A Crush of Blades and Malice

Polished 18.1 to 18.4 — 28m02s — 2023/12/03

Polished 18.5 to 18.10 — 52m15s — 2023/12/04

Polished 18.11 — 9m41s — 2023/12/07

It is not proper to consider ourselves the pinnacle of god’s merciful creation. Though we possess a unique and wonderful rung on the great ladder of existence, there are many above us, as there are many below. Ants parade about the ground, dwarfed by our toes, and yet they must appear as monsters to some. Likewise, we find ourselves mere insects when approached by certain beasts. From time to time, leviathan harass our cities with seeming impunity. Indeed, it is a marvel we sometimes chase them off. Over the centuries, how many of these beasts have we encountered, and how few have we managed to kill?

Yet, these leviathan are not the end of it. There are other great beasts that occasionally strip the land and dwarf us with their massive forms. Still, these beasts are nothing when compared to the infinities themselves. Oblarra, Tristmegist, Sram, Jupi, Nevus, Suntar... So slow are the infinities that some argue they are not alive at all, they are just rock and water, swimming about the void, a mere accident of creation. Some say they are nothing more than the terrain we call home. We alone are granted a fullness of consciousness, and so we alone must be the pinnacle of all creation.

I find this argument to be folly. Indeed, some great beasts find themselves victims of humanity—yet we must recognize that many lesser creatures offer us no end of trouble. How many men have been killed by warring bugbear, lions, bulls in the field, and even the slightest of insects: scorpions, widow makers, mantikeens? A great count of men have died by these clever beasts, though we rightly consider them less than us. We do not pretend that vipers are the true inheritors of god’s great creation just because they manage to kill a handful of men each year.

At times we are better than those creatures greater than us, just as we are occasionally overcome by lesser beasts. Sure, there is probability and expectation when men find themselves in conflict, just as there are exceptions and surprises. Men have killed a great number of behemoths, krakens, and leviathans over the centuries, but these creatures have claimed the lives of men by a thousand fold. If we are simply another meal to these creatures—and I assume we are to many of them—what does that say of our divinity? I answer you this: it is a divinity shared with scorpion, leviathan, and all the beasts in between; for god has created us all.

– The Elder Races of the World: Considerations, Arguments, and Refutations, by Aogostua Veribos, page 882

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Krumpus stirred on the edge of sleep as a burning pain washed from his hands and up his arms. He groaned and clenched his teeth as this fire rolled like waves, even receding, only to crash upon his nerves once more. Twice he stretched his hands in his sleep. Each time he woke with a gasp. It felt like the skin around his fingers would rip and expose the tips of the bones. The second time he whimpered and moaned before he settled back down.

After what seemed an eternity of torment and grief, he gave up on sleep altogether. He felt terrible as he sat up. He looked about his cell in hopes that the guards left his bag. He thought to give himself something for the pain: conicle, silver leaf, a touch of dragon’s tongue. But the bag was gone. Instead, he wept. He cried into his hands, curled like claws, and watered his nails.

Huddled against the wall, Krumpus heard the lock click and the door open. He hid his head, his shame and pain, and ignored the garish light of a torch as something scraped the floor. The door closed, and the lock clicked back into place once more. After several seconds of silence, Krumpus looked up to see that dinner was served. He knew it was dinner because he was given the same two meals each day. Breakfast was weak cheese, moldy bread, and perhaps a withered apple. Dinner was a thin broth, a few limp vegetables, and yet more bread, only now it was dry and stale. If he was lucky, there’d be a bit of salted ham or preserved beef—but not tonight.

Krumpus kneeled over his food and sucked at the warm broth so he would not have to use his hands. The heat was just on the edge of drinkable and gave him strength. He held his face over the slight steam and reveled in it. These days, little comforts were all he had.

Krumpus rested on his elbows and studied his hands. They were balled in loose fists. Thanks to Fedring’s needle magic, the fingers were as fat as sausages with an inordinate amount of swelling in each of his digits. It hurt just as much to tighten up his grip as it did to relax it—yet he gently coaxed his hands to move. He breathed into the pain as his eyes teared up.

Slowly, his fingers responded.

Despite the incredible pain, he fanned his fingers ever so slightly. He told himself this was not the worst pain he’d ever known—though he wasn’t sure. He sucked his breath and glanced about the room as yet another wave of fiery torment washed up his arms. With a sigh, he allowed his fingers to curl into fists, and leaned over his soup once more.

As he picked at his plate, Krumpus stared across his cell. In the dim light he saw a thousand tiny eyes stare back at him from the far wall. Intrigued, he leaned closer and realized they were not eyes at all, but the tunnels dug by the little doctors. A flicker of hope caught in his chest as he hobbled to the wall and inspected the tiny holes once more. He pushed a knuckle into the mortar. It gave easily, like the delicate crust of a perfect pie. Indeed, with barely any pressure, a thick chunk fell from the wall and crumbled to dust.

Krumpus took several deep breaths. He forced his fingers into the mortar. The burning in his hands increased—but not as much as his excitement—as his hand sunk into the brittle mortar of the wall. Did the little doctors dig him an escape route?! He knew miracles were only as big as one was willing to accept—yet he had a wide view of the world and a great want of profound miracles. The idea that a couple thousand ants dug him a tunnel was not beyond the pale. To him it seemed to be quite a logical conclusion. After all, the little doctors always came to help.

Krumpus pushed his fingers through the fragile mortar around a smooth rock. Despite the pain, he gave the stone a solid yank and pulled it loose from the wall. He dropped it with a gasp. Pain raged through his hands and arms as he stared at a lacework of ant tunnels that continued into the dirt. He poked his right hand at the dirt and it flaked away as fragile as the mortar about the stones.

Krumpus gripped another stone as fire raged from his fingertips, up his arms, and into his back and chest. He ripped the stone from the wall, all too happy to do battle, and dropped this stone next to the first. Tears stained his eyes and a wide grin stretched his lips. He laid on his back for several seconds and allowed his hands a rest. Slowly, the pain diminished to a dull throb. He wiggled his fingers ever so slightly. Though the effort pained him, his excitement served as an analgesic.

Krumpus sat up and attacked the next stone in the wall. It gave with little effort. He pried away a fourth and a fifth stone. He smashed aside a six, a seventh, and an eighth before he took another break. This time, he took only a few breaths before he continued his work. He pushed his sore and throbbing hands into the brittle dirt beyond the stones, and the dirt fell away with ease.

Soon, there was a hole big enough to fit the shaman.

Despite the fire in his hands, Krumpus raked at the dirt. He realized the tunnels of the little doctors did not extend everywhere. Indeed, they took a specific course. A solid floor, walls, and ceiling emerged as he pushed forward. He followed the ant burrows deeper into the earth as the tunnels shifted gently to the right. Now he was six feet in. He took another break and rested his hands yet again. The incredible pain of his hands mixed with the bright hope of escape and made the shaman manic. He snorted and cursed under his breath as he attacked the brittle dirt again and again. His head was loud with excitement, though his efforts produced little sound.

Some ten feet in, Krumpus took a long break. He turned to the remainder of his dinner and soaked the crust of bread in the last bit of broth—which was now cool. He ate the limp carrots and sad leaves of cabbage. He thought few meals ever tasted so good!

As he ate, Krumpus admired the gaping hole in his cell. He realized there was no hiding what he’d done. The floor before the hole was covered in mounding dirt and stone. On top of that, the air was filled with a fine haze of dust. He wondered how long he had before the guards checked on him. How long until the tunnel must be complete?

With a renewed sense of purpose, and a sharp sliver of fear to prod him on, Krumpus returned to his work. He ignored the pain in his hands as best he could, but the fire made his arms and shoulders sore. By turns, he used his feet to kick and scrape at the brittle dirt, but eventually returned to his aching weak hands.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Leverkusen entered the stone tower and proceeded to the prison beneath.

Since it’d only been a few hours since the captain took his winnings and left, Cairn glared as Leverkusen entered the guard room. “Come back to brag?!” he stood, a formidable man, and rolled his head left and right as he prepared to fight.

Leverkusen held up a hand. “Peace friend. I’ve been sent to look in on the shaman. Fedring wishes to know how the man fares,” he lied.

“How ‘e fares?” Cairn snorted. “He got claws for hands! The man won’t get a wink of decent sleep for days!”

“I don’t doubt your evaluation,” Leverkusen shrugged. “I guess Fedring thinks this one is different.”

With a snort, Cairn acquiesced. “Well, come along, and have yourself a look-see,” he said as he gathered his keys. He opened the door to the cell block and proceeded down the hall, followed by Leverkusen and Brough.

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Krumpus wiggled his way back into the cell with another load of dirt. Anticipation of his escape fueled him as his hands raged with pain. Wanting to work faster, he gripped the wooden soup bowl and used it to scoop dirt. The edge of the bowl put the pressure of digging into the creases of his palms, instead of his digits, and managed to reduce some of the pain. After a couple feet of digging with the bowl, he caught a patch of solid earth at the edge of the soft tunnel, and snapped the bowl in half. This pained his hands greatly and caused him to huff and fume. For several minutes he was forced to pause his work—but the breaking of the bowl was fortuitous as he now had a scoop for each hand!

The tunnel continued and the cell filled with more and more dirt. An incredible amount of it hovered in the air and created a thick, choking cloud. Krumpus coughed and snorted as he labored to breathe. He didn’t mind as he spit dirt-clogged mucus. The tunnel was now some twenty feet deep. Without such soft, brittle dirt, the tunnel would have taken weeks of constant work. With the condition of his hands, it would have taken months! But with the help of the little doctors, it took only a few hours.

Sweat and dirt stained the shaman’s face and clothes as he wiggled in and out of the thinning tunnel. His hands felt like they were on fire! They felt like they bled from every pore. He wondered if he compounded the damage of Fedring’s needle magic—but also refused to give up on his work. If his hands were permanently damaged, well, at least he’d be free.

As the tunnel continued, Krumpus wondered how far the ants traveled before they surfaced—indeed, he wondered if they surfaced at all! Perhaps the ants never meant to free him but only return to the earth where they belonged. The tunnel seemed too long, and it was getting thinner and thinner. Soon, he wouldn’t be able to scrabble through without scraping at the hard earth all around—which would slow him dramatically. He wondered if he shouldn’t have been more calculating in his efforts. Maybe he shouldn’t have attempted the tunnel all at once. He shuddered to think what the guards might do if they returned to the cell to find the tunnel half finished.

And if he should get free? At best, he’d be free with no supplies and hands bent into rude claws. He’d be without his bag or his cloak. He’d be without water, or even a blade.

Still he had a life worth preserving and feet to carry him away! Things could be much worse. With grim determination, Krumpus attacked the dirt and bit back the pain in his hands. He scraped, and huffed, and scooped, and cussed.

Suddenly, the dirt did a strange thing: it gave way to air. There was nothing beyond! Escape was finally assured! With a surge of effort, Krumpus pushed out the opening and hung halfway out the side of a slope. He was free!

Outside, the air was fresh and cool as Krumpus hung half out of his tunnel. He turned, glanced about, and noticed the termination was just outside the wall of the camp.

So that is why the ants dug so far, he thought as he stared at the looming wall. He turned to the forest as it rose before him, maybe a dozen feet away.

The world beyond was quiet. Indeed, the woods were too quiet. He could tell that all was not well. He sunk back into the tunnel so only his head was exposed. There was an electricity in the air, an expectation of trouble. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stood on end. There was something ominous about the trees. None of the usual night sounds came from the woods. There was no scamper of nocturnal feet, none of the buzz and hiss of insects. There was only silence, as if something stalked in the woods: dangerous, lurking, watching. The only sounds of night came from the camp, as distant unseen guards chattered and laughed with one another—as torches crackled and feet scuffed. With a deep seeded suspicion, Krumpus eyed the trees. He was so intent on what was before him, he missed the sound of the cell door as it opened behind him.

“What the devil?!” Cairn roared as he tried to see through the murk and haze of all the fine dust in the air. A jolt of panic struck Krumpus as threats and curses carried from the cell. Sounds of exertion followed as Cairn pushed his way into the tunnel. He was much larger than the shaman and struggled to get through the earthwork as it thinned.

Fright prodded the shaman onward. Krumpus pulled himself free of the earth and scampered into the brush at the edge of the trees. He threw himself under the protection of a scrub oak and froze in place. The sudden crunch of dead leaves and twigs seemed entirely too loud. A sense of dread filled the shaman. He felt pinched between something bad and something worse. Behind him was the torment of his captors, ahead was the terror of an unknown threat.

A brute form emerged from the tunnel. Cairn appeared much larger than Krumpus remembered, and far too close for the shaman’s comfort—though he refused to move or make any sound.

“Shit tits!” Cairn kicked at the dirt as he stomped about the entrance of the tunnel. “Piss, puke, pussy, poop, fart, phlegm, and fornication!” he yelled as Brough pulled himself from the tunnel and scratched dirt from his hair.

Krumpus was not in a good spot. It was a straight line from the tunnel to the scrub oak that hid him. The guards were bound to find him, and quite quickly, just as soon as they began to search.

Yet he felt something worse than these two men haunted the woods beyond. Despite his nervousness, Krumpus refused to move. Until he was discovered, they might still overlook him.

A third man emerged from the tunnel. Unlike Brough and Cairn, this man began to search the woods immediately. It was only luck that he chose to search under a pine to the left of the shaman, and that he should move the other direction as he went.

Somewhere behind and to the right of the shaman a twig snapped. Leaves rustled. Something huffed.

Brough reached up and pulled a long, thin dart from his neck. “What in hell...” he croaked as he glanced at the wooden dart, now stained with a drop of his blood. A wave of nausea washed over the man. He crumbled to his hands and knees as a violent impulse overtook him. He spewed vomit with gusto.

After several wracking heaves, Brough could no longer stand on his feet. He dropped to his hands and knees and began to convulse. His eyes rolled back in his head and a thick foam exuded from his mouth, as he rolled onto his back. For several seconds, he kicked and thrashed about the dirt—then stopped moving altogether. His head lulled to the side and blank eyes leveled an empty gaze at the sky as gross dripped from his open mouth.

“Brough?!” Cairn leaned over his associate. As he leaned down, he heard a dart wing over his head. The guard lurched back and stared at the trees in horror. Without a second thought, he dove into the tunnel. He screamed and raged as he clawed his way back through the tight earthwork.

Leverkusen pulled his sword and dagger as shadows shifted and formed from out of the dark woods. They were a fair deal shorter than he was, but they outnumbered him a dozen to one. They growled as they approached, long snapping snouts, like dogs, and weapons in hand. He knew them at once: waokie! He backed away only to find several behind him, cutting him off from the tunnel.

The shadowy beasts danced about him. They dodged back as he spun this way and that, only to approach as he turned to confront other elements of the tightening circle. The beasts stayed out of the reach of his sword as more and more gathered about. Leverkusen lunged forward and cut down one of the beasts. In response, the circle of enemies collapsed. The creatures cut him down in a flurry of stone axes and rusted swords—then flung themselves into the tunnel after Cairn.

Krumpus lay under a clump of scrub oak and stared at a steady stream of bugbear. As small as they were, they had an easy time getting into the tunnel with all their various weapons: swords, knives, axes, mallets, spears, blowguns... Unable to enter the tunnel all at once, the bugbear jammed about the entrance and pushed close to its mouth, an excited crush of blades and malice, as they continued to pile into the tunnel.

It took some time, but soon there were faint screams that came out of the earthwork, and eventually carried over the wall, as more and more of the creatures pushed into the tunnel. The peel of the great bell at the top of the stone tower announced the invasion was known, as Krumpus could hear Cairn yelling down at his brothers. The alarm was joined by guards stationed all about the walls.

In response to the bell, a call went up from the woods, a guttural command that was repeated several times. There was a large popping sound. With a rumble, a section of the outer wall of the fort lurched and dropped several feet. Timbers snapped and broke as the section of wall groaned, then slowly fell into the camp. A wooden watchtower tore from the wall and crashed to the ground in a ruin, as screams of astonishment and pain echoed the calamity. Howling at their successful breach of the wall, a thick throng of bugbear darted out of the woods and pushed into the fort.

With the fall of the wall, Krumpus realized this wasn’t just some bugbear hunting party out late at night—it was a full blown bugger war! Accomplished diggers, the buggers must have spent days sapping the wall! But they would not attack uncontested. Archers in the other towers clanged their alarms and fired arrow after arrow into the swarm of attackers. The sounds of skirmish rose from just inside the fort as more and more bugbear pushed inside.

Fire appeared in the woods. Several balls of flame arched up into the night sky and exploded against the wooden towers that stood nearest the breach.

Although several beasts still mulled about the entrance to the tunnel, their attention was firmly fixed on the fort. Excited, the creatures clapped each other and danced with glee. Several charged for the breach in the wall, while others waited their turn to get into the tunnel, to see where this strange entrance might lead.

The bell atop the great stone tower continued to ring and echo off nearby hills. The incredible quiet of the night was now a cacophonous riot. With so much noise in the air, Krumpus felt it was safe to move. Slowly, he crawled from under the clump of scrub oak and darted further into the trees. He angled away from the creatures and moved along the curve of the wall to the east as he avoided the ebb and flow of several thousand bugbear. The further Krumpus got from the tunnel, and the nearby breach, the faster he was able to move. It only took him an hour or so before he found himself on the east side of the fort with nothing more than the clothes on his back and half a wooden bowl in each hand. He stepped onto the road going east. He glanced back to see the tips of flames lick above the north wall of Camp Calderhal. The remainder of the fort was now between himself and the warring bugbear. The sounds of battle faded as the shaman continued on his way.

Ecstatic to have his freedom, Krumpus skipped and danced along the road. He clacked the two halves of the bowl together in time to his song. He did not relish the death and misery of those in the camp—though he recognized a certain justice in it. Either way, the matter was beyond his control, and far beyond his responsibility!

The Children of Luna arched overhead and gave their septic light to the land. As Krumpus contemplated the hard justice of the great creator, his eyes caught on something at the side of the road. In the ditch was a long, wide spread of delicate yellow blossoms. His heart jumped as he realized he stared at a massive colony of foxbane!

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Wenifas turned as Meu pulled back the curtain that separated the rooms. The skin-walker woman had a determined look on her face. The priestess sat up as concern flooded through her. “What is it?” she whispered, and feared the worst. Had Fedring escaped his bonds and captured Leverkusen? Did the caravan captain admit everything? Was the Majoris now on his way with too many guards in tow?

It is the waokie, Meu said as she picked up the staff, cloak, and bag. The shaman has escaped, but in his efforts, he’s let them in, she explained.

“Waokie?” Wenifas shook her head. “But we are near the center of the fort. Surely they cannot reach us here!”

Meu shook her head. There are thousands of the beasts flooding into the camp as we speak.

“What do they want with us?!” Wenifas asked.

To kill and plunder, Meu stated. If they do not destroy the camp, they will certainly make a mess of it. As they battle, we escape.

For a long second Wenifas stared at Meu, “You knew!?” she accused. “You knew of these beasts and you didn’t tell me?! What of my friends?!”

Meu gazed back at the priestess. I am here for the shaman and I am here for Derris. By extension, I am here for you—but what do I know of the rest of them? she continued. From where I stand this is little more than a camp of slavers and pirates!

“Is that what you think of us?!” Wenifas glared.

Yes, Meu admitted. Though I am sure there are others among your people worthy of rescue, I also know that I am not the one to do it. Now tend your children, so at least we might yet live.

Wenifas swore and spit as she shook her boy awake. “Claiten, baby! Wake up! I need you to wake!”

Claiten sat up and rubbed at his heavy eyes. He looked at his mother and then at Meu. With a groan of protest, he threw himself down on his pillow and closed his eyes once more.

Wenifas cursed under her breath and shook him yet again. Still, her difficult boy might have slept—except the bell of the great stone tower clanged to life and affirmed his mother’s worry. With the first peel, a bolt of fear shot through Claiten, and the young boy jumped to his feet and blanched. With a squeak, he pulled on his clothes and attached his knife to his belt.

Wenifas took up the musket Leverkusen gave her, and pulled on the pack that held her jewelry and coin, a couple changes of clothes, her stash of desert flower, her book of absolution, and a large sack of coin stolen from Fedring. The second bag of coin dwarfed her own reserves and was dominated by gold. Gold! On top of this were thin rations for several days, a large canteen of water, and cloth diapers for her daughter. Claiten had his own bag of clothes, food, and another of Fedring’s coin purses, all packed by his mother and the red-haired skinwalker. Meu had the last of Fedring’s purses, another dress, and stuff for the babe, all jammed into the shaman’s bag, with his mix of herbs and bandages.

“Where to?” Wenifas asked.

Where will we find Derris? Meu replied as they stepped from the large, comfortable tent.

“We have to go to the Invader’s Fort,” Wenifas gulped.

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In the Invader’s Fort, a knot of Ministrian guards stared toward Camp Calderhal as they listened to the sound of the great bell. Without orders to the contrary, they would not abandon their current work, which was to guard the Bouge prisoners. Still, the bell continued to ring, and a nervousness built among the men.

Minutes after the bell began, a runner appeared in the uniform of a shock trooper, a rare thing in the Invader’s Fort and only allowed in extreme emergencies. He ran toward the guards and saluted as he came to a stop.

Petaerus gave a hasty salute back to the runner. “Well, man? What’s going on?!”

“We’re under attack! Copal Hizenwellar orders all available men to the stone tower!” the messenger said.

Petaerus turned on his fellow guards. “Well, you heard him!” he called as he waved his men forward. “To the tunnel! Everyone to the tunnel!”

Derris ran with the others. As he passed Petaerus, the high guard pushed him aside.

“Not you!” Petaerus snapped at Derris.

Surprised to be singled out, Derris swatted at the two feathers that dangled from Petaerus’s helmet. “But, he said all available men...” he pointed toward the incessant tone of the bell.

“You are not available!” Petaerus glared at the man. “You will stay here and make sure none of the prisoners take advantage!”

Derris balked. “But the alarm...”

“Do as you’re told!” Petaerus snapped.

The other guards laughed as they ran passed the pariah. Embarrassed and humiliated, Derris watched as the other guards rushed away without him.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.7 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Wenifas led Meu to a wide road that ran east and west through the heart of the camp. A stream of guards surged from the barracks toward the old stone tower. “Derris!” She shouted over the heads of the men. “Derris!”

“Out of the way!” A guard shouted as he shouldered past her, uninterested in a hysteric priestess.

Someone grabbed Wenifas by the elbow. She turned on the man as she tried to pull away. She expected to see Fedring, or one of his underlings. She expected that everything was found out.

The man recoiled and threw up his hands. He was not a guard at all, merely a laborer, an old man about the camp. Wenifas knew the man in passing. Despite his rough appearance, she knew him to be a kindly gent. He often let her cut in line at the Three Mark Well and even helped her draw water several times. He joshed with Claiten and the other children. She gave him a weak smile, as if to reassure him—but he frowned to see her affected face.

“Pardon, my lady,” he said. “What happens to us? What is this alarm?”

“We are under attack,” she said before she considered her words. “We cannot survive.”

“But surely, all these guards...”

Infected by Meu’s certainty, Wenifas shook her head, “There are too many!”

“Who attacks us? Are we found out by the Trohls?” he whispered with wide eyes. He was not supposed to knw such things, much more, speak them out loud.

“It is demons,” Wenifas replied. “It is the waokie.”

“The trap-setters?” he asked in horror. Although he’d never seen a waokie, their reputation was large among the commoners. “What shall we do?!”

“Flee. If we wish to live, we must flee,” Wenifas said.

“Where will we go?!”

“Anywhere!” Wenifas shrugged.

We don’t have time for this, Meu spoke in the priestess’s mind as she tugged at her hand.

I can’t simply leave him! Wenifas replied. The priestess turned back to the old man. “Gather what you can! Meet us at the three mark well—ten minutes!” She yelled as she allowed Meu to pull her away. The old laborer stared after the priestess as she disappeared behind a rush of guards, then turned and ran the other direction.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.8 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

The bell of the tower and various alarms continued to ring as Toar shook Baet awake.

“What is it?” Baet asked as he sat up in alarm. “Is there a battle?”

Toar shrugged. “Maybe just a drill?”

“There’s only one way to know for sure,” Baet said as he grabbed his shirt—though he didn’t bother to put it on.

The other Trohls stirred and whispered about the alarm, but couldn’t bother to investigate. As Baet and Toar approached the door, one of the Bouge blocked the way. “Don’t go out,” he said. “The guards will flog you for it! They’ll flog us all!”

“A fig for the guards!” Baet snapped and muscled past the old man. Still, he opened the door slowly and was cautious as he peeked out.

There were no guards in view. Except for the distant bells, the prison was quiet. The Saot gaurd and the young Trohl stepped out. They kept close to the side of the building and approached the fence.

“Who could be attacking?” Baet whispered. “There’s no one out there but other Ministrians...”

“Can’t you smell it?!” Toar’s eyes were wide. “The funk of bugbear is thick in the air! There must be a full blown war out there!”

“Hold!” A voice called from the other side of the fence. “Identify yourself!”

Baet and Toar pressed themselves against the building and stared about the darkness. It took them a moment to realize the guard did not address them at all.

“Criminal!” The guard called. Metal clanged against metal as the guard continued to call. “To arms! To arms! A prisoner has escaped!”

Baet dashed from the fence and peered over. “It’s Carringten!” He called back to Toar.

On the other side of the fence, Carringten was hard pressed as he fended off a guard with Bence’s short sword. The guard had a proper weapon, a bastard sword, and he used the greater heft and reach to his advantage. Indeed, he’d already scored a hit as Carringten bled from his shoulder.

Baet grabbed the top of a plank and pulled it back. The weak board gave with an audible snap. He grabbed the next plank and broke it too, then slipped through the fence with Toar hot on his heels. Toar peeled a chunk of wood off the fencing to use as a cudgel.

Despite his disadvantage, Carringten held the guard at bay. His defense was superb and consumed the guard’s focus.

“To arms! To arms!” the guard called again, though his alarm went unheeded. With his attention locked on the dark man, he didn’t notice Baet. The sneaky Saot grabbed him from behind, pulled the guard’s dagger, and stabbed him in the chest. With wide eyes, the shock trooper gaped and crumbled to the ground.

“DERRIS!”

Baet turned to see two women standing at the end of the street. The old redhead held the hand of a small boy while the the dark-haired beauty cradled a babe. They stared, wide-eyed at the dead guard and his killer.

“What a fine young priestess,” Baet breathed as he blinked at the weeping mother.

With her free hand, the priestess pulled a musket from her belt. She pointed it at the three prisoners, and grit her teeth.

Baet hissed as he saw the weapon. He flung himself at Toar and knocked the Trohl to the ground. Carringten dove the other way. The weapon in the woman’s hand roared to life and threw fire. The musket jerked her arm back and bellowed a deafing roar.

Evereste screamed and squirmed as Wenifas gaped at the incredible noise and violence of the weapon. The smoke of the blast drifted away, and she stared through the lifting fog to see what she had accomplished.

Baet stood, dusted himself off, and faced the strange woman. He didn’t know how she came to possess Cloud Breaker, nor did he care. “I’ll have that back!” he yelled at her and took several steps toward her.

Wenifas aimed the musket a second time, braced herself, and pulled the trigger again. Nothing happened. Why does it fail now? She wondered, not knowing that it needed reloading. What did she know of muskets?

We must go! Meu said as she pulled her away.

Wenifas wiped her eyes and ran back the way she came as so many tears corrupted her vision.

Baet took several steps toward the woman. He turned back to Carringten and Toar. “Let’s go!” He called and waved his friends forward.

“Patience, my friend,” Carringten called to Baet. “We are not interested in chasing women.”

“She has Cloud Breaker!” Baet insisted.

“And you have your freedom and your life,” Carringten noted. “If we manage to live, I’ll buy you ten identical.”

Baet swore under his breath. He didn’t want ten identical weapons, he wanted Cloud Breaker! Still, he wouldn’t disobey his captain, so he simply pouted instead.

Toar ripped cloth from the dead guard. He approached Carringten, wiped the blood from his arm, then proceeded to wrap the wound. “You are lucky. It is not too deep.”

“It’s always hard to tell when one is on the receiving end,” Carringten replied.

“Did you find Dandifrod?” Toar asked.

“No, but I found someone else.”

“Who?”

Carringten locked eyes with Baet. “I found Bence,” he said.

Baet hissed. “If Bence is here, they know who we are.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.9 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Meu and Wenifas rushed back through the tunnel, then the priestess pulled Meu to the square of the three mark well in a state approaching hysterics. As they came into the square, they were both astonished by the volume of people they found waiting. The old laborer breathed a sigh of relief as he saw them approach. “I thought you’d left us,” he called to her.

There were hundreds of people in the square, many of them with hastily packed provisions and goods. They were commoners one and all: laborers, cooks, urchins, clerks—none of them had more rank than priestess—though there were a couple dozen of those. Several of the people recognized Wenifas and the pain in her eyes. They moved forward to comfort her—which only made things worse. The priestess began to crumble.

Wenifas wanted to mourn and thought it proper to wail and gnash—but Meu interfered in her thoughts. She reminded the priestess that if she wished to live—if she wanted her children to live—she needed to be calm, dispassionate, and calculating.

The crowd pressed a flood of questions at Wenifas. “What is happening? Why the bell? Where do all the soldiers go?”

Wenifas bolstered herself against the horror of losing Derris, and wiped her face. “We are attacked,” she began. “We are invaded, and we will not win.”

This caused a great deal of murmuring among the gathered crowd. Some were already convinced. Many openly scoffed. To Wenifas, it seemed obvious. Did they not see the expanding fires? Could they not hear the approaching screams of the dying?! “You do not have to believe!” Wenifas snapped at doubters in the crowd. “You can stay here if you wish! Only remember that you were warned!”

“And if we wanted to, how should we escape?!” Someone asked. “We will not be allowed to leave!”

“You must trust me,” Wenifas stated. “Trust me,” she repeated as murmurs and shouts of derision carried over the crowd. Wenifas pushed her thoughts at Meu. You ask them to trust me, but how shall we escape? She repeated the question.

The thoughts of the wyrm were not reassuring. You must trust me, Meu insisted.

Wenifas stood up. If they failed, if they did not escape, then all the better. She’d join Derris and dance in the halls of Ooroiyuo and Naharahna with her dead lover. If death came upon her this night, there was nothing to mourn—nothing but the future of her children. For them and them alone she’d try. If she failed, she’d find joy in it. She preferred to see herself with Derris anyway. “It is time!” Wenifas called. “For all that wish to follow, we go east!”

Many chose to stay , and they laughed and carried on just so. “To follow the fool priestess to the far end of camp!” they taunted—though they promised to send along anyone else that wished to leave. They knew the guards at the gate would stop them from going any further. Instead, they drank and turned the war into a festive occasion to dance and flirt.

Still, a couple hundred wanted to be anywhere else. They followed Wenifas to the east gate of Camp Calderhal, despite the dirt and tears that spotted her face. As the gate loomed over them, many of the civilians murmured that the guards would not let them out. But their only other option was to turn back into the camp and face the waokie with kitchen knives, pans, candles, and the few actual weapons they were not supposed to possess. Instead, they huddled together and hoped that divine intervention might see them freed.

The gate was guarded by a fair number of men. The captain of the guard stepped in front of the thick knot of peasants, “Turn ‘round! Go back to your quarters!” He shouted at the crowd. He was unconcerned as he had three dozen guards under his command, all armed and trained. He could cut through this rabble in a matter of minutes.

Wenifas shook her head and wiped her red face. “We cannot,” she began. “A war of waokie has breached the walls and will soon overcome the defenders. If you do not let us out, we will perish!”

The guards began to murmur. The captain did not believe it. “How could you know such a thing? Who has told you this lie?”

“We have seen it with our own eyes,” Wenifas said. She turned to Meu, “If you allow it, she will show you. She is sent of the gods. Let her kiss you and you too will know the truth of it!”

The captain gave Meu a puzzled look. “What magic is this?” he asked.

“Let her show you,” Wenifas repeated.

“Do not trust it, Ayrik,” one of the guards whispered to his captain. “Foul magics are upon us this night!”

Captain Ayrik considered these words as he stared at the approaching form of Meu. Despite her advancing age, she was quite pretty, and she did not seem dangerous in the least. She held a staff, but not in a threatening manner, and in such a slight dress it was unlikely she hid any other weapons.

Yet, Ayrik knew appearances were deceiving. Might this woman plan some treachery? It wouldn’t get her anywhere. Even if she managed to overcome the captain, his men would kill her—and all the fools that followed.

And if the priestess told the truth, these people were dead anyway. If the soldiers of the camp failed to turn back a war of waokie, was there any chance these commoners could defeat them with pots, pans, and kitchen knives? Perhaps this strange woman, pale and smiling, would give Ayrik a reason to release these peasants. Perhaps she truly was sent of the gods, and the priestess could be trusted after all. The two were certainly pretty enough, and everyone knew the gods favor beauty.

Ayrik waved at Meu to approach. “It is but a kiss,” he said to his second.

With a pleasant smile, Meu stepped forward. She put her hands on Ayrik’s cheeks as she kissed him slow and sure. He was a handsome man and she did not mind it.

The venom on her lips opened the captain’s thoughts to the skin-walker wyrm. Shocked to have her thoughts in his head, Ayrik pulled away from Meu. Dismayed, the other guards drew their swords and stepped forward, but Ayrik raised his hand and waved them off. For several seconds, his eyes were far away as he conversed with Meu. Finally, his gaze returned, “What are you?” he asked her out loud.

Meu kissed the captain once more, a gentle peck on the cheek. I will show you all that I am if you only let us go, she promised.

Ayrik could not simply let them go—after all, there was a war to prosecute, and commoners were not to leave the camp without military escort. But a military escort was something Ayrik could provide. The gate captain turned to his men. “Form up!” he yelled. “Prepare to march!” Indeed, he was saving his men at the same time.

The other guards looked at Ayrik with confusion on their faces. “Sir?” one of the men began.

“They speak the truth! A sea of waokie pours upon us! We cannot hope to push them back! But all is not lost! The gods have sent us a messenger, so the faithful might live! Now form up, and open the gate!” Ayrik commanded.

“This is higly unusual,” one of the guards noted. “What of our charge to keep the gate?”

“I remember and maintain our charge!” Ayrik snapped at the man. “But the gods have chosen a new duty for the rest of you! You will serve as escort, and the priestess shall lead you! She holds command! Now do as you’re told, and thank the twin gods for sparing your miserable lives!”

The guards turned to each other and whispered among themselves. Discipline gave way to confusion. The gate rose halfway, jerked to a stop, then began to close.

“Sir...” one of the men whispered as he stared daggers at Meu. “What has she done to you?!”

Ayrik smiled a wan and defeated smile at his colleague. “She has shown me the truth of it. The Camp is lost, and the Fort will follow. The enemy is too many. They will swarm us under.”

‘We cannot give up so easily.”

“Nor will we,” Ayrik agreed. “We will fight, and we will lose,” he said. “But not you. You will go east and guard these people. Protect them. This is my order, that you and they shall live. Now, raise the gate!” Ayrik roared. “And pray the waokie don’t follow!”

This time, the gate did not pause as it lifted. The parade of paupers passed under, and many of the guards paired off and began to escort them east, as they were ordered. Still, several stayed behind. “We will watch with you,” they told their captain. “If you perish, we will die with you! It is a warrior’s death and we do not lament it! Let us join Ooriyuo and Naharahna in the halls of Haven!”

“You will do no such thing!” Ayrik snapped at these men. “I’ve given my order and my order stands!” He pulled his sword. “Stay and I will kill you for traitors!”

Chagrined, the remaining guards gave in and backed through the gate. Slowly, they turned and walked after the peasants, as their captain stepped into the wheel house and shut them out.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.10 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

“This is it?” Baet stared at the unremarkable building.

“I was here when the tolling began,” Carringten replied. “All the guards went into that building and only a couple ever came out.”

“You think the tunnel everyone keeps mentioning must be in there?” Toar shrugged. “How far is it to the other fort?”

“Can’t be far,” Carringten stated. “That bell sounds like its right on top of us. It must be massive.”

“Let us hope no one is waiting in there,” Baet said as they approached the building.

“And why would they?” Carringten asked. He pulled open the door and slid inside. Baet and Toar followed close behind.

The interior of the building was lit, but empty of people. There was nothing but several benches with racks of uniforms on both sides. One side was all Ministrian uniforms while the other was all Gaur counterfeits. Baet stared critically at the fakes. “I find it funny that we should wear them, after all we’ve done to conceal our identities,” Baet stated.

“I don’t like the idea of finding Creigal while wearing such counterfeits,” Carringten frowned.

“Why would we wear those?” Toar wondered. “Saots are the enemy, remember? Let’s take the real uniforms,” he said, and selected one of the shock trooper outfits.

Once they’d switched into Ministrian garb, the three men searched for another exit. It did not take them long. “Here it is,” Baet called as he discovered the door to the tunnel.

Carringten and Toar clapped Baet on the shoulder, then took the stairs down into the tunnel. Baet went first. There was no one else in the tunnel, and there were plenty of sconces to light the way. Shortly, they arrived at the far end, marched through the empty barracks, and opened the front door.

Camp Calderhal spread out before them, smaller than the Invader’s Fort. They could see fires raging about the north part of the camp and hear fighting in the distance. There was no end of confusion and conflict in that direction.

“Where do you think they hid Creigal?” Baet asked.

Toar shrugged as he looked about for birds, but there were none to be seen. Carringten pointed toward the massive stone tower, which seemed to be the center of all the mayhem. “That looks like a good place to keep any high profile prisoners.”

“Figures,” Baet huffed. “We’ve been blessed with a distraction, only to find that all the fighting occurs right where we aim to go.”

A crash sounded as another section of wall collapsed. Sparks and smoke billowed from the wreckage. The cheers and triumph of bugbear rose to a dramatic crescendo along with the shouts and dismay of the Ministrian troops. Grim faced, Carringten took a step toward the tower.

“How do we hope to get in?” Toar asked.

“Fight,” Baet answered between tight lips. Out of the corner of his eye, movement caught his attention. With a hiss, Baet tackled Toar and pushed him out of the street.

Carringten turned and saw the rush of horses for himself. He jumped back and just avoided getting trampled as half a dozen riders careened past at a wild gallop.

Despite their charge, the riders didn’t get far. After several buildings, the two lead horses buckled and threw their riders to the ground. The following horses pulled up short as figures rose out of the shadows and swarmed the group. Metal clanged against chipped rock. A woman screamed.

Immediately, Baet ran toward the riders.

“Wait!” Carringten called, then followed with a curse as Baet proceeded.

As he approached the fight, Baet recognized the short, compact, furry attackers. They were indeed bugbear! A hot anger rose in his chest. This time, he had the element of surprise!

The buggers struck at men and horses alike. One of the creatures stuck a rusted sword into a fallen horse again and again as the beast tried to stand. Baet smashed into the bugbear and sent the creature reeling into the dirt. He turned and faced another beast. The creature leveled its spear and drove forward. Baet knocked the spear aside with the bastard sword he took from Derris, then stuck it in the bugger.

Carringten struck a bugbear with his own short sword, and the creature screamed something horrible as blood sailed through the air. He killed a second and struck at a third before the buggers were able to turn and mount a proper defense against his onslaught.

One of the bugbear pulled a hapless rider by a fistful of blonde hair. She screamed as Toar smashed the creature between its neck and shoulder with his bit of wooden fencing. The beast let go and fled from the onslaught of blows.

Knives flicked through the air. They curved from the hand of the last rider and caught in the neck and chest of a bugbear. The beast dropped, writhed, and kicked in the dirt as life left its body.

Although the bugbear still outnumbered the humans, Baet, Carringten, and Toar had surprised them and inflicted heavy damage. The ambush was broken. The buggers broke and ran—but they did not go far. At the end of an alley, they rallied and turned on the small group of humans once more. Slow and steady, they began to advance.

Something sang through the air. Instinctively, Baet raised his sword in front of his face. A dart clinked against the metal of the blade and dropped to the ground. Toar glanced at the feathered needle, then stared at Baet with a shocked look on his face. “What luck,” Baet shrugged and grinned at his Trohl friend.

“This way!” The last rider called and pushed her horse to the east. Toar grabbed the blonde woman by the hand and pulled her to her feet. They ran after the rider as Baet and Carringten followed. The bugbear ran after them, but were quickly outpaced by the long legged humans. With squat muscular legs, bugbear were built for endurance, not sprints.

The small group of survivors ran through the twist of buildings and tents. Men and women of the camp huddled in doorways and peeked out from their hiding places, only to disappear back into their dwellings.

“Get out!” Baet roared at them. “The devil comes for you!”

Despite the warning, these people all too often dodged back inside their tents.

The lone rider pulled up her horse and waited for her rescuers to catch up. Toar and the blonde woman huffed and puffed, then stared at each other, shocked to see that the other was also a Trohl and equally young. Baet and Carringten caught their breath and quickly sized up the rider and the blonde they’d rescued. Baet realized they were very pretty, and Carringten noted they were very privileged.

“Well met, brave men,” the rider saluted. “The gate is this way,” she said and pointed to the east.

Baet stared at the hard face of the rider. Despite her glaring features, she was beautiful! Baet started to move the way she said.

“Non,” Carringten shook his head. “We seek our master.”

“And who is this?” The rider asked.

“Dandifrod of the Emberwood Trust,” Carringten told her.

A smirk crept across the rider’s lips. “Ah yes, the dark warrior...” She glanced between Baet and Toar before she finally settled on Baet. “And I can only assume you were the one with the muskets?”

“She knows us,” Baet realized, his heart all a patter.

“I do,” the rider smiled. “More importantly, I know your master. He is gray haired and just recovered from the sweet rot of the waokie. But he is not here. He’s gone east to Ebertin,” she said and pointed to the far gate.

“The lies of a Jezebel!” Toar spit. “She will see us guide her from the camp! She will leave Dandifrod here and let him die! She only cares for her own skin!”

“I am not the one telling lies!” The rider hissed at Toar. “Your duke Creigal is gone, and we would be wise to follow!”

“You must believe her,” the blonde girl urged Toar. “Your master is taken east, to Ebertin.”

“Why do they take him east?” Carringten asked.

“They mean to execute him,” the rider revealed. “I am Meriona, and I am indeed a Jay of the Black Throne,” she continued. “This is my apprentice, Celesi. We do not lie to you. We thank you for saving us, but we will not stay here and die! Come with us, and perhaps you can save your master. Stay here, and when I see him, I will tell him how you saved us. Now state your intention, that at least two of us might live!”

“He is to be executed?” Baet replied as he followed.

“It will be quite a spectacle—for the commoners of course,” Meriona shrugged her indifference. “It is little more than political expedience on the part of Gliedian and Kezodel—mere theater for the masses.”

Carringten paused and considered her words. “He is not in the tower?”

“There is nothing in the tower except death,” Meriona told him. “Indeed, we knew you when you first arrived. His false men came with word from Wibbeley two days ago.”

“And where are these false men?” Baet asked.

“Two have gone with my Lord Commander. The third is around here somewhere—most likely drunk—most likely in the arms of some priestess,” Meriona sneered. “Gliedian felt that last one was something of a liability and did not want him in court.”

“Will you see us past the gate?” Carringten asked.

“I owe you no less,” Meriona said as she stepped her horse past the man. “We must go, unless you wish to encounter more of those beasts.” With that, she began to walk her horse toward the gate.

The gate appeared. Carringten and Baet exchanged uneasy looks as they continued to advance. Both expected a few dozen guards to hold the gate, even as the battle raged to the west. They half expected the Jay to break her word and turn them over to the guard as prisoners, but there was only one man at the gate. He stood in the door to the gatehouse. “Hold!” he roared as he stepped forward with his sword in hand.

“Gather your men!” Meriona called to the captain as she looked about, baffled to see only him. “I shall pick among them for an escort!”

Recognizing the Jay, Ayrik bowed low. “Apologies, mistress, but I have sent them away.”

“Away?!” Meriona repeated. “And who watches the gate?!”

“I maintain the gate,” Ayrik assured as he stood straight and tall.

“And where did you send them?” Meriona snipped.

“With the people,” Ayrik said, as if that cleared up anything.

With a huff, Meriona looked at Carringten, Baet, and Toar. It seemed that she’d have no more men for an escort.

The prospect bothered her. She did not know these men, and although they saved her, who was to say what they’d do when there was nothing but open road before them? Could she trust them to be men of character? She had little choice. If there were other troubles on the road, she’d be wise to have a few dangerous men with her. Besides, she had weapons and knew how to fight. If they were dishonorable, she swore to seduce, manipulate, and gut them one by one. If they caused her harm, she swore to return the favor seven fold.

Meriona turned back to the captain. “Let us through.”

The captain looked at Carringten, Baet, and Toar with reservations. Despite their Ministrian uniforms, he could tell they were not shock troops. With a frown, he looked back at Meriona.

“They are none of your concern,” Meriona barked at the captain. “Now let us through!”

The captain lowered his blade. He turned to the gatehouse and set himself against the wheel. Slowly, the gate rose. Baet held his breath as he passed out of the camp. He looked back at the raging fires and listened to the cacophony of war. There was certainly a chaos about the place! Men and women of the camp fought the proceeding blazes. Others fought the advancing shadows. A few simply panicked, and ran this way and that.

The gate closed. Celesi continued to hold Toar’s hand, as Baet and Carringten followed. Meriona turned and eyed her motley escort, then addressed the men as one. “See us to safety and I will shower you with riches. See us to safety and I will introduce you to women of intimate talent,” she smiled. “But if you think to force yourselves upon us, our people will hunt you to the ends of the earth.”

Toar regarded her with a derisive frown. Such thoughts were all but foreign to him.

Baet stared at the woman with horror in his eyes. He’d never forced himself upon anyone—not without first paying for such a service!

“We are not base or malicious men,” Carringten replied. “If you see us to Creigal, we will guard you the whole way, and if you wish to repay us for such service, then you will argue for his life.”

Satisfied, Meriona gave a nod. With a smile, she turned her attention back to the road.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 18.11 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Robbed! I am robbed! Fedring sobbed as he continued to struggle against his bonds. Leverkusen left the window wide open, so Fedring could hear all too much of the chaos about the camp. He assumed it had everything to do with Leverkusen and the accursed serpent—and at first he was quite jubilant since he thought they must quickly be captured—but the ruckus only continued, then grew, and he was forced to wonder where they found enough allies to muster such an attack.

Several guards banged at his door and pleaded with Fedring to answer. “Your worship! We are under attack! We must move you to safety!” But they did not enter. Without his permission, they would not enter.

Fedring tried to spit out his gag, but it was tied too tight, and he could not. He huffed and slobbered and choked as he tried to call out. He cursed the guards for cowards as they refused to open the door and drag him out of his quarters.

A fight broke out in the hallway before the guards realized the extremity of their circumstances and could do the right thing. The Majoris cringed as the last of his guards squealed, sobbed, and slowly died.

After that, nothing happened for long seconds. Fedring hoped the attackers had simply moved on. Then the pounding began, and before long, the door smashed in.

Ears perked, Fedring listened as feet padded about his room. He held still and hoped the lump of blankets might simply be ignored. Voices spoke in a foreign tongue—guttural and raspy. Feet scampered about. Something fragile and valuable crashed to the floor.

The investigation continued, and for a time Fedring thought he might go unnoticed. Then the edge of his blanket lifted and he came face to face with a dog—only the dog was on two feet and carried a long, wicked dagger in its front paws.

Surprised to see the Majoris, the beast jumped away and dropped the edge of the blanket. Fedring’s world went dark once more. Something poked Fedring in the side, something sharp that split the skin. He screamed into his gag, squirmed, and struggled against his bonds.

The blankets pulled from Fedring and he found himself surrounded by several wide-eyed dog-faced beasts. It took him several seconds to realize these were the dreaded waokie of which he’d heard so much! There were nearly a dozen in the room, and they were quite amused to find him trussed up like a pig, ready for the roast.

One appeared older than the rest. This one dug about a pouch as the others deferred to him. The beast raised a paw filled with black filth and lifted a needle. It dipped the needle in the black filth, then slowly and carefully poked Fedring between the eyes. Fedring squealed and surged against his bonds—to the delight of the gathered beasts. The rope about his hands and feet held fast, as the old waokie dipped his needle, then pricked the Majoris again and again, this time only an inch or two from the last.

The beast pricked Fedring’s face, neck, arms, legs, and back. Fedring sobbed as he realized the beast infected him with sweet rot. He cried and confessed the sins of his heart. If the gods should simply save him, he promised to do better! He promised to be of service—if only he should be spared!

Then the waokie rolled Fedring over and the old beast pricked his chest and stomach. The process took far too long. By the time the creature was finished, Fedring was exhausted and barely flinched each time the needle broke his skin.

As time passed—as Fedring realized his prayers went unanswered—he scorned the world and cursed it for his troubles. He sneered and snarled and savaged the land with his thoughts. He swore if he met god, he’d roust the ineffectual old lout from his throne and disembowel him!

Day approached. Fedring felt lightheaded and nauseous. His condition deteriorated as the light of day grew, then blazed through his window, only to wane once more. As night approached, Fedring slept, though it was a troubled and uncomfortable sleep. In his sleep, he dreamed that the waking world was simply a nightmare he could not escape. He thought he should eventually wake safe in his bed, before another day of collecting metal, sex, and apologies from his priestesses.

As he slept, the gag finally loosened and fell from his mouth. Groggy and irritable, Fedring woke, then sobbed and snorted against the pain. His hands and feet throbbed—and no matter how he rolled, the pressure was always on some sore part of his body. Though he didn’t want to look, he saw the rot developing on his chest and arms whenever he glanced down. For a time, he whined and wheezed as he drifted at the edge of consciousness. For a time, he simply drooled and begged death to take him. In this way, Fedring suffered for the better part of two days before he finally gave up the ghost. The waokie gave the rot another day to bloom deep inside the corpse before they cut his meat from his bones and dried it in the noonday sun. After all, they were in no hurry to leave. The Camp was theirs, and the Fort was soon to follow.

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