, somewhat shy and uncertain.

And more were arriving.

Krumpus was hitching the wagon when Creigal found him. “What is all this?!” He asked. “Who are these people, and why are they so interested in me?!”

They are not nearly as interested in you as they are in the blight, Krumpus revealed. I have told them you mean to go there and confront whatever dangers you find. I have also told them some of our adventure, and I have not exaggerated any point of it, he smiled. They see you as an auspicious figure—so they mean to go with you and help. They are a dedicated and talented people. I think you shall find many uses for them.

Creigal glanced about the gathered masses and studied their conduct. They seemed awed by his willingness to confront the blight, and suddenly he began to wonder if he was overestimating himself.

Before they leave Hearthstone, and elder approaches Creigal and demands to see the one that goes against his will. Initially, Creigal doesn’t know who the man is talking about, but then he remembers Maligno. He takes the elder to see the beast, and after a brief conversation, Maligno is released into the Deep under Hearthstone.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 2.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

For her part, Crea wanted nothing to do with Malcolm’s fantasy future—so when Malcolm went into the keep of the Silver Service, quite sure that she would be there when he was finished, Crea turned and left without ever saying goodbye. She felt guilty for this. Indeed, she lingered for maybe a good twenty minutes before she finally pushed herself to leave. It was the right choice, or so she thought. She was very welcome for Malcolm’s company as they’d snuck across the endless prairie of the Noeth. How much worse would it have been without him? But she did not want to stay with the boy, nor did she have any interest in telling him that his fancy was not reciprocated—and so she waited until he was occupied—then simply walked away.

But where would she go?

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

As Crea considered her direction, she moseyed her way across a lush green park. She had no interest in going, just as she had no interest in staying—so she walked, stopped, and turned—only to go a block or two before she turned again and went a different way altogether! She cut across major roads, dipped through alleys, then doubled back across the same green park. Her only real interest was in the delicious food she smelled and saw in the café windows. If she waited for Malcolm, he would have plenty of coin so they might eat—but not even her hunger could not drive her back to the fountain—and so she wandered. She never considered that anyone might be watching, that anyone might have noticed the contrast between her rough and dirty clothes and the fancy falchion she wore on her hip.

Still wandering, Crea cut into an alley, only to realize that three men wearing the uniform of the local watch had followed her. Crea continued through the thin alley as it turned, then stopped at a number of solid doors. It was a dead end. With a huff, she turned to find herself cornered by three watchmen, and immediately realized her predicament. In her previous life, she would not have feared men in uniform—but now she saw past their neat clothes and observed their murky hearts. Deciding that she would rather die than have another man take advantage, she drew her falchion, and snapped at her confronters. “Get back, or I’ll gut you!”

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

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

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

“I’ve done nothing and you have no reason to stop me!” she screamed. “Come close and I’ll prove your folly!” she glared, thinking it was finally time to fight something other than trees.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 2.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Cleaning the stables was never so terrible, mostly because Horsewind never let it get that bad. At the very least, mucking the stables was an opportunity to clear his head, to try make sense of the things he’d seen and heard, and generally a chance to exercise his demons with honest labor. The honest work certainly didn’t hurt. There wasn’t much physical about his true purpose, and even less that was honest—so shoveling shit kept him in shape both physically and mentally—and it didn’t hurt that the smell of it kept others from getting too close.

Today, Horsewind was troubled. He leaned into each shovel of manure and thought of the strange news he was hearing out of the west. There were rumors that some of the invaders that sacked Solveny were wearing Gaur uniforms, implicating his true master in a great and terrible crime. His latest report home included a dire warning, one that he hoped wasn’t too late.

It wasn’t long before Horsewind had mucked the last stall. Now the cart needed to be taken to the lot next to the mill, where the manure would be mixed with chips and dust, then left to rot until winter; when it would be spread over the Dunkel’s gardens as a fine fertilizer. But that was work for other hands.

“Horsewind!” a small porter called into the stables.

The stable sweep grumbled and turned to the young boy.

“After you unload all that, Deneroe wants you to stop by the blacksmith and pick up a shipment,” the porter told him.

Horsewind acted like it took a bit of thought to come up with anything to say. “You mean Tackle by Ternce?”

“Non,” the boy shook his head. “The Fine Fire. Three blocks south and one block west. You know it?”

Destracted, Horsewind scratched a thumb of shit into his hair. “Yeah, I know it,” he said with a nod. The Fine Fire specialized in weapons.

The porter smiled. He was a nice boy, and Horsewind hoped he’d be able to maintain such a pure spirit in such a terrible place. But then, Horsewind was no fan of the Dunkels or their duchy.

“Deneroe said to make sure you clean the cart before you load it,” the porter stammered as a way of apology. “He said its more than the usual shoes and tack this time.”

“Oh…” Horsewind said with a slow appreciative nod. “Don’t you worry, young master! I’ll take special care for you! There’s a well on the way to the Fine Fire, so I’ll stop and throw a couple buckets of water, once I unload,” he smiled. Yeah, he liked the young porter, as the child often went out of his way not to give offense, which wasn’t like many in the castle. Most were all too willing to insult a lowly stable hand. It showed the true character of the masters—but also made it easy to get a position in their service, since honest work was always leaving to go just about anywhere else—which is just what a good spy wants: honest work, to hide his dishonest work.

Speaking of spying, an extra load of weapons was a thing that Horsewind found to be interesting. There’d been a steady increase in military preparation—even before Solveny—as if the Dunkels knew what would happen. Interesting indeed…

Horsewind finished his mucking. He thought he’d have plenty of time to puzzle over his clues, as he pulled his hand cart through the streets, but he was barely a block from the castle walls when he saw the most incredible thing; a young lady with an intriguing sword on her hip. It was a peculiar sword for such a dust-covered woman. Indeed, the weapon was more surprising than he could believe. But he was not the only one caught by the weapon. Three young watchmen followed the woman as she stepped into an alleyway that he knew for a fact took two turns before ending against several high walls and a number of locked doors.

Normally, Horsewind wouldn’t bother with a bunch of ruffians in uniform picking on some tart, no matter how undeserving it all might be. He had a job to do, and he wasn’t in the habit of playing small-time hero when it might jeopardize his real work, the careful work of many years. Normally, he would grit his teeth, and walk on by. But the falchion at her hip was of fine and specific crafting, a weapon he’d seen quite often in the hands of another, in the hands of his proper master, Duke Creigal berDuvante. He paused and considered being brash. Perhaps it was time to burn his cover. He could always resurface as a merchant, or a craftsman, someone of a different class. A small voice deep inside told him it was indeed the right move.

Horsewind picked his shovel off the mounded manure, then stepped into the alley. He came around the second corner to find that two guards had the young lady bent over a rain barrel while the third inspected her falchion. “Drop the weapon and leave her alone!” Horsewind barked.

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

The other two snorted and turned back to the girl, unconcerned by the simpleton. One grabbed her hair and made her squeal, while the other felt her up.

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

Horsewind stared back as he approached with his shovel.

“I said, git!” The watchman snapped, then swaggered forward. He raised the fancy falchion, then paused as he figured the threat of the weapon would be enough to scare off the stable hand.

As the watchman slowed, Horsewind moved so fast that the youth was uncertain exactly what had happened. Next thing he knew, he was against the wall, bleeding from his face after being propelled into the bricks by the stable sweep’s massive hands.

The other two watchmen turned from the cornered girl and stared at the stable hand. “Did he just…?” the one asked the other. Despite only having a shovel, they now considered Horsewind to be an actual threat. They stood away from the girl and pulled their swords.

“Put your weapons away and walk on by. Otherwise, you’ll get the same sort of treatment,” Horsewind said.

“We ain’t the ones about to get hurt,” the second watchman stated as he pulled his sword. He stalked down alley with his friend close behind. He waved his sword at the stableman. “Go now, or you’ll pay in blood!”

The first watchman started to get up, but stopped when Horsewind put the tip of the shovel to his chest. “Stay down,” he ordered, then glared at the advancing toughs. They were pinched in by the walls of the alley and had to approach one at a time.

The second watchman rushed the stable hand. Horsewind dodged, as if he knew where the strike would land, then parried the next swing. He speared the second man in the chest with the tip of the spade, then spun past him and caught the third with the flat of the shovel—maybe a touch harder than he planned. The third watchman lost his weapon, and a tooth, as he staggered into the wall.

Horsewind was past them, standing between the young woman and the watchmen. “Go on, now!” he said as he brandished the shovel. “Git yourselves!” He kicked at the one still on the ground.

The watchmen collected themselves and hobbled from the alley as they stared bloody murder at the advancing stable sweep.

Having defeated the watchmen, Horsewind turned to the woman. She had the falchoin in hand and was threatening to use it. “You better leave me alone!” she shrieked.

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

“Or maybe you should just leave me alone before I’m forced to use this on you!” she snapped.

“I admire your fire,” Horsewind began, “but if you and I start fighting, do you really think you have a chance?”

The young lady lowered the blade.

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

“Why do you care?” she asked.

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

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

Horsewind cocked his head. “You take issue with it’s owner?” he noted. “And what did my master do to offend you?”

“He tried to rape me,” she glared.

With a heavy sigh, Horsewind took a step forward—and before Crea could do anything about it, he was inside her guard. He grabbed the hilt of the weapon and twisted it out of her hand.

“Ow!” Crea cried as she let go of the sword, then leaned heavily against the wall, dejected and miserable, as tears came to her eyes.

Horsewind leaned in close. “I apologize if I have hurt you, but that could not have been my master. He’s not the type to do such things. Now I’d love to hear your story, but this is not the place or time. Let’s go, before trouble returns—and as we travel, you can tell me your tale—after which, I will keep the sword, and I will compensate you handsomely, if only you tell me the truth.”

“And why should I trust you?”

“Because the owner of this sword is an old and gentle spirit that would never force himself on any young woman, not even one as pretty as you,” Horsewind said. “If you took this from someone that meant to rape you, then you took it from someone that took it from my master, and I would most certainly know of such a man.”

“He was just a bit older than I. Maybe thirty turns,” Crea replied.

“My master is more than double that, and looks every day of it,” Horsewind stared into her soul with a grim expression. For a long second he stared, then gave a nod, and held the sword out to her. “Wrap it in your cloak,” he said. “It stands out against your rags.”

Surprised, Crea took the weapon, sheathed it, and wrapped it in the dingy folds of her cloak.

“Good. Now, if you’ll follow me, we’ll go somewhere safe and have us a talk, like civilized people. No waving our weapons, around and all that horseplay. What’s your name?”

“Crea,” she answered.

“Well, Crea,” he smiled and held out a hand. “I’m Tahoran. Pleasure to meet you.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 2.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

A woman opened the door, and Crea could tell this strange older lady was instantly jealous. “Who’s this?!” the woman asked of Tahoran, as she tapped her foot and glared.

“Crea, this is Methys. Methys, this is Crea,” he answered, though his tone was a touch gruff.

“It’s funny you should bring a guest when you already have several others,” Methys replied. “And why are they all women?!” she scolded. “Why are they all so damned pretty?!”

“I do not choose those that wish to call on me,” Tahoran stated.

“I know,” Methys took a step back. “And I know you say not to ask questions—but all these women are making it difficult!” she snapped.

“Come inside, Methys. We have some serious work to do—but first, let me see to these guests,” he said as he stepped through the house.

“Downstairs,” Methys told him.

Crea followed Tahoran through the house, which was old and worn, but well-loved. She entered the room, saw the strangers, and immediately realized why Methys would say they were so pretty. There were two women, and the younger one was beyond beautiful! She was absolutely radiant, all of which was only magnified by a most incredible bird perched on her shoulder! “What is that?!” Crea asked of the creature.

The beauty stood and answered. “He is a phoenix, and his name is Andrus,” she smiled as she stroked the fine bird’s head. “My name is Celesi. We come seeking a man named Tahoran.”

“Is this a matter of politics?” Tahoran asked.

Celesi shook her head, “politics are none of business.”

“How do you feel about religion?” he asked.

"I feel a lot,” Celesi smiled.

“And how will you proceed?” he continued.

“I will do no harm, and I will take no shit,” the young woman stated. “I bring the words of a friend.”

“So our duke now hires children to run his messages?”

Celesi blinked.

Tahoran smiled and shook his head, “Don’t fret, child. That last question is one of my own. I do not mean to insult you. If you come from the duke, it is because you are capable; and if you keep friends with a phoenix, well, I shall certainly not worry about your safety.”

“Quite right,” Celesi smiled. “This is my good friend, Meu,” she noted the older woman with a regal manner that wore nothing but a simple dress, not even shoes. The older woman smiled, but said nothing of her own. “Forgive my friend. She doesn’t speak much.”

“Must be good with secrets,” Tahoran noted.

Celesi smiled, “you have no idea.” The beautiful young Trohl reached into her saddle bag and took out a handful of envelopes. “These are for you,” she said, as she gave Tahoran a small stack of letters. The top one was addressed to him.

Tahoran opened the letter and read it while the others made small talk.

“Where are you from?”

“Solveny.”

“Solveny?! My goodness! The news is awful! Is it is bad as they say?!”

“I don’t know what they say, but if they say it is awful—well—they might be pretty close to the mark.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“It wasn’t your doing. And where are you from?”

“A small village in the westlands. It doesn’t exist anymore. Ministrians sacked it several years ago.”

That made Crea blink.

Celesi smiled. “You look well, and I’m happy to see that,” she said—and suddenly the prettiest girl Crea had ever met was wrapping her in a genuine hug. After resisting for a split second, Crea melted into it. For the first time in a long time she felt safe.

Tahoran gave a snort and gave the letter a shake. “Everything changes today, Methys. Go pack your bags. We’re going home.”

“You’re serious?” Methys stared.

“Deadly serious,” he answered. “Now go get your scissors. I need a proper cut, and we’re going to shorten Crea’s hair too. Indeed, find her something nice to wear.”

With an astonished expression, Methys turned and skipped from the room. Like a little girl, she threw up her arms and gave an excited yell as she ran down the hall. “We finally get out of this hellhole city!”

Tahoran shook his head, then realized all his guests were giving him a questioning stare. “She does this every time we finish an assignment,” he shrugged.

Thunder Maker

Worked on 1.2 — 59m24s — 2023/10/02

Garfindel kills Varius, then goes north. He comes across Dolif in Crimsith Peak, and there’s a scuffle. Dolif backs the man down. Garf continues north and comes across Gliedian. He kills Gliedian for giving Banifourd to their enemies, then goes north looking for Creigal.

Emenda,

The recent splitting of this great duchy has done harm to my heart, but your letter was received at quite the right time, and serves as salve. I do miss your family greatly, and hope you will pass along my warm regards. I don't know when I shall next visit the Breck, but I hope I will not stay away too long.

Let me tell of some of the circumstances here, as I am assuming you have heard only some version of the truth. Our enemies are acting openly against us, and I am now able to speak more candidly. Still, I shall not bore you with the military details, as I have sent missives to those that must know. You can hear it from them if you wish to have particulars.

Sadly, our Duke is still missing. It has been nearly a month since we received word from Gaetilly. Some fear the worst, arguing that Aurendoun and his siblings would not act against their father if he was still alive. I have sent dozens of men north, in search of my uncle, though I suspect it will be some weeks before any return.

In out Duke's absence, Aurendoun and his brothers have set the north and eastern regions afire, with support from King Greb duReb and Empress Seviticah. The north is particularly nasty and nefarious as several nobles have openly declared for the traitors, including my cousins in Crimsith Peak. There has been some fighting and a good number of foreign agents active all over the duchy, but I am safe and far from any fracas in Bastion's Crossing, surrounded by many good and competent men. Despite the open fighting and bloodshed, I am in good spirits. Creigal and I long talked of the time when this war between the duchy and the kingdom would move out of the shadows and into the open. No longer will I have to pretend of any fealty to the hypocrites in Danyan. Now that there is open fighting, we shall use this excuse to sever our remaining obligations to the Saotren throne and the Empire of Minist. There will be nothing between us, not even trade, until a true and lasting peace can be established.

Now that we are free to do so, we shall recognize the Lands of Breck, and lift any semblance of sanctions the King has imposed between us. No longer will the throne dictate even a few token influences over our politics. May the peace between Breck and Gaurring continue in its increase! Indeed, we are fortunate to have such good allies!

I must say, I find it shocking how quickly the lines can be redrawn. For years, so very little changed. And now, almost overnight, the fighting is out in the open. I am still coming to grips with recent happenings. It is a volatile time, but there are many of my council that believe we have won more than we have lost in recent days. I agree. The traitors are in the open, and no longer operate unimpeded throughout the Duchy. We sever the last of our obligations to the glutton King, and we are finally free to recognize our true allies. We bought this at the cost of the highlands. Yet, there are many loyal people in that land. Plans already move forward to see them freed. There are several sound operations that I know of—but I will speak no more of it until we succeed. Enough of politics.

I hope I have not bored you with so much sad detail. I love you so, and grow tired of this lengthy courtship. I have counted recently and notice we have been promised for more than nine years! It is too long! I swear I shall marry you at my earliest convenience, and thanks to the rash choice of my cousins, it is now politically expedient to do so. I know it will do my heart much good, and it shall be a great celebration for both our people to see us together. What do you say? Will you marry me even so soon as next spring? For the time, I am much needed here, and do not think I can get away any sooner. But I shall not be away for long. Spring comes sooner than we think.

I do hope you enjoy the company of my cousins, Madeleine and Cosetta. It is kind of you to take them in. They are from my mother's family, and are quite talented. Cosetta is well known for her writing in much of Gaurring—and you simply must hear Madeleine sing and play the lute. if she does not already bless you with her talents, you must ask her to do so. She is shy about her music, though I do not understand why, as her talent is rare and exquisite. I thank you so much for looking after them, and hope they are good company. I admit, I have encouraged many of my family to seek opportunity and leisure in the Breck—and now they must know why.

And now I must say adieu, darling. I have kept you long enough—oh, Ema! How my heart grieves at our distance! I count the days until I see you again!

Sincerely,

— Vauris phenSualus, Heir and Acting Regent of Gaurring, Captive Heart to the Countess of Mediana, Emenda faQuis

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

Varius phenSualus, Count of Bastion’s Crossing, had thought that his responsibilities would increase dramatically when he finally inherited the title and duties of the Duke of Gaurring. Yet, there were such capable men in the employ of his uncle that little had changed after he was alerted to the fact that Creigal had disappeared, and that he would be acting in his Uncle’s stead. He was simply given more details concerning the operation of his uncle’s vast enterprises, and when he met with his uncle’s advisors and administrators, instead of being yet another member of the council, he was now the one to make the final decision.

Not that Varius had taken over completely. He refused to hear talk of his coronation until it was proved that his uncle was gone—or at least until it was unlikely that Creigal should ever come back—which at the current pace meant he’d put off any official assumption of title and duty for a good decade or more. Besides, it’d only been a few months, and his network of scouts and sneaks were still looking for any sign of his uncle.

Last he’d heard, Creigal was on his way to Wibbeley—but from there the trail had gone cold. This wasn’t terribly surprising. Varius wasn’t getting much news out of the Noeth, and what news he was getting tended to be vague and contradictory. There was said to be fighting—though Varius was having difficulty discovering the nature of the conflict. It didn’t help that his network of sneaks and spies was pretty thin in the Noeth. His Uncle’s intelligence operations were largely in the west, in Danya and Pagladoria, where most of his enemies held sway. He had a few men in Land’s End, and an agent that lived in High Plains. But as far as the coming war with the King was concerned, the Noeth was relatively unimportant. Admittedly, the Dunkels were set against them, but their resources were relatively thin. Land’s End was a formidable city, and Wibbeley was fairly large. But between the two was the vast expanse of the Noethrin Plain, with only a few smaller towns, most of which were spread days apart. When the coming war began, they expected minor trouble—if any—from the Dunkels.

Yet of late, news out of the Noeth was the only news Varius was getting. The west had gone quiet. Though no one else seemed bothered by the lack of news, he wondered if things hadn’t become too quiet.

With a sigh, Varius sat up, reread the letter he’d just finished, then folded it into an envelope and set his seal to it. Done with the day’s correspondence, he lifted a slight bell and rag it to summon a porter.

—and since he refused to take the when seen his duties and responsibilities was a tired and distracted man ever since his uncle disappeared, and he was forced to take on the greater responsibilities of the duchy

“Yes, lord?” the boy asked as he looked up at Varius with a serious look on his face.

"Morning, young Wammet,” Varius said as he held out the sachel of letters. “See these to the runners,” he smiled.

Wammet took the satchel and bowed. Varius smiled and waved for one of his guards to escort the boy. The guard took the corner as Varius turned back to the window. The guard gave a shout, causing the Duke Apparent to turn to the hallway. He saw the guard back and go for his sword., but he was cut down. His other guard, Clemmins, a distant cousin and fairly talented youth, grabbed for his sword, only to find himself rapidly pushed back and cut down by several intruders. Varius went for the pistol musket he’d set on the edge of his desk. He pulled the weapon, aimed it at the man nearest, and fired. The ball struck the man’s stomach. He reeled and fell, as he sucked air.

Clemmins fell, and three intruders turned on Varius as he pulled his sword from its scabbard. One of them held Wammet by the collar of his shirt as the other two pointed muskets at the Duke Apparent.

Trapped behind his desk, Varius decided to try talking. “What do you want?” Quite sure he already knew.

“You,” the first man smirked. “Dead,” he added, and pulled the trigger of the musket.

Thunder Maker bellowed her unique and familiar tone and flung death at the Duke Apparent. Varius threw himself back in hopes of dodging the shot—but he could already feel the ball splitting skin, muscle, and bone as it ripped through his chest. Funny, he thought, I don’t feel a thing.

And then the pain was overwhelming as Varius slumped on the floor and stared up at his assassins. He couldn’t catch his breath. He tried to sit up. He tried to roll onto his arm. He could barely turn his head as the laughing intruders dragged his screaming cousin from the room.

The one stayed—that one that shot him. He nudged the duke, and when Varius made the mistake of opening his eyes, the man stuck a knife in his heart. Varius jerked, and then he had nothing. The darkness overcame him, as Garf turned and stepped lightly after his confederates. "We did it!" Garf called after his men. "We killed the pretender!"

Lilyanah and Hazle heal Cairn and the other two men that suffer the rot. Afterward, Lilyanah tells Hazle of Brankellus, then goes in search of the ghost. Meanwhile Cairn goes west, looking for the shaman that he blames for Brough’s death. He carries Haddie’s Revenge.

 The Gilded Lily

Wrote 4.1 — 51m21s — 2023/09/28

Reworking 4.1 so its more show than tell… but now I have to go to work — 57m54s — 2023/10/03

Worked on 4.1 — 27m28s — 2023/10/04

Worked on 4.1 — 1h47m48s — 2023/10/06

Polished 4.1 and worked on 4.2 — 2h10m59s — 2023/10/08

Polished about half of 4.1. Crea now suffers from an overbearing regard for a woman’s virtue — 32m38s — 2023/10/22

Polished 4.1 and 4.2 — 33m50s — 2023/10/23

Polished and extended 4.2 — 1h07m21s — 2023/10/23

Andrus doesn’t know about Meu’s venom until they’re about to go to High Plains. Before they shift for flight, Meu bites him so they can keep in touch.

Tahoran smiled as he stared at Crea. Thanks to a bath, a haircut, and a new dress, she looked like a different person. “—even if your hair is still the same color,” he continued as he glanced at Methys.

“Her hair is the same mousey brown that dominates this land,” Methys retorted. “If I was to dye it, a good eye would see that, and one might wonder why one of the servants was dying her hair,” she continued. “It is a minor point anyway. We will go nowhere unobserved, so long as that phoenix is with us!”

Celesi was unconcerned. “So long as they are looking for a stable hand and an urchin with a sword above her price, no one will look at us twice,” she answered.

“Oh, but they will,” Tahoran replied. “But it shall solve one problem rather neatly. You will get us into the House of the Gilded Lily quite easily.”

“What is this house?” Crea asked.

“It is the most expensive and exclusive brothel in all of Land’s End,” Tahoran said. “I have a contact there that I must meet.”

Crea flinched. To think of being around such people! She meant to say something, to protest, but she was not the first to speak.

“Oh, of course you do!” Methys scoffed.

With a roll of his eyes, Tahoran turned to his aged lover. “I’d normally go to the the Dunkel’s Keep to speak with this particular lady, but I cannot, since returning to work would surely see me arrested,” he said. “We will go where we must to do the job we must do.”

Methys did not like this, but she conceded, saying, “Despite the dubious honor of their work, the ladies of your Gilded Lily are usually quite good at gathering intel.”

Crea turned on the woman, surprised that she should give up so easily. “Are you not bothered?” she asked.

“Of course I’m bothered!” Methys glared at the girl—then softened her look. “But I too am a professional, and suspicion lies at the heart of sneaking,” she continued. “Besides, Tahoran appreciates a touch of suspicion. If I were not a little jealous of some of his contacts, he might think I no longer care,” she answered with a sly smile.

Crea didn’t know what to make of this. She felt it was wrong to to go to a house where women sold such intimacies—and yet, what was she to say? She no longer maintained her purity. A vicious stranger had defiled her. And as she escaped the growing war, she’d allowed Malcolm to have his fill. Non. that wasn’t the way of it. After he saved her life, she’d thrown herself at him! Still, she had no interest in such a house. “I cannot,” she began. “Such people are touched by the devil.”

“If I could not talk to anyone that has been touched by the devil, I could not talk even to myself,” Tahoran noted. “We go as a matter of strictest business. And when we are done, we continue on our way. We shall not return, as returning here is imprudent, especially if it is simply a matter of scruples. Would you not train to be a sneak after all?”

Crea didn’t want to be alone. These people had listened to her story, and judged her not. They fed her and clothed her, and she liked these people more and more. They were all so cool, collected, and confident. It seemed nothing could trouble them. Still, she didn’t get the plan—not that her part wouldn’t be easy enough. They were setting her up to play a minor role in whatever it was that they were up to. Indeed, she was more than happy to be in the background of this little cadre, to act at being nothing but a servant. Indeed, Tahoran had promised her a wage as an apprentice sneak, and she wouldn’t have to do anything if she didn’t agree! Indeed, for the first time in a long time, she felt quite safe—and since Tahoran had also bathed and shed the persona of Horsewind, he looked quite regal and strong. But why must they all go in and put on such a show? Why not simply have the man step in by himself and deliver the letter?

“It’s all a show,” Tahoran had tried to explain. “We’re not begging a favor, or paying for a simple service. We’re recruiting an ally. We want this woman on our side, so when she suffers a crisis, she’ll be resolved to keep our secrets.”

“Are we so sure she’ll suffer such a crisis?” Crea had asked.

“Every sneak must suffer such crises,” Tahoran continued. “It is human nature to do things in a proud manner, in the light of the sun. Sneaking is antithetical to what we are.”

Crea felt there was truth in this, so she refrained from any more questions, and simply sat with her uneasiness.

After his bath and haircut, Tahoran affected a haughty air. Crea figured his new mask was that of a royal, but when she commented on it, Tahoran just laughed. “To be a lord with nothing but female attendants…” he shook his head. “Among the brothels, such an entourage would be quite strange,” he said. “Indeed, what man would go to the brothels with four women?”

“Perhaps if he was trying to plant you there, so you might work with the clientele,” Methys teased. “No, it is I that will play the lady. He will simply be my capable and honored bodyguard.”

“Don’t fret,” Tahoran continued. “All you have to do is smile and be yourself, since nobody knows you here anyway.”

“That is all?” Crea asked.

“That, and curb your drinking,” Tahoran told her. “You can take the first one since it will take the edge off, but as the hours pass, I ask you not to finish the second, no matter how long the night goes.”

“And how long is the night like to go?”

“As long as all nights go,” Tahoran smiled. “Until morning.”

Yet, it wasn’t Methys that played the head of their little group. Celesi argued that she should play the lady for the fact that Andrus was perched on her shoulder. It was hard to argue with the girl. Still, Tahoran and Methys had doubts that she could carry off the role—especially since she couldn’t speak the language. “You mean to tell me not everyone here speaks Ministrian and Trohl?” Celesi teased the two, then shrugged aside the complaint. “Meu will handle the matter,” she continued in her native tongue. This confused the Saots, but Celesi insisted, then kissed Meu.

If that wasn’t strange enough, Meu licked her lips, then turned on Methys and attempted to take her face in her hands.

“Whoa!” Methys backed away and instinctively reached for her blade.

Druss Meu, the strange redhead said with nothing but her eyes, then slowly approached, and kissed Methys full on the lips.

Methys didn’t know what to think, especially when nothing happened. She blinked and stared at the old redhead with no shoes.

Lick your lips, Meu told her.

Methys did as she asked. Seconds later, she stared between Meu and Celesi, as if her heart was on fire. Wide-eyed, she swore that she could hear them in her head—which Tahoran and Crea thought was impossible, until Celesi started speaking fluent Saot.

“How is this possible?!” Tahoran stared between Meu and Celesi.

Meu put a finger to her lips, and stared into his eyes. Shhh, she smiled. Secrets.

“It is a touch distracting, but I translate for her easy enough,” she noted. “Where has our duke found such friends?!”

“Can she do this to all of us?” Tahoran asked.

Methys gave a nod, “But she can only do this so often. Perhaps it is best if she uses it sparingly.”

Tahoran agreed. If he had any lingering doubts, about whether or not Celesi should play the royal, they were dispelled as soon as the group stepped into the House of the Gilded Lily. Celesi commanded the room’s attention as soon as she entered—and she did it so naturally that the old couple wondered if she might indeed be highborn.

The house was quite as Tahoran had described it, old and crumbling, but having a thin veneer of gloss that made it look luxurious. It wasn’t a crowded night at the Gilded Lily, nor was the place empty. Several high officers of the watch lounged about, and a number of court officials were scattered among the ladies of the room—when Celesi swept in, followed closely by Meu, Methys, Tahoran, and Crea. The uncommon beauty of Celesi might have turned a fair number of heads all on its own, but the spectacle of the bird on Celesi’s shoulder guaranteed attention. One after another, the entire room turned and stared at the entrancing girl in her regal dress. They might even give a glance to her entourage before they inevitably turned back to the phoenix and stared. For most, it was the first time they’d seen such a rare creature. For her part, Celesi acted as if everyone was always staring, as she silently thanked Acad for the time she’d spent in Meriona’s tutelage.

“Excuse me,” the matron of the Gilded Lily stepped toward the party and blocked their way forward. “There are no pets allowed.”

“Quite right,” Celesi glanced at the woman and absently stroked the feathers of the bird. “And lets make no mistake, Andrus is no pet. He is no mere crow, enticed with bits and baubles, and you’d prove wise not to provoke him,” her stare was cold and challenging—and the bird seemed to wear a matching demeanor. Then Celesi smiled, and it was as if the sun had broke from behind the clouds. “I hear you offer the finest in entertainments, and we would be entertained! Have we come to the right place, or would you recommend us another establishment?” she asked as she offered a large gold sol to the older lady.

For a long second, the matron considered Celesi, the phoenix on her shoulder, and the massive gold coin in her hand. She glanced about the room, then came to her senses and allowed herself to smile. “Yes, you have come to the right place! We would be honored to entertain!” She began as she bowed, took the coin, and ushered Celesi to a large table in the middle of the room. “Indeed, if elves, dwarves, or even dragons came to my door with such poise and grace, I would welcome them—and I would thank the soul that recommended them—for such creatures are not beasts, and never pets!” she continued to beam. “Come, come! What can we do for you?”

“I hear that Land’s End is renowned for it’s cherry cordial, and I must confess that I feel rather peckish. Are we not hungry?” Celesi said, and almost glanced at her friends attending, as they nodded and sat about the large comfortable table. “And music!” Celesi continued. “We hear several of your ladies play instruments and a number are excellent singers!”

With a smile and a nod, the matorn turned and began looking about the room. She snapped her fingers and called several names. The girls jumped to attend her. Soon, the guests had drinks in front of them, while a trio of ladies sang, and played lutes and pipes. Before long, a large board of meats, cheese, fruits, and breads was brought to them, with a number of intriguing sauces for dipping and spreading.

“Do any of your ladies dance?” Celesi asked the matron, and a space was hastily cleared. The girls danced, and to their surprise, Celesi and Meu joined them, followed by Methys, Tahoran, and eventually Crea. Nobody cared that she couldn’t dance.

A young judge of Dunkel’s court stood and approached the group. He introduced himself to Celesi, who seemed quite happy to meet him. Then the young judge showed her a step popular in the area, which brought several others to join them.

The room became more and more crowded and the party only increased. Celesi introduced herself as a young heiress of Hearthstone that had come to Land’s end on family business, and after a week of travel, snags, and hassles; had decided to find some entertainment. She bought drinks for the young judge and other officials she found interesting—but they bristled when she wouldn’t match them drink for drink, and so she quickly accommodated them. For the rest of the night, Celesi drank without reserve, since she was being watched so closely. Crea whispered to her about it, and Celesi kissed her for the concern, but assured her that she would maintain the ruse without any issue. She could not know that Celesi had been trained by the Jays how to act when inebriated. For the others, it was easy to hold back. Although the cherry cordial was delicious and the alcohol had taken the edge off her anxiety, Crea realized Tahoran, Methys, and Meu barely touched their drinks—though they poured liquor freely for the rest of the house.

Celesi told the locals of her home in Trohl lands, and spun tales of Hearthstone as if she was born to the place. Loose with liquor and the sheer spectacle of it all, some of the officials told her more than they should. She kissed a number of them on the cheek, and accepted a good number of kisses to her own cheeks and hands—and so it went into the wee hours of the night.

As the party continued, and while the others were mostly distracted, Tahoran cornered one of the working girls.

“Excuse me,” the girl tried to brush passed him, but Tahoran blocked her way. She glared at him as he leaned in close.

“Leena,” he said. “I have work for you.”

The girl stared back with a fire in her eyes. “I don’t know how you know my name, but if you know the way of it, then you know you must buy me a drink to start,” she began.

“That’s not the sort of work I require,” Tahoran said as he smiled all the more. “Look close. Who do you see?”

Leena stared at the man, suddenly convinced that she knew him —somehow—but unable to remember.

Tahoran affected a stupid demeanor, bent over a bit, and said with thick words, “Well, yes Leena. I suppose the beasts like me more than most…”

Leena let out a gasp. “Horsewind?!” she asked. “But you look nothing like you look!” She said as she caressed the fine fabric of his shirt.

“See there! I knew you were bright girl! I knew you’d see me for me,” Tahoran smiled. “Now, you still remember that favor you owe me?”

With narrow eyes, Leena gulped. “I never thought you would aske me here. But didn’t you say you have a woman?” she said, even though she realized she liked the look of him. “Is this really what you want?” she asked, and as the words slipped her lips, she silently hoped it was.

“I apologize if I’ve misled you, but I do not ask for the goods of this house,” he shook his head. “Instead, I would have you get word to the Dunkels. I would have you leave them a letter.”

“Why not just do as anyone else, and put it in the post?” Leena replied.

Tahoran shook his head. “This letter must be delivered to their bed chambers. Indeed, I want you to put it under Duke Dunkel’s pillow.”

“And why would you have me do that?” Leena asked, confused.

“Because this is not a nice letter, and in the coming days, I want the Dunkels looking over their shoulders,” Tahoran grinned.

Leena realized the gravity of the request. “This is far more than I owe,” she stared. “Do you know what they’d do to me if I were to get caught?!”

“I know it would not be pleasant—but I doubt you’ll be caught. There are dozens of servants that work in their private rooms, and I’ve always known you to take great care. Yet, I admit that I ask far more than you owe—so I am more than happy to offer you a bit more compensation,” with that, Tahoran took her hand and pressed a small coin into her palm.

Leena glanced at it, noticed it’s golden hue, and stared with wide eyes. “What if I am caught? If this letter is so incendiary, I would break before any torture,” she noted.

“Tell them who gave it to you,” Tahoran said with a shrug. “Have you not heard that I am already wanted?”

“What have you done?!” Leena stared.

Tahoran shook his head, “I would not make you an accessory to other crimes—but why do you think I had to visit you here, with such a troop in such lively finery?”

“I had not thought of that,” Leena noted. “You know Horsewind, I always thought you were a fair bit smarter than you were letting on.”

“Of course you did, because you’re a fair bit smarter yourself,” Tahoran winked, then turned her head and kissed her cheek. “Goodbye, Leena. I hope someday our paths cross again.”

“And where do you go?” she asked. “Shall I never see you?”

“That is up to the fates, and I dare not tell you more than that I go home,” he answered. “Should I tell you more than that—well—what if you’re tortured?”

“Will they not already know?” Leena wondered.

“Oh they will,” Tahoran smiled. “I go for Gaurring.”

With a nod, Leena stared at the letter in her hand. “This is really going to piss them off, isn’t it?”

“Like nothing you would believe,” Tahoran said with a grave nod.

A wicked smile broke across Leena’s lips. A fire caught in her eyes, and there was iron in her stance. “I think I shall rather enjoy this,” she noted, gave the man a soft kiss, then turned and walked down the hall.

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

The party continued into the wee hours. Many of the other guests took rooms for the night, some with company, and some on their own. As the sky began to light, Celesi offered a second gold sol to the matron. The owner of the house took the coin as a smile split her tipsy face. “You must come see us again!” she said as she shook hands with the party, then proceeded to hug and kiss the entire group profusely. “I shall count the days until we are reunited!”

As they shuffled outside, Andrus perched on Meu and pressed his head to hers. After several seconds, he hopped to Methys and startled the lady, yet she was quite happy when he proceeded to do the same with her. Next, he pressed heads with Tahoran, then hopped onto Crea’s shoulder. She thought this was strange, and thought it was even more strange when the exhaustion of a rawkus party and the fog of a couple drinks lifted from her entirely. Suddenly, she felt strong and vibrant, as if she wanted to go for a run! She stared at the strange bird as it returned to Celesi’s shoulder.

Unlike the others, Celesi was drunk and could barely keep her head up, as she leaned heavily on Tahoran. She blinked as the bird approached. “Oh, hey! There you are! Oohhh, I missed you!” she slurred, though he’d been on her shoulder most the night, and had barely visited with the others at all. Like all the rest, the bird pressed its tiny head against hers, and Celesi gave a soft moan as it worked its magic on her.

Crea watched intently, trying to see what it was doing, and realized the bird was no longer its bright vibrant self, but had taken on a dull and affected quality. She wondered, was the beast okay?

Wide awake and stone sober, Celesi settled the sick-looking bird into her arms. She turned to Tahoran. “So we deliver the letter to Yurand next?”

Tahoran scratched his head. “I’m still working on how to do that,” he confessed.

“We’ll have the bird do it,” Celesi smiled. “But first you must get us away from here. Take us someplace close to the border. Get us a carriage and let us be off.”

Tahoran took them to a stable and hired a coach and driver. They all piled in, and were on their way before the sun rose. Inside, Crea couldn’t stop staring at the bird. “Is he okay?” she asked when Celesi caught her staring.

“Yes,” she said. “I think,” she added with a hint of worry in her eyes.

The carriage was large and spacious. Methys and Tahoran had a few bags they refused to leave at the house, and Celesi had a large bag of her own, and also a horse to carry it. Still, they put the bag on the roof of the carriage and tied the horse to the back. Crea had nothing but the sword which was wrapped among Tahoran’s things.

“What did you see on the border of your county?” Tahoran asked of Crea.

“Not much,” Crea shrugged. “We came across the border somewhere in the wilds north of Oberlin.”

“You saw no signs of a blackade?”

“If we saw people at all, we avoided them,” Crea shrugged. “The people we did see—who knows what they were doing? Do you really think the Dunkels have blocked the roads?”

“That is the rumor,” Tahoran shrugged. “Word is the road is blocked. Nobody crosses into or out of Yurand’s county.”

“And why is that?” Crea asked. “Why should our duke keep anyone out?”

“Because whatever is happening, he doesn’t want people to know about it,” Tahoran said.

“But I can tell you what is happening,” Crea huffed. “The land is invaded!”

“Yes. But by whom, and for what reason?” Tahoran stared.

Crea shook her head. She couldn’t give a good answer. Ministrians, or Trohls, or both? What were they to her? ‘Who am I to know of such things?” she asked.

“Who are any of us?” Tahoran said, waxing a bit philosophical. “Yet, you said the man that attacked you was dressed in the uniform of my home,” he continued. “Don’t you see? They implicate my master in these atrocities. They mean to bring war to my home,” he glared.

For several hours, they rode in the carriage. Crea napped for a time, resting her head on Celesi’s shoulder. Suddenly, she felt the Trohl shift beneath her as the young beauty gave a hiss. “Stop the carriage!” she cried. “Something is wrong!”

Tahoran opened the door of the carriage and leaned out so he could talk with the driver. Before the tehy’d come to a full stop, Celesi was out of the box on wheels, and crouched in the ditch over the sick-looking bird.

“What is it?!” Crea asked as she too stared at the beast.

“I dunno!” she cried. “He’s hot to the touch! He’s burning up!”

Indeed, there was smoke rising off the bird. With a surge of flame the beast caught fire, and Celesi tried to beat it back. “No, no, no!” she cried.

Meu grabbed her and held her back. They all stood aside and watched the small corpse of the creature as a fire consumed it.

“What is happening?!” Crea cried. “Have you ever heard of such a thing?!”

The stood around, stunned by the sudden inferno. They all stared at each other and shook their heads.

After several minutes, the fire died down. There was nothing but ash on the ground. Celesi was inconsolable. With her face in her hands, she climbed back into the carriage. Meu was equally struck, though she simply stared at the small pile of ash.

“We should go,” Tahoran told the silent woman. “We should go,” he repeated a minute later.

After being told a third time, Meu turned, gave a slight nod and climbed back into the carriage, where she wrapped her arms around Celesi.

On they drove. Crea didn’t know what to think. Worry gnawed at her. What had killed the beast? Did it use too much of its magic in curing their hangovers? How could it be so stupid?

She was beginning to think she should leave these people and go her own way. Either she was cursed, or they were, and either way it was best if she went on her own. Then, the carriage began to jerk and the driver began yelling. “Hey! What in Oblarra?!” he called.

Tahoran poked his head out the window. “Good man, what is it?!” he called.

“Your blasted bird!” the man roared. “There!” Sure enough, there was Andrus, flying about the carriage, and occasionally diving at the horses or the driver. “Calm the beast down!”

Celesi let out something between a bark and a squeal, popped open the door, and half dove into the road. The bird dropped and settled into her arms as she cooed and cried at the strangely recovered beast.

“How the devil…?” Tahoran scratched his head.

“It’s magic!” Celesi beamed. “Magic, I say!”

Crea couldn’t stop smiling, though she didn’t know what to make of it. She’d watched the bird burn up to nothing but ash—and yet here it was, right as rain! She turned to the others and shook her head. Wide-eyed and with their mouths hanging open, the others shrugged.

“Well, let’s go, I guess,” Tahoran said as he sctached his head. “Unless we’re waiting for some other miracle…” With that, they all piled back into the carriage and returned to their travels.

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

A Strategic Victory and a Tactical Defeat

The siege and defeat of High Plains

High Plains is destroyed, but not before the people escape north into Trohl lands. Maligno helps the people of High Plains excape, using the Deep—but while underground, they are attacked by a hulud (a giant blind worm that is attracted to the sound of their passage).

The war in the south escalates. Doidge reaches Danya.

Duboha, Aim, and Homoth finally reach Ebertin. Once there, they are introduced to the Gray Sons and eventually Eikyale, as the naga is attempting to bring in a peace between the humans and naga. Upset that any naga should sue for peace, Golifett murders Eikyale.

Aim and Duboha go back to Ebertin. Duboha has sold his house by proxy, so when he gets back, he signs papers and buys another house. They investigate what has happened in their absence, and find that the Degorouth have a tentative hold on the city.

Through Squirrel and their other Pan Iskaer contacts, Duboha is invited to meet some of the Grey Sons. The Grey Sons confirm their suspicions about Solveny, and also tell them about Rynth Falls and the Ministrians operations in the western Bunderhilt. They also want to show Duboha and the Pan Iskaer leadership something in the tunnels near the lake. Indeed, they are quite nervous to even speak of strange developments concerning the naga. Duboha and Aim meet with several old men of esteem and position, then are finally introduced to Eikyale and emissaries from Beletrain that are hoping to establish a lasting peace. They claim to want peace as they believe a great evil is stirring in the world.

Doidge makes it to Danya, where he reports to the Holy Schrivnah. He tells of the sacking of Solveny and the attack on the Post’s Keep. Told that he can go to any post he wishes, Doidge asks to go to Kelm—where there are no wars.

Blood Sport

Homoth spun around as his heart pounded. He saw Baet turn and his arm came up with the new musket in hand. Homoth lifted his arm and fired. Smoke and fire billowed from the gun.

There was no return fire. Homoth looked to the crowd and they stared back at him in shock.

Something moved in front of Homoth, and he turned back toward Baet. The smoke cleared, and he could see Baet striding at him, musket in hand. Homoth had missed! Only a few steps from Homoth, Baet fired his musket. He aimed just to the left of Paye's brother. With the report loud in everyone's ears, Baet closed the remaining distance that separated him from Homoth. He smashed his free hand into Homoth's shocked face. Homoth backpedaled and landed heavily on his haunches. His hands lifted to his nose and touched the blood that gushed from his nostrils.

With a scowl on his face, Baet reached down and took Cloud Breaker.

Paye separated from the crowd with a cry. She ran for her brother, and sat at his side.

"He broke my nothe," Homoth accused as he stared at his sister.

Now that she was sure that Homoth would live, Paye's face turned dark. She swung wide and smashed her fist into his shoulder. "You twit! You almost killed him!" she raged as she punched him again and again. "You want me raising my baby alone?!" She raged. Homoth shrugged, unsure what to say. Instead of saying anything he simply defended himself from Paye's blows. "Don't ever do that again! You scared me witless!"

Baby? Baet questioned as he stared at Paye. Could she possibly be pregnant? And if she was, how could she possibly know it so soon?

Paye stood up and stomped away from her downed brother. She wrapped her arms around Baet and settled her head on his chest. "Thank you, thank you, thank you..." she said as she kissed his surprised face.

The crowd smiled and chuckled, happy to have the duel resolved and both men still alive. It was an impossible ending, and yet nobody dared mention it was supposed to be a duel to the death. If both parties were resolved, who were the others to complain? There was visible relief from most. Azra and his other boys gathered around Homoth and helped him up. Azra approached Baet as he was crowded by other men and women of the area. His meaty hand extended to the Saot. Although he smiled and shook Baet's hand, Azra said nothing. He dropped the man's hand and turned back to his sons.

"If that don't beat all," someone said.

Paye squealed with delight as she squeezed Baet, and kissed him over and over and over.

A cheer went up among the others, and slowly the crowd dispersed with shaking heads and stunned smiles.

The Jubilee Letter

When those that craft the law adhere to it the least, then the law is nothing, and no man is bound by it.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Pai Terneys delivers the Jubilee Speech

We know the true duke, for he is not exempt from the law. Only his upstart sons and their unscrupulous friends pretend at divine right. The truly divine recognizes the right of all living men, and that none is above another. It is villainy supreme to deny others, while allowing yourself. Frauds, cheaters, charlatans, and thugs lower themselves with their criminality, and pretend their ill-gotten riches make them better than their brethren—but it is nothing but hypocrisy dressed in undeserved finery.

The Letters of Creigal — the Jubilee Letter

Their contents are secret until Andrus reaches Bastion’s Crossing.

…to let them know of his whereabouts, his intentions, and what he had learned in his journeys. He also charged that the debts to the men he lost should be settled as soon as possible.. be settled; debts to the families of the men that were lost along the way, and also to the Trohl that was bearing these letters, for additional costs he’d incurred upon his travels.

Sujad, The Illusion

Voressa catches Sujad skulking about the camp. She hates him, and after she presents him to Gliedian, she asks if she can have him drawn and quartered.

Dinamogue was feeling the urge. It would have stayed in Bastion’s Crossing and eventually stumbled across someone suitable to seduce, except it’d recently had a run-in with the duke’s pet mage, a man of surprising talent and grudge, and it was feeling the heat. Oh well. Dinamogue came out of the encounter with a small stack of gold and the duke’s guard on high alert. Most of them were inept, but a few would and could sniff him out, given the opportunity. Under lock and key, it’d never get to satisfy its urge, and so Dinamogue took on the rags of a beggar and slipped through the main north gate just as the last flush of travelers were pressed through before it closed for the night.
On the road north, Dinamogue played the part of a tinker down on his luck. It stole a small hammer and purchased a few other tools well passed their prime, then promised to do a bang-up job for anyone that asked his business. None took up his offer. It Meandered north for the better part of a week, burning with rage and desire, before it happened across one suitably naive and undoubtedly talented. —18m21s — 2022/09/24

The introduction of Sujad, the Illusion: a little girl of nine or ten asks her older sister, “who’s Sujad, the Illusion?”

At first, the older sister ignores her.

The little sister insists.

The older girl turns, and grabs her sister by the face. She says, “is that you, Sujad?” she asks, worry creeping at the corner of her voice. “Are you playing your tricks?” She stared. “Well, you can’t expect me to lie to my little sister, you ruthless creep, so hear the truth, and see if it’s to your flavor,” she hissed. “Sujad is one of the most despicable beasts you could ever have the misfortune to encounter. He’s a gleeful butcher, a methodical plotter, both patient and vile. He can appear as anybody, and looks like nobody. Sujad is a demon!” she finished, and gave her sister a stinging slap.

For a long second, both girls stared back at the other, both half expecting the situation to escalate. But the younger girl was half the age of her sister, and so caught by the vitriol in her sister’s voice as she described Sujad, the Illusion that she began to cry.

“Now, now,” the older sister gathered her in. “I love you. I truly do. But you must never say that name to me—you see, I’ve met the beast, and he is most villainous. I hope he is done with me—but I guess you never know with a monster like him,” she confessed.

Celesi is seduced by Sujad, the Illusion. Sujad, the Illusion bites off Andrus’ balls, then goes after the girl. Biting off Andrus’ balls is necessary so Sujad can get Celesi pregnant.

Sujad, the Illusion has slowly coaxed her to strip down on the bed. She is hesitant, but hopeful. She doesn’t realize it’s about to be the worst night of her life—but there’s still a little more build-up before it goes south…

Suddenly, Tahoran bursts in and stabs Sujad, the Illusion center mass. Celesi is freaked out, because Sujad, the Illusion looks like Andrus. She pulls a revolver and shoots Tahoran. Sujad, the Illusion and Tahoran are both dead. Shortly after, Andrus hobbles into the room with a bloody crotch. Celesi is horrified—especially since Sujad, the Illusion now appears in his natural state (a very rare thing).