Solveny

Polished 10.1, 10.2, and 10.3 — 27m07s — 2023/12/20

Polished 10.4 and 10.5 — 17m31s — 2023/12/22

Crea lived on the roof of the finest building in all of Solveny. At six stories, it topped even the Keep of the Silver Service. She kept a garden on the roof. She had hutches for her birds and planter boxes for herbs. There was even a small hut where she slept, and also a shed for tools and seed. The hut was large enough for her bed, a dresser, and a looking glass—so she knew when she had too much dirt on her face.

Her landlady was a great aunt, and had offered her the place after the previous occupant—a distant cousin—unexpectedly passed. The rent for such a fine space was a tenth of everything she brought in with the birds and herbs—and she was happy to say that rent was more than ever! Last month, she paid 6 diems, 4 bots, and 3 bits!

It was just a fraction of her money. Crea had a fair deal of coin buried in the corner of one of the herb boxes: several socks wrapped around a fistful of mostly silver. She was saving for a cottage of her own and hoped for a fine garden with a large barn to house a good number of hutches for her birds. In her spare time, Crea knitted blankets for the market, studied history among the clerics, and batted her eyes at a local cobbler's son. It took a good month to get the boy's attention, but now that she had it, he smiled and waved whenever she passed. Sooner or later he'd muster the courage to approach—and then she'd have the cobbler's son too!

Before gods and monsters such bliss can not last. The screaming started at the north edge of town. A few moments later, there was fright and panic from the east. Shortly, there was yelling and shouting from a dozen different directions. With a frown, Crea lifted her head from her herbs, wiped the sweat out of her eye with a dirty glove, then blinked and squinted into the distance. At least the commotion was at the far end of town, thank Abra!

Crea returned to her weeding—until she realized the ruckus was only gaining momentum—at which point she abandoned her plants and stared out over the city. The ring of metal on metal carried above the streets. Panic spread. Crea thought to set messages to her pigeons. She gathered her pen and paper though she didn't know what to write.

Dolimerea, an old widower from the third floor, appeared on the roof and hugged Crea as the sounds of conflict continued. “What are we to make of it?” she asked her young friend.

Crea shook her head and stared out over the city. Though her brothers had taught her a bit of how to defend herself, the reasons for violence often escaped her. Unsure, the younger lady held the elder as they listened to the ebb and flow of the tumult in the streets.

Soon, there was a crowd on the roof. Among them all, Crea felt safe. Other occupants, servants, and caretakers of the fine building looked out over the city with a variety of weapons in hand: swords, bows, knives, meat mallets, fire pokers, rolling pins—anything hard and handy. Women clutched at each other as the men frowned, solemn and serious. They called down to passers-by and asked after the screaming.

“It is chaos!” the men on the street called back. “Foreigners have stormed the courthouse and barricaded themselves in!”

“They've taken the north gate, and sacked the armory near Folcant!” another revealed.

Many of Crea’s neighbors went downstairs, some to help, others to pack. Crea thought it a good idea to pack her own bag—but like many of the others, she simply waited and worried. She thought of her family and their farm, two days walk to the south. Two days of hard marching was a commitment she was not yet willing to make, though her heart begged her to go.

The commotion in the streets rose and fell as hard news continued to pour past. “A posse forms to liberate the north gate!” A strong man called. Half a dozen men from the building went with him.

“Members of the watch are held hostage on top of the court!” Another said. “The villains are threatening to throw them off!” Several more men went off with them.

“They set fires!” A growing crowd called out. “Help us battle the flames!” Dozens of men, women, and children followed with buckets and shovels.

More and more of the building’s inhabitants ran to assist. Crea thought to go with them—but she still hadn't written any messages. She took up her pen and scrawled a half dozen notes. Solveny is attacked!—she wrote, since she knew no more. She attached notes to go to an abbot in the next valley, to a minor official she knew among the court of High Plains, to several other bird lovers in nearby towns and villages, and of course the lady that taught her to raise and train pigeons in the first place—even though she was at the edge of town and must already know of what happened.

“Look to the Silver Keep,” Dolimerea said to Crea as she released the last of her birds. “They have locked the gates and keep the door,” she sneered. “Those fish will guard their precious post and nothing else!”

“They cannot be so selfish,” Crea reprimanded. “Surely, they will help.”

“No,” Dolimerea shook her head and snorted. “The silver fish care nothing about us! They only swim for currency! Oh, they will watch and swear witness in the king’s court, but they will not ‘interfere’. They will do nothing, unless they are attacked directly,” she spit.

Crea stared out over the city and suffered a sinking feeling. Things were not going well and she was suddenly convinced it could only get worse. She took a step toward her hut. She meant to gather her bag and be off while she might still escape.

Dolimerea grabbed her hand. “Where will you go?”

“Anywhere,” Crea shook her head. “This city burns.”

“Don't be so cynical!” Dolimerea pleaded and wrapped the younger lady in a desperate hug. “Let us stay here and be quiet, that the angels might protect us!” she continued. “We will hide and our enemies will be blinded by their own smoke!”

For a moment the roar of violence was a mere din in the distance, sporadic and far away. Crea let the old lady hug her as the city seemed to calm. For a time, she focused on her friend’s warmth and nothing more. Then Crea opened her eyes. She gasped and cried out as she noticed a wall of dust billowing toward the city from out of the north—from the direction of the Trohl settlement, Rynth Falls. She knew immediately that the dust was caused by a number of riders—a very large number!

Crea wasn't the only one to notice the fast approaching cavalry. Screams, shouts, and curses seemed to catch in the air all at once. The racket raised to a fevered pitch as the locals realized they must regain their defenses or find themselves quickly overrun! Fighting intensified as the locals threw themselves at the north and west gates in a last ditch effort to reclaim them. Dolimerea clasped at Crea, though the younger woman now felt as if she were being smothered.

“It is closing!” Dolimerea pointed at the north gate. Indeed, the gate dropped several feet—only to stop and hang partially open. Individual riders were now visible on the distant road. The rider's seemed within spitting distance of the gate when suddenly it dropped and locked them out!

Relieved, Crea turned to the west gate to see if it still hung open. The fighting was intense. Local militia pressed the invaders into the guardhouse and did everything they could to clear them out. Figures dropped to the dirt, writhing and squirming, only to hold still in the end.

The townspeople were inside the gatehouse! Crea couldn't breathe! The gate dropped as riders appeared on the other side of the arch—but it was too late. Half open, the invaders poured into the city proper. They secured the gate, then rushed up the streets, cutting down everyone in their way!

Crea grabbed her bag and also the dirty sock full of coin she’d pulled from the strawberries. “No!” Dolimerea cried and clung to her. Crea allowed herself to be convinced, and thought that with any luck a certain cobbler’s son would come by and rescue her.

But it was not the cobbler’s son that appeared. In short time, Trohls approached the base of the building. They kicked in the door, grabbed one of the doormen, and threw him into the street. The other doormen poured out of the building to protect their brother—but the six men were heavily outnumbered, and quickly surrounded.

One of the guards yelled as he fought. “You fools! They come for us all!” He called back at the building—before the invaders struck him down. Crea did not pity him. She surmised that most the brave men of the city were already dead. She felt a pang of guilt as she had not helped—but what could she hope to do? She was no fighter!

“Don't leave me!” Dolimerea shrieked as Crea finally came to her senses and shook the old woman off.

“Come with me!” Crea shouted back. She grabbed her bag then rushed away with an outstretched arm. Dolimerea chased Crea for several steps, but did not go down the stairs. Instead, the old lady fell to her knees and wailed as she knelt among the grow boxes full of herbs.

Crea took the stairs two at a time as she cursed herself for a fool! She hoped it was not to late to save her own skin. Down and down she ran. On the second floor, she came around a blind corner and caught the sight of two feathers. They danced above a strange military helmet that sat on a gruesome individual with a terrible scar where the right side of his face should be. She put her arms up in hopes of defending herself, but a rough hand caught the side of her head and smashed her into a wall. A sudden sharp pain rang through her head—and then there was nothing—as she blacked out.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 10.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Creigal approached Meu as she stood under the willow, curious to know what she cared to say. Would she mention the song, perhaps speak of being a wyrm, or would she’d simply accuse him of snooping?

Before now, Meu took little notice of the old gentleman, other than his proper and cautious ways. Indeed, he was as new to her as these other Jindelyaks—and a bit less interesting. From what she’d seen, he was a calculating and tight-lipped noble, aloof and dispassionate—except when it served his purpose (oh, what a speech he gave!).

But Meu was not so easily manipulated. She was nearly as old as he, and wise to the ways of the powerful. Not that her suspicions mattered. What mattered is that he’d caught her as she shifted shape—and although she had little reason to fear such a revelation, she preferred to keep her secrets—and so she blushed as she asked him what he saw.

Creigal marveled to see that Meu could speak with nothing but her eyes. She did not try to bite him, nor did she use her song. He smiled as he considered the high skill of her magic. “I apologize. I didn’t know what I was seeing until I saw too much.” He showed his hands and hoped to alleviate any fear. “I have met wyrms, and I have met skin-walkers, but I believe that you are the first I have met that was both.”

I prefer that you do not mention this to the others, Meu replied.

“I wouldn’t think of it,” Creigal said with a bow. “But if I am to keep your secrets, I must ask a few questions. Shall we break fast away from the others, that we can talk some more?” he asked and offered the slight lady his elbow.

With a wry smile, Meu took his arm, and allowed him to lead the way.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 10.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Waves of sensation ebbed and flowed from Crea’s core. Slowly, she came to, as a burning that hovered on a knife's edge between extreme pleasure and excruciating pain drew her away from the ache of her bruised head. A mad hope filled her heart that a certain cobbler's son was doing his best to make a mother of her—as happened occasionally in her fantasies. She opened her eyes to find that the man that crushed into her was a blood-soaked foreigner, with an ugly webbed scar on his face, and murder in his soul!

Crea screamed and tried to push him off—but he was well muscled and more than a match for the petite youth. In a flash, he grabbed her neck and squeezed. She choked against his brutal hands, as he ignored her striking fists. He snapped at her, curt violent words that matched the crushing force of his indelicate fingers. Though Crea couldn't understand his language, she got the message all the same: struggle and he might just kill her.

Still, she persisted. The ravager’s hands continued to squeeze. Crea’s mind unraveled and edged toward unconsciousness. She could fight no more. Her hands dropped and for a split second she felt far away as the darkness came upon her.

His hands relaxed, and the carnal pushing returned. Crea coughed and choked. She gasped for air as he held her down and squeezed her tits far harder than they deserved. Aware that she could do nothing about the assault, Crea tried to turn her mind to anything else. She stared at the extravagant feathers that decorated his helmet. Tan, with red and green highlights—who had ever seen such a bird?! They waved back and forth in a mock salute as the mad foreigner drove himself into her again and again—but she was not thinking of that. Instead, she wondered where this brute got such beautiful feathers. She wondered what sort of creature had such brilliant plumage, and was simultaneously quite happy that she should never see it, since it was quite likely the man got the feathers by violence.

The assault continued. Crea wondered if it was better to fight and die, or go limp and live to see another day. Tears burned her eyes. She closed them so she did not have to see her attacker's manic pleasure. Although she knew better, she imagined it was indeed the cobbler's son. He didn’t mean to hurt her, she thought, as an endless flow of tears streamed from her eyes.

The rape seemed to go on for an eternity before it finally ended—though in all honesty it lasted only a few minutes. Her attacker pulled away and she grabbed at the covers of the strange bed. She cowered as far from the man as she could, as shame took the place of pain.

With a huff, the scarred attacker dressed in his Trohl rags. He turned the garments this way and that, as if he did not know them. Finally dressed, the foreigner proceeded to ransack the room.

Whenever the foreigner turned to her, Crea looked out the window. She looked down, where the door guards lay in pools of their own blood. Among them was the corpse of Dolimerea. Was she thrown from the roof or did she jump?

Crea wondered if death would be easier. She fought against more tears as she asked herself why this was happening. An answer was not forthcoming. Instead, she was forced to watch her beloved town burn as her own bruised body ached.

The foreigner turned over tables and rifled through drawers as he jammed the occasional bit or trinket into his pocket. Crea thought she'd only have to wait until he left, then she might pick up the pieces of her life as best she could and proceed however she might. For a second, she hoped he had not noticed her own bag, but then she saw that it was already ripped open. Her good comb was broken and the dirty sock full of coins seemed to be missing.

Outside the window, a company of invaders decided it was time to stop yelling at the Keep of the Silver Service and employ the battering ram they made from the trunk of a nearby tree. Crea watched the escalating drama unfold, and hoped every last one of the invaders would die by the potent swords of the silver fish. She knew there were forty, maybe fifty men in the keep, but she also knew some of them were as green as dandelions, and a few were as old as time. Besides, there were easily a couple hundred invaders all about the keep, waiting for the doors to come down.

Before the drama outside could unfold any further, another man burst into the apartment. This man wore a Saot uniform with decorations in black and red. There was a kite insignia on the man’s dress, a mark that Crea knew. This man was from Gaurring. He stepped into the room and stared at the web-scarred foreigner. For a second, she thought the two men must fight. She thought she was saved—as the two men turned on each other. Her spirits soared as she hoped the Gaur officer would run him through. Indeed, the Guar was quite handsome. Perhaps he would rescue her and carry her far from this place!

But the Gaur officer did not attack, he only asked questions. He did not speak Saot, and Crea knew it wasn’t one of the Trohl dialects either. She realized although this new man wore a different uniform, these two men were in league.

What was an officer of the Kingdom doing among these foreign invaders?! She considered this fact as the Gaur's eyes settled on her. The foreigner with the brilliant feathers gave a nod toward the bed and grinned a wicked grin as the Gaur officer approached with hungry eyes. A devious smile split the officer’s lips and a shiver ran up Crea’s spine. The foreigner left with a smirk as the Saot approached the bed and began to undo his belt.

Crea pointed out the window and hoped she might distract the man with the commotion below.

“Don't mind that mess,” he began in perfect Saot. “You and I have other matters to attend,” he leered.

Crea knew what was coming. He meant to take her however he must. A rage enveloped her—though she hid it deep and kept a calm demeanor. He was a good deal larger, and she was already sore and worn from the rough treatment of the scar-faced foreigner. She could not hope to take this Gaur officer in an honest contest. Instead, Crea hanged her head and begged him to be kind. "If you are gentle, I promise not to fight you," she said as she bit her lip. "There’s no need for violence."

“Well then,” the Saot grinned. "Pull up your dress," he ordered, as he set his weapons aside and stepped out of his pants. With bloody hands all over the blankets, he crawled across the bed. He licked his teeth and leered at the battered young woman as she lifted the edge of her dress. She pulled it up over her knees and thighs, that he might see her bloom. She offered her free hand, that he might take it with his own. “Be sweet,” she begged.

"Can't lie," he said as he crawled over her. "You're the prettiest thing I've seen all week."

He put his hand in hers and pressed his tongue to her lips. Crea allowed the kiss as she focused on his hand. She turned her fingers until she held nothing but his pinkie. With sudden force, she bent it back and snapped it in several places, as she crushed it with all her might.

"YEEAARGGHH!" He screamed as he felt the delicate bones of his little finger snap, snap, snap. Rage filled his eyes, and he pulled back to hit her.

But Crea was already moving. With her other hand balled in a fist, she slammed it into the man's chin, as her brother’s had taught her. The attacker's jaw popped and the man went limp. He rolled off the bed with a blank expression on his face and crumbled to the floor in an awkward heap.

Crea didn’t waste a second. She grabbed her shoes off the floor and the Saot officer's sword as she ran from the room. She bolted down the stairs as quickly and as quietly as she could.

By the time she reached the front door, the commotion outside the Silver Keep had developed into a full blown ruckus. The gate was down, and a tight knot of men from the Silver Service fought in their own courtyard against an increasing crush of invaders. No one watched her building as Crea ran and ducked into a thick hedge between the tower and keep. She dived among the brush and looked back as the branches settled over her.

She could hear the Saot swear and cuss as he came to the front door of her building. He cradled his pinkie and massaged his jaw as he looked about for any sign of her, a rage in his eyes. But Crea lay among the soft deadfall below a thicket of lilac, chokecherry, and juniper. She held still as she stared through the branches at her second attacker. The Gaur turned the wrong direction and stepped to the far end of the building.

As Crea huddled in the bushes, something touched her leg. She nearly jumped out of her skin as she kicked and turned to this new threat. She tried to get the fancy falchion from its scabbard—but stopped when she realized it was two of her own countrymen that crept among the bushes. One was older than her own father, while the other was nearly the age of her youngest brother. Both wore armor, large packs, weapons, and the simple insignia of a running horse over the King’s own seal.

They were silver fish. Men of the Post.

The older man wore a look of grim determination as the younger was obviously frightened. The elder held a finger to his lips, a plea to Crea to keep her quiet. She wondered how they escaped the keep though she quickly realized it didn't matter. They were out, and so was she.

As the remainder of the silver fish were slaughtered in their own keep, Crea and the two men slipped into the park beyond. Slowly, deftly, the old silver fish led Crea and his squire through the burning town. Near the city wall, they came to a small hut. The old man had a key for it. Not that it mattered. The lock was smashed.

Crea saw nothing of interest inside and was confused that they bothered to go into the hut at all. There was a table, a few chairs, a plain dresser, and a bed, along with a dusting of personal effects that were strewn across the dwelling. Still, the old man closed the door then collapsed to the floor. He threw aside a rug and began examining the boards in earnest. For a second, Crea worried for the man and thought that maybe he’d lost his wits.

With a sigh, the old man pulled up a board, then with a great effort he pulled up an entire section of the floor—to reveal a ladder that disappeared into the deep dark earth below. Excited that she might escape, Crea willingly followed the squire inside. The older man passed a torch down, then set the trapdoor back in place as he followed.

The tunnel ran south under the wall. It ran straight, without deviation or branch, and seemed to go on forever. As they continued to walk into the dark, Crea began to think they'd never come up out of the dirt. A part of her wasn’t bothered by the prospect.

Finally, a ladder appeared. They came out of the tunnel in a fallow field with trees all around, at least a mile from the wall. It was secluded and far from any house or barn. The old man closed the trap and immediately began on his way. The squire followed without hesitation. Despite a deep fatigue and a need for rest, Crea continued after the two men. “Wait,” she called.

For several hours they marched south with barely a dozen words between them. Crea was sore and incredibly tired as she pressed forward—but she was also determined to get as far from Solveny as she could. Though she cried, she offered no complaint.

The old man set a brutal pace, constantly turning on his young companions and impatiently waving them on. The squire was equally tired, but also refused to give up. Crea caught the sight of tears in his eyes and was comforted by the fact that her pain and torment was shared.

Their stumbling escape continued apace. Long after the sun had dropped. They were maybe a half dozen miles from town before they finally stopped. On top of a hill, and among a collection of boulders, the old man led them to a cache set up by the Silver Service for just such emergencies. The three set about making a camouflaged camp by the red light of Oblarra, and ate a hasty meal of cold rations.

As Crea lay in her ad hoc bed, she cried once more. Her hopes and ambitions were all in Solveny, burned up by filthy invaders, along with her dignity. Though she could not speak the words out loud, she begged death to take her.

Utterly exhausted, and finally out of tears, Crea fell into a deep, dreamless sleep that didn’t last nearly long enough.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 10.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Gliedian sat on his stallion, surrounded by a tight knot of warriors. He turned to see Banifourd shuffling down the ruined street, nursing his finger. "What happened to your hand?" the Lord Commander asked of the esquire.

Banifourd frowned, as he had no interest in telling the Baradha that some local tart had mangled his pinkie. He also did not want to talk about the fact that he’d lost Creigal’s sword—and so he simply muttered insults under his breath as he rubbed the pain out of his jaw.

Petaerus snorted and smirked. "Some flowers have thorns," said the scar-faced copal.

Banifourd glared at the man.

"Next time, see that you are more careful," Gliedian chided.

"Next time?!" Banifourd's eyes went wide. "Holy Ooroiyuo! Do you plan to massacre your way across the entire Noethrin Plain?!"

Gliedian smiled, as if that was exactly his plan.

Sometimes, the overhanded methods of the Ministrians confused the Saot. They seemed messy and blatant—yet Banifourd could not deny that they were somehow taking over the known world. How can they be so reckless and effective at the same time?! he wondered. “Is this because of the loss of Ebertin?” Banifourd asked, thinking perhaps the Lord Commander was simply acting out.

Gliedian frowned. “Not that I would let some minor setback cloud my judgement, but what makes you think that Ebertin is lost?”

“Minor?!” Banifourd questioned. “Kezodel is dead, and the supremacy of the Degorouth is questioned. What makes you think you keep it?”

“We are at war,” Gliedian glared. “Our enemies are not all weak and weaponless—or have you forgotten the resources of your duke?!”

“I have not forgotten,” Banifourd replied.

“Good,” Gliedian nodded. “Now prepare to march. We take the bulk of these Trohls south to Gaurring, and as we go, we burn everything in our path!”

Banifourd shook his head. “Gaurring is not Solveny. My cousins are prepared for war. They will not simply allow an invading army into Gaurring.”

Gliedian stared at the man and wondered if he was daft as well as incompetent. “Aerindoun needs men if he hopes to take the duchy from his father, and men are what I have in excess,” he informed. “You forget, in Gaurring we do not go as a conquering horde, but as allies to the true heir of the duchy! We shall slip across the border into the welcoming arms of your master—but only after we have burned away the Dunkel’s enemies and made a relative mess of the Noeth! And all the atrocities that we commit will point at your great uncle!”

Banifourd shrugged. “Solveny may belong in the past, but there is still the Count of the High Plains,” he noted. “We will not proceed uncontested, and when the Dunkels hear of what we’ve done...”

“And why, pray tell, would the Dunkels have issue?” Glieidan smiled, as if he knew something Banifourd did not. He wondered if all of Aerindoun’s men were so utterly useless—but then he remembered the part this officer was to play. There were always schemes within schemes—betrayals to unveil. What did the emissary of the King Gred duReb say? Beware of what he told this man, as he expected Banifourd might be all too willing to talk to their enemies? Yes. That was the way of it. He’d called Banifourd small-sighted and selfish—which is how they turned him against his duke in the first place.

Still, the Lord Commander had to tell the Gaur officer something. “This is how war works,” Gliedian stated. “One must thrust, parry, and feign! So we will play cat and mouse with the High Plains army—while the Dunkels kvetch and act at being offended! But they will offer no support, I am assured.”

“If you are wrong about the Dunkels and they are not with us, then a ponderous pace will never see us to the southern border,” Banifourd stated. “I say we ride hard and get to Crimsith Peak as fast as we can.”

“Then it is a good thing you are not in charge,” Gliedian snapped and glared.

Banifourd knew he would not win this argument. Instead, he decided to change the subject. “I was told my men would meet me here. Where are they?”

“Your men?” Gliedian blinked.

Banifourd stood arms akimbo. “I’m not going any further until you tell me where I find Bence and Garfindel.”

Gliedian stiffened. He was unaccustomed to being addressed so brusquely. He took a deep breath, smoothed his shirt, and tried to relax as he remembered the other Saots; the drunk, and the useful one. “I left Bence at Camp Calderhal, since we did not want him at court when we confronted your duke. He was all too happy to stay and consort with the priesthood. He was supposed to meet us here in Rynth Falls,” the High Commander faked a frown. “Since that did not happen I think we must consider the worst, that he was murdered by waokie.”

“And what of Garfindel?” Banifourd asked. “He was with us just three days ago, before we left Ebertin.”

“Ah, yes, Garf,” the Lord Commander forced a smile. “I've sent him ahead of us—to sow the seeds of discord. After all, your duke’s loyal men need distracting if we are to slip across the border unnoticed.”

Banifourd huffed. “I don’t like being lied to...” he began weakly—as if lies were not common trade these days. He might not like having either of his men around to watch his back, but what could he do about it besides complain?

“I do beg your pardon,” Gliedian gave an exaggerated bow. “Garfindel is doing a most difficult task for the Empress, and your future duke as well. For such good work, he has been promised a heavy bounty. I do apologize for commandeering his services, but I assure you, he was quite agreed to it.”

“You have taken liberties,” Banifourd charged. “He was my man to command.”

“But I see what happens to things in your possession—or have you simply hidden the sword of your former master?” Gliedian pointed.

The Saot glared and gathered his courage—but just as he was about to speak Gliedian waved off his reply and continued.

“I suppose I owe you a premium for the use of your good man?” Gliedian dug in his pocket. He pulled out a gold sol, and held the heavy coin out to Banifourd. “How is this? Is this fine trinket enough to be without him for a few weeks? He is performing a most useful task for the Empress, and she is all too happy to compensate you.”

Banifourd stared at the large gold coin—and also the man that offered it. He had an inkling that he was damned if he took the coin and damned if he didn't. With a frown, he took the sol. “Sooner or later you shall find some things can’t be bought,“ he said to the Ministrian.

“I would beg to differ,” Gliedian grinned. “In my experience, everything is for sale,” he replied as he turned away.

Banifourd also turned and found a petulant and scarred Petaerus in his path. “What's with the dumb feathers anyway?” he asked as he flicked at the decoration.

“I like pretty things,” Petaerus sneered, “And I take 'em when I see 'em.”

Banifourd raised his voice and called back to Gliedian. “Is there a reason this dog blocks my path?!”

“Do not denigrate dogs,” Gliedian began as he waved Petaerus out of the way. “They are worthy and loyal beasts.”

“Loyal,” Banifourd snorted as he walked the other way. “Everyone knows that Ministrians are loyal to coin alone.”

Gliedian glared, then turned to Petaerus, as they watched the Saot officer leave. He leaned close to his copal. “When you do what you do,” he began in a low tone, “I’ll take that coin back.”

Petaerus nodded and smiled at the command.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 10.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Brankellus stood on a hill. Although it was the dead of night, he could see the large town of Solveny as fires smoldered in several quarters. Flame curled skyward as the occasional scream drifted on the wind.

The ghost proceeded toward the ruined town. The stars faded as the sky lightened to a dark blue, then drifted into a deep red as the sun peaked over the horizon once more. The flames dimmed and gave way to the horrific scene of a ravaged town. Billows of pungent smoke rose laboriously into the sky. With a sigh, Brankellus stepped down the road, quite sure that Petaerus was somewhere among these ruins.

Numbed to the villainy of the Ministrians, Brankellus barely flinched as he stepped around the lifeless bodies of the city's former denizens. He passed a woman as she cried over the remains of a man and a child—only to see a third body lying by their sides—the woman's own.

Brankellus stared at the woman as she turned and slowly locked eyes with him. The wife wiped her face, stood, and spoke.

Brankellus shook his head. He did not understand her Saot tongue. With a shrug, the dead man hanged his head in respect and stepped away from the corpses.

There were many more ghosts among the dead of Solveny. There was a hefty man that stood in the door of a church. Brankellus caught the barest glimpse of gore beyond the ghost and quickly turned away from the sight. There were several children of various ages, wide-eyed, with hands clasped, as they ran to Brankellus. They followed him, along with the wife, and the large cleric. There was an old woman—so old that Brankellus wondered if she could walk before she died. As a ghost, she certainly struggled with the task—though she managed to keep up with the shuffling pace of the others. She shook and huffed with each impossible step as she continued after Brankellus and the growing number of dead that followed him. Why they followed, he did not know.

Under the noonday sun, a long column of Ministrians prepared to return to Rynth Falls. They had loaded wagons with their spoils, corralled livestock, and slaves—but Petaerus was not among them.

The sun crested and began to fall. Brankellus continued through the town, led by his infallible sense. He stepped from Solveny and noticed that many of the outlying farms also smoldered. He walked on, south and east, across the Noethrin Plain, only interested in his quarry.

Night fell. Several miles outside of town, he looked back and noted a long train of Solveny’s dead followed after him.

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