The Twists and Turns of a Slow Road East

Polished 11.1 thru 11.4 — 47m33s — 2023/12/22

Polished 11.5 and 11.6 — 35m07s — 2023/12/22

Baet spent the late morning in the pools of the Copper Kettle and Rooms. He tried to forget the embarrassments of the previous night—which turned out to be more than his confrontation with Wenifas. During the first watch, Baet gambled with the brothers Homoth and Komotz once more—and as they played, he realized he wasn’t lucky after all—they were simply terrible at cards. For a time, he thought he should lose, as he was beginning to feel sorry for them; then he decided he’d rather have their money, and gleefully took hand after hand—until Homoth, flipped the table, accused him of cheating, and stomped off in a fit. Komotz simply glared as he wandered after his brother, leaving Baet to clean up the mess.

Even winning, there’s no winning, Baet thought, as he soaked and tried to relax.

Eyes closed, Baet heard the patter of small feet. He looked up and saw Claiten rushing at him with his dagger drawn. “What the devil…?!” he began as adrenaline shocked him into readiness.

With anger on his face, the boy jumped at the guard. “ERRR-AYE-ERRRRRRR!” he crowed, as he flew at the Saot.

Although the boy was a scrappy handful, he was at a massive disadvantage. Baet was strong, a trained fighter, and several times the child’s size—even if he was in a pool. With an expert hand, the large guard knocked the knife aside, grabbed the boy out of mid-air, then launched the child over the walkway into a larger, deeper, and colder pool. It was a masterful stroke, and he wouldn’t have managed it if his attacker had been anything more than a mere child.

Claiten hit the water, submerged, and panicked as he remembered nearly drowning in the aqueducts of old Beletrain. He kicked and paddled furiously for the surface, breached, and gasped. He was not a good swimmer, and so he struggled in the water. After a bit of hard paddling, he caught the edge and climbed out. Hands on his knees, he huffed and puffed, then looked up to see the massive Saot guard approaching.

Baet advanced on the boy. Claiten turned this way and that as he looked for an exit, but he was cornered against the edge of the water and unable to evade his enemy.

“You want to fight?!” Baet glared at the child as he held the naga blade in his hand. “I’ll teach you to fight!” He sunk down on his haunches as he approached, then roared and lunged at the child. “Hah!” he screamed.

Claiten teetered at the edge of the pool, ready to jump in—but the guard dodged back.

Baet relaxed as he stared at the child. “That’s a feign,” he explained in the child’s own language. “I do that to check your reflexes,” the old guard grinned.

“Now this…” the guard waved the blade high as he advanced on Claiten once more. “…is a distraction,” he said and poked the boy’s belly with the finger of his empty hand.

Claiten stared at the guard, barely able to breathe, his fear rising to a choking level.

Baet leaned over the boy and poked him in the chest once more. “And that’s a direct assault,” he stared into the child’s large frightened eyes. “Now I’ve beat you half a dozen different ways,” he stated. “You still want to fight me?”

Claiten shook his head.

“Good,” Baet said, then turned the blade in his hand as he examined it. “It’s a nice knife,” he noted. “I’d hate to have to keep it,” he held out the blade.

Claiten reached for the weapon.

Baet pulled the naga knife away. “If I take it again, it’s mine,” he said. “Understood?”

Claiten gave a slight but solemn nod.

“Good. Now save your wrath for your true enemies,” Baet recommended, then handed the naga dagger back to the child. He turned and stepped into the warm pool, always keeping an eye on the boy.

Claiten caressed the twisted handle of the blade, more than happy to have the weapon back. He stared at the guard as he considered attacking the man once more. Twice, he’d tried to settle his mother’s score, and twice he’d failed. Indeed, Claiten counted himself lucky to be alive—though his anger still burned just under the surface. Often enough, his mother had told him to check his anger. She made several of her dancing partners extol the virtue of patience. So it was that the child consoled himself and set vengeance aside—for now.

Claiten twisted in slow circles, not quite sure what to do with himself. He hadn’t planned the attack, and certainly had no idea what to do if he failed; and so he blinked, then slowly drifted from the pools.

Baet cocked his head as he watched the child. He felt sorry for the kid. The women coddled him while the men mostly ignored him. The others were nice, of course, but they were busy and didn’t have much time for the child. Plus he had an inkling of what the Ministrians taught their children—especially children of the boy’s low station. His education would be limited and more about what he couldn’t do than teaching him anything useful. Baet shook his head. The thought of growing up under the tutelage of the Ministrians made the guard shudder. That poor child was likely raised to think it was the God’s greatest calling to be nothing but fodder for Baradha ambitions. He decided it might be good for the child to have a better influence in his life, a manly influence that could teach him proper manly things, like the use of a knife.

Baet reached for his towel and picked out the stone that sat next to his sword. “You want to see something?” He asked and lifted the glittery rock toward the child. “You remember the courtroom?” he grinned. “The meteor that caused the roof to collapse? You wanna see it?” He held the meteor out to the boy.

The child’s eyes went wide. He gave a nod and Baet waved him over. Claiten stepped into the pool and took the offered rock. It was black and smooth with small pits all over it. He stared at the stone, dazzled by a thousand colors that caught in the small divots. “Pretty,” he said.

“It is,” Baet agreed. He ruffled the boy’s hair, and added, “I wish Toar had some of your fire. He hasn’t wanted to train since we left the dueling forts,” he complained, then leaned back and closed his eyes. “I might even wonder where he got off to—if I didn’t think that evil blonde pixie wasn’t lurking somewhere nearby,” he snorted. “She’s a piece of work! Chances are she’ll be the next to try and stab me.”

The boy turned to the guard, curious to know what he said at the end, but not understanding since the guard had switched to Saot.

Baet shook his head. “Never you mind,” he said with a wry grin. There was no reason to let the boy know that others might mean him harm. The child didn’t need that sort of encouragement.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

After breakfast, Toar went into the village and moseyed about. In the window of a smithy, he noticed a pistol musket. He stopped to stare.

Only yesterday the duke had paid the Trohl with money borrowed from the Jindleyak for services rendered. Toar was feeling flush and generous, so he stepped into the shop and inquired after the weapon. "How much is it?”

“Two lunes,” the smith answered.

Toar frowned. "Why so cheap?" he asked, for he knew he couldn’t get a decent sword for twice that amount.

The smith shrugged. “I didn’t want it in the first place. I bought it from a Soat that was hard up for coin, and it’s cluttered my window ever since. Why bother with a musket anyway?” he added with a wave. “A bow and arrow is just as deadly, and quicker to reload.”

“It’s a weapon of intimidation,” Toar said.

The blacksmith smirked. “Says who?” He leaned over the counter and glared at the smaller man.

Toar shrugged, “It’s what I heard anyway.”

The blacksmith scoffed and pulled a knife from his belt. It was nearly a foot long and serrated on one edge. He waved it about as Toar took a cautious step back. “Weapons are weapons,” the smith began. “It’s the wielder that’s intimidating,” he snorted as he jammed the knife back into its sheath. “That rock thrower—that’s for rabbits, squirrels, and snakes—but who doesn’t need a good rabbit from time to time?” he shrugged. “You still want it? It’s a good price.”

Toar stared at the weapon and compared it to his memory of Thunder Maker. It was a much simpler and seemingly thinner, but still had an interesting style about it—and for a mere two lunes! How could he beat such a price?! “Do you have powder, shot, and wad?” He asked.

The smith searched the crowded bench. "I got what the Saot had—good Gaurrish powder—or so he claimed. Never know with Saots,” he added, then lifted a slight pouch and passed it to Toar.

Toar smiled as he checked the bag. “I’ll take it,” he said and gave the smith two lunes. He tucked the weapon away and turned to see Celesi standing in the door. He rolled his eyes as he walked on by.

Having seen the weapon, the young lady leaned in and grabbed at Toar’s hem, as she followed him from the shop. “You got a pistol?!” she beamed. “Let me see it!"

Toar shook his head. “It isn’t a toy, Celesi.”

“I’m old enough to know a weapon when I see one!” the young lady reprimanded. “Come on!” she pouted. “Show me!”

With a sigh, Toar pulled the weapon from his cloak.

“Wow!” she beamed and scratched her head. “How does it work?”

Toar pointed out the various parts. "You put the fire powder and a ball in the barrel; then you jam a bit of cloth down after it with this little rod, so it don’t all fall out. Next, you pull back the hammer, and aim it at the thing you want to kill. Then you pull the lever, which brings the hammer down. The hammer hits the flint, which causes a spark to light the powder. The powder explodes, and propels the ball out the barrel. Then—if your aim is true—the ball smashes a hole through your enemy and lets out all their blood.”

“So you just pull the trigger, and the musket does the rest?” Celesi said as she gaped at the weapon. “Simple, yet savage,” she noted, then turned back to Toar. “How far can it shoot?”

Toar shrugged. “Far enough,” he said, since he didn’t really know.

“Could it hit that house?”

“Easily.”

“What about that one?”

“Probably.”

“What about that one clear back?”

“Maybe,” Toar hedged.

“Have you used one before?”

“No,” Toar admitted. “Baet claimed he’d let me fire his, but there were bugbear and Ministrians about, and we didn’t want the attention. Then they were taken away when we got captured in Woodring.”

Celesi smiled. “Well, there are no bugbear or Ministrians about us now! Will you let me fire it?”

“I’m giving it to Baet,” Toar told her. “But I bet he will let us fire it once there is a good place to do so.”

Celesi frowned. For several seconds she stared at the weapon and mulled over her dislike of the tea-drinker. "Such an easy thing to use,” she mused. “And dangerous, you say?”

“Very.”

“Then you must let me have it,” she concluded.

"And what do you want with it?" Toar asked, suspicious.

“What if we should run into more trouble?” Celesi shrugged. “I should think a musket is more effective than my knives.”

Toar shook his head and stared straight into her soul. “You want it so I won’t give it to Baet, because you don’t like him.”

“It’s not all that,” Celesi claimed, wide-eyed and innocent—though they both knew that Toar was perfectly right. "I'd like a better way to protect myself,” she feigned.

The wide eyes of the young lady made Toar question himself. Was she sincere? “You really want it?” he frowned.

Celesi gave a solemn nod.

"Then I think you would happily trade me for your blades.”

Celesi flinched. She meant to keep them both.

“Nevermind,” Toar turned and began down the street.

Celesi ran after him. “Wait!” she cut him off, pulled up her skirt, and undid the throwing knives from her thigh. “It’s a deal.”

Toar declined the offered weapons. “What makes you think I want your knives anyway?” he rebuked, as he stepped around her.

Celesi grabbed his shoulder. “Please?!” she followed after. “I’ll do anything,” she purred.

Annoyed, Toar tried to shrug her off. “Stop.”

Celesi jumped on his back. “Anything!” she whispered in his ear as she kissed his cheek.

Toar leaned back and stared at the small, pretty girl. “Anything?” he repeated.

With a mischievous smile, she batted her lashes.

“First, get off my back,” Toar replied, then continued walking. “I don’t know why you want it at all. Are you not attached to your knives?” he argued.

“Why should I care for them?” Celesi scoffed. “I got them from Meriona.”

Toar studied the girl with a critical eye, though he understood exactly why they would mean so little to her.

”Please!” she begged and reached out to caress his arm.

Toar pulled away and rolled his eyes. He took the musket from under his cloak and studied it while Celesi eyed it greedily. He’d come by the weapon easy enough, and so he figured he might find another one in the next village, or perhaps the next after that. “Fine,” he acquiesced and held out the musket. “But give me the blades first.”

Celesi handed over the knives, then studied the musket once Toar gave it to her. “Show me how to load it,” she asked immediately.

Toar shrugged. “I've never done it,” he said. “I just know the theory.”

“Then show me what you’d do if you wanted to load it.”

Toar shook his head. “Let’s ask Baet. He knows the proper use of it,” he said as he continued down the street.

Celesi grabbed his arm. “If I wanted his help, I'd ask him,” she frowned. “But I won’t. Instead, I’ve asked you.”

“He’s not such a bad person,” Toar defended.

Uninterested in his appraisal, Celesi changed the subject back to the musket. “I get it; it’s dangerous. I swear I won’t fire it for the sake of the squirrels until we’re somewhere that we deem is safe. Only then will we get a bit of practice—you and I. But until then, I’d like to have a weapon I can use. I don’t think I ask too much,” she argued. “Since we met, how often have we had to run for our lives? Indeed, are we not still in danger?!”

Toar realized she made a good argument. “Fine,” he huffed. He poured a bit of powder down the barrel, turned to Celesi for a long moment, then added another dab. “That should do,” he said with a shrug. He dropped a smooth iron ball into the barrel, then stuffed a small piece of cloth after it and rammed it into place with the long thin rod that lived under the barrel. Having finished the operation to his satisfaction, Toar held the weapon out to Celesi.

“That’s it?” she asked as she moved to take it.

At the last second, he pulled it away. “This isn't a game,” he stared at her. “This’ll kill a man, sure as lightning. It’ll kill you if you aren’t careful.”

Celesi glared. “I know when a thing is serious! I evaded the Ministrians for months, all on my own! Do I look like I trifle?!” She held out her hand, demanding the weapon.

With a serious nod, Toar gave her the pistol.

Celesi beamed at him as she jammed the musket into it’s holster, then wrapped her shawl over it, so the others wouldn’t see. For a second, she imagined the tea-drinker pressing himself on her—then she would pull the weapon, press it into his chest, and back him off! Oh how that might shock him! She grinned at the thought, rather satisfied with herself. “I owe you,” she smiled at Toar as the two walked on. “I really owe you,” she smoldered “Would you like to collect?”

Toar rolled his eyes and kept walking—as Celesi chased after him.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

The shades were drawn in the small cabin. It was a simple, yet pleasant room. There was a table, two chairs, and a couple beds—one of them occupied.

Carringten was fast asleep in the bed closer to the door—despite the fact that the sun approached its zenith. The door opened and gave an awful creak. The dark man’s eyes bolted open. He reached for his sword, turned, and caught sight of Creigal as the duke entered the room.

Carringten relaxed—mostly. He sat up. “It is impossible to guard you if I know not where you go,” he noted.

Creigal gave an absent wave as he moved past his captain. “I should think that even you would like a break from your duties from time to time."

Carringten huffed. “One day you will be gone, and I can hang up my sword for good. Until then, I prefer to do my work.”

Creigal paused as he regarded his adopted son, “Will you do it? When I finally pass from this world, will you quit the profession?”

Carringten shrugged. “Who else deserves my life's blood?”

“What of my nephew, Varius?”

The captain shook his head. “I suppose he is a good man—but he has his own men to protect him.”

“The day I am gone, what will you do?” Creigal continued. “How will you live?”

“Perhaps I shall build bridges, or teach among the children,” Carringten replied. “I might farm, or I might simply travel for a time,” he shrugged. “I’d like to see what lies beyond the jungles of Borzia. I‘d like to view the Tallian Sea,” he continued. “Perhaps I will settle. I will get a piece of land. After all, there are cattle to husband, and all manner of vegetables to pick—and despite what the others are always saying, I haven’t spent all my money on weapons.”

“Do you care so little for the protection of Gaurring?” Creigal asked.

“I was never so loyal to the duchy,” Caringten admitted. “My loyalty has always been to the man that rescued me when I was too young to defend myself. Now if you had proceeded your wife, or if Daphne lived,…” he shook his head. “But they do not, and I do not know your nephew so well. No. For Varius, there are other effective and cunning men. Let them protect him and your other ministers—that is—in the unfortunate event that I shall outlive you.”

Creigal scoffed. “Do not think it is such a grand thing to go before an old man like me—not into the underworld! It is never fortunate for a son to proceed his father in death. Indeed, it is against the very order of nature!”

“If it is nature that takes you, and not some villain, then I shall be happy to outlive you,” Carringten replied. “But enough of the unknowable future.”

“Agreed,” Creigal nodded. “Were you not going into town with the others?” he asked of his captain.

“I was—until you didn’t return.”

The duke smirked. “So you used my absence to catch up on sleep?”

“Not in the least,” Carringten replied. “After my watch, I went searching for you. I searched the woods for hours, until the sun came up. I came back to get Baet and maybe some of the others—but then I saw you walking with Meu. Since I knew where you were, and since I figure she can’t be all that dangerous; well, that’s when I decided to get some sleep,” he explained. “Have you spoken to Duboha?”

“I have not,” Creigal admitted. “I spent a wondrous night under the trees, and I was distracted during my breakfast, as you noted.”

Carringten gave a nod. “Duboha has asked our pardon. When we leave for Hearthstone, he intends to take Aim and Komotz back to Ebertin.”

“Give them our thanks, and a bit of our coin to prove it," Creigal nodded. “Be generous,” he added, ignoring the fact that all his current coin was borrowed from Traust. He frowned as he remembered the kind man and wondered where the debt would go. Not that it mattered. He would pay it to the family, or to the good man’s friends. He certainly borrowed enough. Indeed, most men might think it a mighty sum that Creigal had borrowed, but against the duke’s vast holdings and interests, it was a mere pittance to consider. It was maybe the operating costs of a dozen men for a good six months—but what was that to a man that employed thousands?

“Duboha says that once we are away and they’ve turned back any pursuit, there is little chance of trouble. He leaves Saleos in charge of the others, and expects nothing between here and Hearthstone,” Carringten continued. “I have my reservations, of course.”

“About our safety?” Creigal eyed his adopted son. “Anything specific?”

Carringten shook his head. “General misgivings. Mine is a suspicious line of work, and I’d prefer to keep as many friendly bodies around you as possible.”

“I too like our new friends,” Creigal gave a nod. “in this we shall trust their judgement. If they think we are safe…” he shrugged.

“We’ve made a fair bit of noise in this land,” Carringten noted. “Our hosts have turned away a number of visitors. They can’t all mean us well.”

“Yet they all come for the shaman,” Creigal shrugged. “Yesterday, they were so thick around the pour fellow, I thought they might shake his miserable hands right off his arms!”

Carringten chuckled. “A few of them did not even look at the brittle things before they grabbed them and shook,” he nodded. “Also, I asked Toar for his assessment. He says he’s never been this far east, so he offers only hearsay—oh, and get this!” he stared at his adoptive father. “When I paid him, he wondered out loud if he’s still of any use to us.”

Creigal blinked. “Of course he is! He knows the people and their customs, and his loyalty is unquestioned! His previous function as a mere guide might be overshadowed by Saleos and the others, but that doesn’t mean he is worthless!” the duke snorted. “No, tell Toar his use has rather increased, as we now call for him to be our ambassador. Yes! That will serve,” the duke nodded. “And as our ambassador, have him present our payments to the others—that is—assuming he still wishes to continue with us.”

“He says nothing to the contrary. Still, I worry about the young Trohl,” Carringten mused. “I wonder if he is not overly distracted.”

“By Celesi?!” Creigal chuckled and shook his head. "Yours is indeed a suspicious line of work! We are no longer in the wilds with our enemies all about us—and Toar's attention is not so singular as your own! Still, he has performed admirably since the first day we met, and seems always to be honest. Despite the distraction of the young beauty, he attends my concerns,” he frowned at his captain. “Do you not enjoy the relative safety we have about us? Do you not want for a little rest, a bit of holiday, during a dangerous trek?”

“I should welcome it if our journey should remain as simple and calm as all that,” Carringten admitted. “Instead, I shall take this rest and prepare for the worst.”

Creigal shrugged. “That is your training, and let us hope you do not summon trouble with such dark and foreboding thoughts.”

“Ah, but you are in charge, so I am sure we shall be greeted by nothing more than sunshine and rainbows!” Carringten replied.

“Now, now!” Creigal stared at his captain. “There is no better way to tempt trouble than to say there can be none of it!”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Scurra was out for a walk to clear her head and get a bit of exercise. She had half a day, since the plan was to take it easy through the afternoon and the evening; then, in the middle of the night, they’d leave under the cover of dark. The local militias promised to guard their departure. It’d be easy to turn back any tails during the wee hours since the roads would be all but empty. It was a sound plan and Scurra was happy with it—until she wasn’t.

With plenty of time, Scurra stepped down the trail as it followed the meandering river. She passed several Pan Iskaer and friendly men from other militias she did not know. They often smiled, and they were kind enough to make themselves discrete. She continued on her way—then found herself in a small clearing as a murder of crows gathered at the far end. The rooks jumped and squawked at the sight of her and a chill caught in her chest as she remembered the birds of her dream. The ruckus grew, and the chill grew with it.

Scurra couldn’t catch her breath as she remembered the storm, the icy spikes, and the shock of lightning. She shivered as she realized the birds spoke to her again. “Run!” They cawed. “Run! Death comes for us all!”

In a frenzy, the dark birds burst from their perches, squawking and cawing, as they scattered over the forest. Scurra felt it was an omen. She felt that if they waited to leave, a danger would come over them, and it would visit strife and death upon them. She turned and rushed back to the inn. She hurried past the Saot guard as he instructed the small boy in the use of his dagger, and also the duke and his captain. She rushed into the courtyard where her Jindleyak cousins sparred with wooden sticks. They’d finished practicing their forms, and also some rolling—yet the day was still early, and several of the men had too much energy—and so they were just beginning a tournament of ‘touches’ when she came barreling out of the woods. “Gather your stuff,” she interrupted. “We’re leaving immediately.”

Several of the Oak and Beast turned to her, including Homoth. He stared at her, but since she refused to elaborate, he turned away as he answered. “We attend our plan, and for now, we practice.”

Scurra glared at the men. “Will the lot of you scrap for a day’s glory while Traust and Apulton long for their eternal rest?!” she chided.

“There’ll be more of us dead if we allow our edge to dull,” Homoth replied—as he took the first point from Andrus. “We are safely away from Ebertin. We have many friends about us, and we will not be staying much longer anyway. The plan is a good plan.”

“Games are fine—for those days when we have nothing better to do,” Scurra scowled. “But I mean to go home and I would like to arrive there sooner than later!”

“And I would like to arrive home with the honor of yet another victory under my belt,” Homoth snorted, as he took a second quick point from Andrus.

“This isn’t about the game,” Duboha noted. “Something else is bothering her. What is it, cousin? What has caused you to question our plan?”

“There’s a danger,” Scurra revealed. “There’s a darkness out there. I don’t know what it is, but it’s coming for us—and the longer we delay, the more likely it will catch us!”

Carringten’s ears perked up. He did not like talk of the dark—but it seemed he was the only one that took her words seriously. He looked to Creigal, as the others booed and told Scurra not to bother them. Creigal shrugged.

Duboha frowned. “Are you going to justify this with another dream?”

“Sometimes they are quite accurate,” Scurra defended.

Several of the others groaned. A few scoffed. Komotz cut in. “Yes, yes. ‘A danger, a darkness’… We’ve all heard of these portents that bother you, dear cousin, but these things rarely resolve in the way you imagine!”

Scurra persisted. “A great storm is building!”

Homoth interrupted as he took a third point from Andrus—a fact that caused Andrus to throw his tourney sticks in the dirt. “A storm?! Like an actual storm?!” Homoth shook his head. “Would you have us outrun the weather?!”

Scurra shook her head. “I know not what form the danger shall take! All I know is that if we leave now, we may yet avoid it!”

“Who says we aren’t looking for a little danger?” Homoth leaned in close. “Do you not see us training to meet such things?!” Arms akimbo, he measured his cousin. “Tell you what: play me at touches, and if you should beat me, we’ll call it a day and march immediately.”

Scurra glared at the large young man, “You provoke me.”

“I do indeed!” Homoth admitted. “But I am the last champion, so I can leverage the rules.” He turned to the others. “Is that not the way of it? So long as I do not give myself unfair advantage? What say you all?” He continued. “Do any of you consider this unfair?! Do any object to calling it a day and marching on—despite a better plan—if this lovely lass can land three strikes against the reigning champion?”

None of the others believed she could beat him, so none bothered to object—though Carringten wondered. He’d been watching and he could see many holes in the young man’s methods.

“Come, let us get your blood pumping,” Homoth grinned. “Show these others what the fairer sex can do!”

Scurra huffed. The others encouraged her and egged her on—and so she decided she liked the idea of teaching this whelp a thing or two. She collected the tourney sticks that Andrus had thrown on the ground and stared at her large cousin. “I’ve won a few rounds of touches myself,” she glared as she squared up.

Homoth gave a shrug as he continued to grin.

“Ha!” she yelled, and went all out from the beginning. She hacked and swiped at Homoth—but the gifted young man deflected and dodged. He countered, backpedaled, then danced away from her, as he hooted and hollered with delight. The others cheered and whistled to see them go.

“What do you think?” Creigal asked, as Carringten and Baet gathered around. “Can she beat him?”

Baet shook his head. “She has skill—but he has a natural talent. Did you see the way he beat Andrus?”

Carringten agreed. “He shrugs her off with almost no concern. He baits her. Unless she is holding back—and it does not appear to be so. He’ll win whenever he feels like it,” he concluded.

“She’s not bad,” Baet added. “I see her giving many able men a hard time—but that one,” he shook his head and gave a whistle.

“Agreed,” Carringten nodded. “This one is quite talented—though a bit raw,” he turned to Creigal. “What do you think? Would they make your troop?”

Creigal nodded. “I think they would all be good regulars, and several would make the irregulars if they should like.”

“What about the woman?” Baet asked.

“Especially the woman,” Creigal confirmed. “She has skill, heart, a commanding voice, and it doesn’t hurt that she’s attractive. Think of the recruiting you could do with someone like her to give the speeches,” he grinned at his two guards.

Baet shook his head, “more grist for the mill.”

Creigal frowned at the comment.

The guard shrugged and defended his outlook. “War is a dirty enterprise.”

Although they didn’t like it, neither Creigal nor Carringten could find any fault in this comment, and so they simply let it sit.

Carringten leaned close to Duboha. “What are the rules to this game?” he asked.

“Land a strike, get a point,” Duboha said. “And no cheap shots.”

“What constitutes a cheap shot?”

“You know, a cheap shot,” Duboha replied. “Nothing that will do permanent harm—especially shots to the head—either head.”

Baet leaned close to Carringten. “If there were no cheap shots in real fights, I’d be dead a dozen times over,” he noted.

“Still, it’d be bad form to crack a man in the eggs just to win a spar,” Carringten replied.

Baet had to agree.

Despite Scurra’s aggressiveness, Homoth took the first point. Then, after toying with the older woman yet again, he took the second point also.

It wasn’t all one sided. Scurra won the third with a glancing blow to Homoth’s right thigh. The others all chortled to see it—though Carringten felt like Homoth gave her the opening—which meant that the young man understood the importance of theatrics, at least on some level.

The two fighters set themselves yet again. Scurra rushed in. Homoth defended himself well. He consistently pushed her away whenever she managed to close the gap—or whenever it seemed like she might overwhelm him—but he also refused to counter as he danced and hooted and hollered about in circles. Using only defense, Homoth could not possibly win. Eventually Scurra caught him just a bit too open—and she gave his left ribs a solid crack—no real damage—though quite likely a bruiser. Homoth sucked air and favored his side. “We may leave early yet!” He chortled as he set himself for the final point.

Snarling, Scurra charged again. She threw herself into the effort and nearly scored several times, especially since Homoth refused to attack. “Fight back!” She screamed at him.

Her attacks took on a reckless edge. If Homoth wouldn’t counter, there was no reason to hold back—a fact that only added to Scurra’s aggravation.

“FIGHT BACK, YOU LOUT!” she screamed again.

Homoth wasn’t phased as he blocked, dodged, and parried every stroke. He was focused and fought clean—while all of the sneakiness had drained out of Scurra. Now, she simply hacked at her cousin as she tried to overwhelm him—but he was simply too big and too talented.

Finally, Homoth grew bored. Scurra opened up a bit too much, and he retaliated—though he was ever so gentle about it. He poked her in the chest with the tip of his tourney stick and proved that he had indeed been goofing on her all along. “Ahahaha!” he laughed as he danced away with his arms raised high. “Ahhahahahaa!”

The others cheered and jeered his antics. Scurra glared at her gathered cousins. Humiliated, she threw down her tourney sticks and stomped away in a huff; thinking there was nothing else she could do. There was no way they’d listen to her now.

“Hey, don’t go!” Homoth called after her. “Don’t you want to fight among the others for the glory of second?!” he taunted.

Scurra turned and made a lewd gesture as she continued on her way.

Homoth turned to the duke and his two guards. His eyes settled on Baet. “What of you? Do you have the figs it takes to claim a day’s glory?” he glared.

Baet shook his head—but Carringten nodded, stepped forward, and picked up the tourney sticks abandoned by Scurra. He swung the sticks to test their weight.

The duke turned to Baet and gave the junior guard a bit of a nod. “Let’s play,” he said. “We win honor on the way up, or make friends on the way down. Either way, this is good for us.”

Baet huffed, but thought What the hell. Might as well show the kid that I know what I’m talking about… He stepped forward as he smiled at Claiten.

Carringten stepped up to Homoth.

“No,” Homoth said, and brushed him aside. “I face that one,” he pointed at Baet.

Carringten shrugged and went pointing about the others, looking for someone to trade blows. Duboha agreed.

Homoth stared at Baet. “What do you say, Saot? Shall we put a lune on it?” he grinned.

Andrus interpreted.

“I thought you were mad at me for gambling,” Baet stated, as he squared up against the older brother.

“Gambling, no,” Homoth began. “Cheating…” he let the word hang.

“Oh. I don’t need to cheat to get the better of the likes of you,” Baet replied.

Homoth rushed forward. He struck fast, and drove the Saot back. Baet defended well and tried to turn the older brother—but the Jindleyak was uncommonly strong, and one of the quicker men the Saot had faced in a long time! He was Carringten fast! He was Garfindel fast! It wasn’t long before Homoth caught Baet open and gave him a bruiser across the left thigh.

Baet hobbled and sucked air. Blood boiling, he squared against the brother. “All right,” he glared.

Homoth charged—but this time, Baet turned his advance and stuck him in the chest with a quick parry. He grinned at his crestfallen opponent. “Seems I might know a trick or two after all.”

Homoth replied, and though it sounded insulting, Baet couldn’t be sure, since he didn’t know the Jindleyak’s language. Andrus started to interpret, but Baet missed his words when he charged forward.

The two went back and forth, until the older brother took a swing at Baet’s melon. The shot might of knocked him out—except Baet dove for the dirt. He lifted his shoulder as he fell, so the blow glanced off his arm before it clipped his skull.

Baet hit the ground, then jumped up immediately. “What the bloody hell?!” A line of blood formed, then dripped down the side of his head. He touched a delicate finger to the blood. “What the blazing balls are you trying to prove?!”

Homoth got in Baet’s face and tried to stare him down.

Realizing that real trouble brewed, several of the Jindleyak rushed forward and pushed Homoth back. Carringten and Creigal stepped in front of Baet. The aggrieved Saot guard turned away. Although the man-at-arms thought to give the younger man a good lumping, he was sure that Creigal would not appreciate such a dust up.

Homoth set for the next point, but Baet shook his head and dropped the sticks “I was promised no cheap shots,” he glared.

“You think something was unfair?!” Homoth snarled.

“Look!” Baet pointed to his head.

Homoth snorted. “Tis but a scratch!”

Baet turned to the other Jindleyaks. They mostly shrugged. “Perhaps if we’d seen it,” Duboha stated. “Most of us have given a little blood to the game at one time or another,” and just so the matter was set aside.

Baet touched his head again. He had to admit, it wasn’t a lot of blood. Still, he wasn’t interested in playing with a cheat, so he turned and stomped away.

Homoth declared himself the winner.

Baet meant to leave; to go back to the relaxing baths—but Komotz blocked the way and wore the same stupid, smug grin as older brother.

“He thinks he can beat you,” Andrus said. “He wants to take your silver too.”

Baet glared at the younger brother as he dug in his pocket. He pulled a lune and flipped it in the air, then turned and walked away as the coin dropped into the dirt. “Consider yourself a winner,” he said over his shoulder.

“Go practice with the child,” Komotz replied in broken Ministrian.

“Oh,” Baet turned. “It talks in full sentences,” he snipped as he continued on his way.

Carringten stepped in front of him.

Baet glared as he looked up at his captain. “They practice in the past anyway,” he shook his head. “None of these men could hope to match me with a musket!”

“Do you have a musket?” Carringten asked.

Baet frowned.

“And what of coin?” Carringten continued. “Do you have a bit of that?”

Baet nodded.

“Maybe they’ll wager,” Carringten shrugged. “If you think I can beat them.”

Baet grinned as he eagerly dug into his pocket.

Weary that things might get a bit heated, Creigal frowned at his captain. “Careful now.”

“I saw it,” Carringten noted. “It was a cheap shot, your grace, and whatever his sins, even Baet should not be treated so unfairly. Besides, it’s just practice,” He winked and turned to Andrus. He gave the cousin Baet’s silver, then squared against the younger brother, while Homoth took on Aim.

Komotz moved forward slow and tested the older man. Carringten held his ground, barely moving at all, only blocking when Komotz finally decided to engage. Komotz advanced, found no entrance, and retreated. Three times, the younger brother tried to find an opening, only to be repelled. The third time, Carringten followed, took a swipe that was easily blocked—but opened the younger brother up—and tapped him on the shoulder before dancing away cleanly.

“That’s the duke’s personal guard!” Baet laughed. “One of the finest blades in all the kingdom! You don’t even know who your messing with!” he chortled—while Carringten gave a neat bow and set himself for the next point.

Spitting and cussing, Komotz reset. Carringten gave the ready sign and the young Jindleyak rushed in—only to be rebuffed and brushed aside by the excellent weapons master. The younger brother could not even get the dark man to budge. Carringten took the point at his leisure.

The third point was settled in a similar fashion. Komotz returned to his cousins, to be reassured by Duboha, who had suffered a similar defeat at the hands of the dark master.

Meanwhile, Homoth and Aim smashed at each other for the right to face the dark captain. Slowly, Homoth overcame the big man’s stalwart defense and took the fourth point—of which he had three.

But the victory was short lived. He turned to Komotz, as the younger brother shook his head. “He’s good—really good,” the younger brother admitted.

Homoth stared at Carringten. His approach was reserved, though he was still quite confident. “Looks like its down to you and me,” he grinned.

“Welcome, friend,” Carringten smiled as he stood his ground. “Let us see who has the better hands.” He allowed his opponent to make the first move.

Homoth proved to be fast and strong, but Carringten was up to the task. Having watched his matches against Andrus and Scurra, he was well aware of the older brother’s skill—and shortcomings. After a long assault, the dark man parried a thrust and took the point.

The two reset. Homoth was even more cautious—so Carringten did something he hadn’t done yet. He attacked. Homoth blocked several blows—though he quickly struggled against the captain. Carringten was strong, quick, and relentless as he pushed the younger man back—then took the point—and danced away almost before Homoth registered the touch.

The older brother openly gaped as the dark captain spun away. Carringten reset.

Dumbfounded, Homoth set himself. Carringten approached. Homoth tried to defend himself—but the dark captain was too fast and too controlled—and both of them knew it. He took the point after a half dozen passes.

Afterward, Homoth couldn’t believe he’d been defeated so easily. It’d been months—maybe a year since he was so roundly dominated!

“Oh but you didn’t know! You stand against the the Pride of Gaurring! Duke Creigal’s most noteworthy guard! Captain Carringten!”

A hush fell over the others as they stared at the dark captain. Although they’d seen him fight when they ran from the House of Leaves, they didn’t have the chance to witness his subtle mastery. For a long moment, they didn’t know what to make of his ability to pick apart the very best of them.

Carringten turned to the gaping audience of Jindleyaks. “We leave immediately!” he charged—which brought several questions to Creigal’s mind—since the duke quite liked the original plan.

Scurra had returned to see the Saots practice against her cousins. She cheered to hear this—but the Jindleyaks simply stared at the dark man—and ignored her altogether.

Duboha glanced at Creigal, wondering if the duke would also push for them to leave—but Creigal just shrugged. It was the bright of day and hard to remember the importance of dreams—not to mention how displeased he was with the turn his dreams had taken. How could he possibly forgive his boys after the pain they’d caused him?! Besides, he had found a distraction in the shape of a wyrm.

Realizing the duke did not care, and quite liking their original plan, Duboha shook his head. “That caveat was for Scurra alone,” he noted.

This broke the captain’s spell. The others chuckled and clapped Carringten on the back, to congratulate him on his inspiring victory, then promptly ignored his proclamation. They gathered their stuff and proceeded in all different directions, intent on resting.

Creigal chuckled as he approached his captain. “Not used to having your orders ignored, are ya?” he said, and wrapped an arm around his adopted son. “If they do not take her dreams seriously, then why should you or I?”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Darkness crept across the land. The hour came to leave. Elpis was laid in the back of the wagon with the ashes of Traust and Apulton—a thing he did not like. “I am not dead yet!” he complained. Still, he wore numerous bandages, had a pale countenance, and his one eye continued to beam at an awkward angle.

“Hush, you,” Aim chastised his injured cousin as he arranged the back of the wagon. “Are your old friends such bad company?” he asked as he patted the urns that held the ashes of Apulton and Traust.

“Let them motivate you,” Komotz interjected. “You must join us in health, or you will lay with them forever.”

Elpis spit to hear this. He felt better than he had in days—though he could barely sit up for more than an hour. At least the back of the wagon was spacious, and his cousins gave him a copious amount of padding. Yet, he used what little energy he had to complain.

Still, the others were happy to have him show such vigor, and continued to tease him good-naturedly.

All gathered and ready, Duboha, Aim, Komotz, and the Pan Iskaer waved them on as Saleos drove the wagon. Krumpus also sat on the wide wagon bench with Wenifas and Evereste. The others all rode their own horses—except for Claiten. He rode with Meu for a time, then rode with Baet when Meu became too interested in the duke’s company—and while the boy’s mother leaned on the shaman and took a nap. Baet let Claiten hold the reins, and taught him how to handle the horse in general. He also showed the boy several magic tricks he’d picked up in various corners, among other sneaks and rogues. In return, Claiten showed the Saot guard a few of his own tricks he’d learned among the urchins of his race.

Wenifas woke to see her boy with the guard. She frowned though she decided not to make a big deal of it. Instead, she turned the other way and found herself staring at the shaman.

Krumpus turned and smiled at the priestess.

Wenifas tried not to stare at the bald half of his head, or the burn scar that ran down his face and neck, only to disappear under his shirt. Instead, she took his withered hand and gently massaged it. “How are you?”

Krumpus sighed, smiled, and nodded as he stretched his wrinkled fingers. With his gaze, he claimed to be well on the road to recovery. He’d regained full mobility of his digits, although they were not nearly as strong as they once were. There was still work to be done, he conceded.

Wenifas realized he could now speak with just a glance. Only a few days ago, Meu had proved herself capable of the same trick—which was nice, since she longed to talk to the serpent, but dreaded the creature’s fangs. She did not even want her kiss, as it left the beast in her head for hours on end. Wenifas wondered if they’d discovered this new magic at the same time. Or did one of them teach it to the other?

Wenifas rubbed life into the shaman’s hands for several minutes, then Krumpus took the priestess by her hand and checked the recovering burn. “It’s feeling much better,” she nodded—and indeed it was. The sunburst scar barely stung at all anymore. The worst of her burn, the far edge of her palm and her pinkie, were no longer blistered but merely a tender rose color. The scar only bothered her when she did something extraneous. She figured a couple more days and she would have nothing but a patch of withered skin to remind her of Beletrain. “I never did thank you,” she smiled. “That beast would have murdered us and stolen both my children if you hadn’t intervened,” she blushed. “I am lucky to have such magical friends.”

The shaman smiled and poked her ribs. You are magic, he told her.

“Oh not me,” Wenifas countered.

Krumpus frowned and shook his head. He stared into her eyes and told her that, magic is only magic when one doesn’t know how it works. Magic is taught and learned, after which it is never called magic again.

The priestess considered this, “I’ve always been told I can’t understand magic. They say it is beyond those of us born to a mundane life.”

And who would tell you such lies? the shaman asked.

“Mostly the church fathers,” Wenifas admitted.

If they could not teach you, the shaman began, it is because they do not understand it themselves, he claimed. Admittedly, magic is not always explainable, as some only know it instinctively—or subconsciously—and if they are the only one that can do such a thing, who dare call it anything else?

“You are not winning the argument,” Wenifas smiled.

Do we argue? he replied. I thought we were simply mulling over the nature of magic.

“We were discussing those that hide and secret their magics,” she steered the conversation.

They must if they would hold power over others, Krumpus said. These things are rarely so complicated that many can’t understand them, given the opportunity.

“Then there are magics I can learn?” Wenifas pressed.

Krumpus nodded. There are only two things one needs to learn magic, patience and practice, but they are needed in abundance.

“And what magical practice allows you to heal?” the priestess replied.

I make a study of herbs, and I have attuned myself to the world of spirits, to those of nature and also those of my people, he told her. I also have a deep understanding of the elements. These are slow studies, but I am built for it. I’ve sat in fields of flowers for days, so they might feel comfortable with sharing their secrets.

Wenifas wondered at such a statement. “So you sit with them, and they tell you their secrets?!”

Some, Krumpus shrugged. They are not all so forthcoming—and some of them are outright liars—though perhaps I just met a few disagreeable individuals, he smiled. Indeed, it took me years to learn the secrets of foxbane! All said, it’s certainly been worth the time I’ve spent to sit and listen. And what of you? What is it you wish to learn? Do you wish to be a healer, or do you wish for magics of a different sort?

“I should just like to be happy,” Wenifas shrugged. “Is that sort of magic possible?”

Ahh, Krumpus nodded. A very difficult magic to master, he smiled. What does it mean to be happy?

“It is getting all that I need,” the priestess began. “And perhaps some of what I want.”

Krumpus nodded and smiled. I do believe that might make some of us happy, he replied.

“That is what I call a white magic,” Wenifas continued. “It is a noble sort of magic—the sort of thing you practice.”

You think I practice white magic? Krumpus shook his head. I do not think you and I use that term in the same way.

Wenifas frowned. “How would you define it?”

Easy, Krumpus began. White magic is the ever-living sacrifice of love and loss, never to hold, and always to want. White is the saintly abstinence of a perfect life, always giving, only ever taking the long view. Black magic is taking what you want, however you can get it. Black magic is selfish, cruel, and short-sighted.

“And that is why I would strive to be a white magician,” Wenifas nodded.

And who are we to deny our shadow? Krumpus replied. Is our path so easy that we should only ever give? He shook his head. When I pick a flower to make a poultice, do I not cut it short? Do I not end it’s life? Is this not an aspect of black magic? No. Our path is to walk the middle ground, to give and to take!

Wenifas frowned. “That is but a flower.”

To the flower it is everything, Krumpus shrugged. Still, it is good to take the long view—even when we can barely see our own hands in front of us. Yet, other times we will see the future stretching out for days, months, and years—and our nature will require us to drive the knife, to cut the cord, to break and mangle.

“You talk of wars and warriors?” Wenifas wondered.

I talk of life, the shaman replied. Our magic is multicolored, many faceted; balanced between the extremes of the blinding, burning light of god’s eternal throne—and the cold, damp, dark of the devil’s own abyss. We do not walk the earth with our eyes turned forever to the sun—just as we can’t live in darkness all the time. Instead, we suffer both the scorch of the sun and the chill of the moon. We dance in the soft sands of a fallen world with one foot in the water, and one on dry land. We wrap the pour miserly beasts of the earth with our ever-loving attention, that we might keep them from the wolves—then slit the throats of their succulent young, for the feeding of our own children. He smiled. Don’t you see? It is by honoring both the need and sacrifice of all around us that we sanctify this petty, cruel world, and transform it into haven!

“Hmmm… I suppose,” Wenifas considered. “But what does this have to do with being happy?”

Being happy means knowing that you will never have it all—but you will always have enough, he told her. You’d be surprised how little you need.

“I need to know there’s a purpose,” Wenifas said as she stared at the ground. “We are so fragile. Sometimes I think it is a broken heart that will kill me,” she admitted, then hanged her head, embarrassed. “How can I be happy with a broken heart?”

Krumpus smiled and lifted her chin with his hand. All must die so all might live, he told her.

“That’s not helping,” Wenifas frowned.

So you were happy once, and now are not, Krumpus noted. The things you had are gone, so now there is nothing but an empty void. He frowned. Don’t fret. Good things will come and fill your needs. But you must give it time.

“How long?”

Not until you can forget about it, the shaman shrugged.

Wenifas shook her head. “Your style of magic is impossible.”

It is not impossible. Indeed, it is quite simple—but it is not easy. Krumpus shook his head. Simple is rarely easy. If you think differently, try drawing a perfect circle.

“Then how do I find such a path, this straight and narrow that balances the right and the left?” Wenifas asked.

You go inward, Krumpus told her. It is the inner knowing that you must find. God speaks to you—through you—and also the devil. You must learn to distinguish between the two.

“So I will not succumb to the trickery and temptation of the devil?” Wenifas interjected.

No, the shaman shook his head. The devil must also be honored and drawn from his abyss. If you would remain strong, you must eat and honor your flesh. If your children shall grow, they must be fed. Thus, the devil will have his due. Then, once appeased, he must be married to the angel within, so he is willing to give up the excess. That is when you shall know how to give with the right and take with the left.

“Is the devil not the enemy?” Wenifas asked.

Of course! But the devil is necessary nonetheless, Krumpus told her. Without the devil’s chaos, the world would stagnate. It would become the choking order of the old guard in which nothing new could ever take root. It would suffocate innovation and eventually collapse under the weight of its own imperfection. That will not do! Instead, we must aspire to our highest good, while still honoring the dark material that we inhabit.

Wenifas huffed and shook her head. “I do not get it,” she stated, still confused. “Do I not want to be perfect so I might enter into heaven?”

But even as you are, you are perfectly imperfect! Krumpus told her. Is your god so limited that he cannot overlook your shortcomings? No. The true god is so good, he’d never consider barring your way! No! Only you can keep you out of haven!

“But this light and dark…?” she shook her head.

Consider your breathing, the shaman said. In order to breathe one does not only inhale. Instead, there is a rhythmic balance. We draw in all that we need—then expel the excess. It is give and take, a thousand times a day. Those that would have it all are akin to those that hold their breath, just as those that would deny all aspects of the flesh mean only to exhale. But neither of these can ever be the way of it, he shook his head. You must honor the impulse and appetites of your flesh—but you must do so in a high-minded manner, with love in your heart—for it is not what is done, but the manner in which it is done! He smiled. Then, having married the sun and the moon within yourself, you are perfect—or near enough—so that your immortality is obvious. He smiled. Don’t you see?! In that moment, how can you not know that the eternal universe loves you and will always take care of you?

“We are immortal?” Wenifas stared at the shaman.

Yes, Krumpus nodded, then shrugged. But even that does not satisfy—for some will always be blind. You see, our immortality is god’s blessing upon us—but it is also the devil’s curse—for even the wicked are immortal, only theirs is an eternal torment, for the wicked are never satisfied.

“You have given me much to think about,” Wenifas said, then was quiet, as she considered the strange and paradoxical words of the shaman.

For a while, neither spoke. When the shaman began again, he did not talk of such weighty things. Instead, he told her of the various plants and flowers they passed along their way; how this one preferred a nice mix of sun and shade, while another required dirt that drained quickly. He spoke of the numerous beneficial ways in which another plant might be used, and how yet another had very minimal applications and also required a heavy amount of refining. He spoke of some of the sillier concerns of the flowers, and continued to talk of such as the slow wagon followed the twists and turns of the road going east.

The sun crept toward its zenith, then slowly dropped to the horizon. Evening came and the party stopped. They met a local farmer and paid a few silver so they might set a camp in the corner of one of his fields, then partook of a quick dinner and bedded down for the night, quite sure that no one had followed. Night came on, and those that did not watch, slept.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

“Bunch of blasted idiots, marching on the road for all the world to see…”

Grunther complained of the main body of Ministrian shocktroopers and Degorouth militiamen that followed the duke and his entourage. A troop, some three hundred strong, watched and waited for the duke to leave his protected inn—then, as the duke slipped away, and they attempted to follow—they were confronted by a thousand men from the local militias and sent back to Ebertin.

“Serves them right for being so obvious,” the Jaded Blade muttered.

Not all were turned aside. Meriona and her four conspirators managed to sneak passed the local militias—which surprised the Jay. They were sneakier than she imagined.

Still, she had a low opinion of her four companions. Their faces were grim and troubling. They could barely manage a civil word whenever they spoke. They smelled of the streets, drank continuously, and had little interest in anything—except the money they’d make by killing the duke. In the scant places where they had hair, it was deviled into knots. On top of it all, they tended to leer at her when they thought she would not notice. She could not wait for this mission to be over, simply so she could be rid of their foul company.

Yet, they had slipped the net set by those militias that were friendly to the duke—and now they trailed the duke’s party down the long slow country road, bogged with local farmers and traveling merchants. Meriona told the Jaded Blades to smile and nod at those that passed—but then she saw the awkward and resentful way in which they did this—and also their troubled teeth. She rescinded her command and told them to go back to ignoring the locals as they pleased.

Night came and the small band of miscreants camped a mile or so back from their quarry. Once the horses were tethered and their blankets laid out, an argument began. “Light a fire!” Meriona demanded. “I am cold, and I will have a warm supper! If you will not do it, don’t think I won’t!”

“There will be no fire,” Grunther contradicted her. “If we should light a fire, they’ll know that we’re out here.”

The senior Jay stared at the man, flabbergasted. “It’s open country!” she countered. “You can see a dozen other fires burning all about us! One more light among these others cannot matter!”

“And what if someone shall come to join us?” Todehis asked.

“We are simply eating and being comfortable—and this is what we shall tell anyone that confronts us,” Meriona said. “We do not need to let it burn for long! It is a simple dinner fire—not a beacon! As the night deepens, we will let it run out, then we will meld with the darkness.”

“We will not do it,” Grunther shook his head. “It is too dangerous.”

“Do you truly think the duke believes himself safe?! That there can be no further trouble?!” Meriona stared among the Jaded Blades. “Such men as him do not trust their own homes—much less the wilds of a foreign country! Indeed, it is quite likely his careful sentries have noted our camp! If that is so, won’t they find it more suspicious if we don’t light a fire?!” She glared, then began to gather rocks in a circle. “We light a fire, and we enjoy it! If anyone comes to join us, I will talk, and I will talk fast! Keep your tongues and I shall be rid of them! Then, in the night, you can do what you mean to do.”

“We scout them,” Naiphan nodded. “And if we find an opening,” he stared at Meriona for several long seconds before he dragged a finger across his throat. The other Jaded Blades grinned, chuckled, and nodded in anticipation. After that, they gave up the argument and let Meriona have her fire.

Late in the night, Oblarra rose high and lit the world with an angry red hue. No clouds obscured the sky as Grunther, Todehis, Naiphan, and Bruck crept up on the duke’s camp. Although they crept close, they noticed several men watching, and did not dare enter among the tents. Instead, they conferred in hushed whispers as they lay among the tall grasses. “The duke is old,” Grunther pointed at the second guard. “Think that might be him?”

“We should have brought the witch,” Todehis said.

“The witch?” Naiphan replied.

“The court witch,” Todeihis replied. “What would you call her?”

“Her Civil Greatness, the Jay Meriona,” Naiphan shrugged.

Bruck chuckled under his breath. “Yeah, like any of us are calling her that!”

“At least she knows what the duke looks like,” Todehis continued.

“The old man isn’t the duke,” Naiphan scoffed. “Do you really think some hoity-toity muckety-muck is gonna take guard duty with his hired swords? Some uppity-up, out in the dark, instead of asleep in his comfortable tent?!” he shook his head. “He has men to watch. He will not be out in the middle of the night.”

Grunther frowned. He thought if he snuck another twenty feet or so, he might throw a knife and stick the man—but if it wasn’t the duke, well—killing an old guard would make the job darn near impossible! Instead, they waited for the guard to flag. But the old man and several Trohls kept a rotating guard, until they were replaced by equally wary and vigilant men.

Sunlight began to creep over the wide valley. As the camp began to wake, the four Jaded Blades returned to their tents, exhausted and none the wiser—only it wasn’t just Meriona that waited for them. A dozen Trohl militia surrounded their camp.

“You are caught,” one of the smaller militia men stated. “Lay down your arms, and you may yet live—”

Grunther pulled a blade and lunged at the man. In order to keep his life, the speaker flung himself back and toppled off his horse. Shouts of alarm and a general melee ensued.

As the sun climbed out of the mountains in the east, Elpis called to Saleos, “Slow ‘er down, old man! We got a tail!”

Saleos looked over his shoulder to see a tight knot of riders approaching, armed men, with Aim, Komotz, and Duboha at the front. “What are they doing?” he asked with a look of chagrin. “Does Duboha have his arm in a sling?!”

“They return with a handful of Pan Iskaer,” Elpis noted. “And what looks like a half dozen prisoners.” Indeed, their friends and the Pan Iskaer surrounded four others, three men and a woman, with their hands all tied. A fifth prisoner was slumped over his saddle. Elpis pointed at the body as he looked in two separate directions, “What happened to him?”

“That one took a swing at Duboha, so Squirrel stuck him with his spear and let out too much of his blood,” Aim explained.

“Didn’t mean to kill ‘im,” Squirrel shrugged. “Just meant to suck the fight out of 'im.”

“And how’d you come across this lot in the first place?” Saleos asked.

“Well, we blocked the main troop on the edge of town and gathered about a dozen others that tried to sneak past,” Aim explained. “Then we got word of this suspicious lot that had somehow slipped our net. So we followed them all yesterday, then spied on them through the night,” Aim said. “At sunrise, we confronted them in their camp—and that’s when the leaker got frisky, pulled a blade, and took a swipe at Duboha. Duboha dodged by throwing himself off his own horse.”

Several of the Pan Iskaer chuckled to remember it.

“He cut my shirt!” Duboha complained. “He would of stuck me deep if I didn’t dive!”

Aim shrugged. “Nobody said you did the wrong thing.”

The others were gathered around, and Cregial gave a light bow to the lady. “Meriona,” he smiled. “You’re keeping colorful company these days. I presume you are still under orders from Lord Commander Gliedian?”

Meriona stiffened up. “I’m just looking for a good view,” she countered.

Aim snorted. “They took a peek at your camp last night. We spied on them as they spied on you—though they still won’t admit it. We were standing right behind them—heard every word they said—and they still won’t admit it.”

“A beast like you, sneaking about in the dark?!” Meriona scoffed.

“I’m sneakier than I look,” he told her, as his friends grinned and nodded. “I was sneaky enough to catch you.”

“Well, we’re only a couple days from the border,” Saleos stated. “I say we take them to Excergie for a bit of Jindleyak justice.“

Homoth clapped Aim on the back. “Does this mean you’re coming to Hearthstone after all?” he smiled.

“I’ve come this far,” Aim shrugged. “If I don’t go home and give my mother a kiss, my father might not ever let me back.”

Carringten turned toward Squirrel and the other Pan Iskaer. “What of you? Are you coming with us?”

“Not us,” Squirrel answered. “Our mothers sleep back that way,” he said as he turned his horse and waved goodbye.

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