The Crows Cometh

Polished 14.1 — 7m25s — 2023/12/25

Polished everything! — 44m56s — 2023/12/26

When I was young and I first began in my travels, it was impossible to believe that sky kraken could be real. None of my family had ever seen one. Friends and neighbors were skeptical at best. But in time, I would find ample evidence for such beasts.

I was in my forties and serving with the Baron Merric when I should first encounter any real proof of the creatures. We were stopped on the road to Hyber Pass and told of a small town that was attacked by such a beast. It would only add a day or two to our travels, and so we allowed ourselves to be sidetracked. We arrived a week after the beast, but evidence of its passing was glaring. The town was in shambles. Stone houses, towers, and churches that took months, years, even decades to complete were little more than rubble. The sheer magnitude of the destruction was most unbelievable!

Even without such physical evidence, it would have been impossible to ignore the testimony of almost a thousand souls that lived in that country. The locals all told the same story, and often with a preacher’s zeal. They all gave the same description of a squid-like beast that sat atop the darkest cloud they’d ever seen and picked peasants from the daily goings, to be dragged bodily into a great maw. From there, the minutiae varied, and often quite drastically—but despite the argument, they all agreed the creature dimmed the very sun as it flew overhead and wreaked havoc upon their lives.

After my visit in this ruined town, I was convinced of the existence of sky kraken—but as the years passed, I began to doubt that I should ever see one. Indeed, decades later, I have yet to witness one as it flies through the sky—but I did get to see the corpse of one that was killed by the great men of Brahlam!

I was about another task when word reached me that Brahlam had been attacked by a cloud kraken. More unbelievable than that, I was told that the armies of Brahlam had somehow managed to kill the beast?! Among all the tales I have heard of cloud kraken over the years, I had never heard of anyone actually defeating such a beast! How could I pass up an opportunity to see such proof?! Especially since I was living just a short week away.

As I made for Brahlam, a stream of people traveling from the great town confirmed the story, and said that the victory had cost them their homes, and quite often the lives of their loved ones. Indeed, the damage and mayhem inflicted was incredible and stretched for miles!

And then we should see the beast!

The stench of the corpse was unbearable! I had to wrap my nose and mouth with cloth and apply fragrant oils under my nostrils. It was hard to approach! Necessarily, it was an abandoned stretch of town where the beast laid at its final rest.

Still, an approach was well worth the discomfort! To see the beast, even flat and lifeless, was an incredible sight! To think of what the beast must have been when it was still alive, with tendrils as thick as tree trunks that might stretch for half a mile! The body of the beast languished across an entire city block, it’s head the size of a proper church, with a maw that could fit a carriage and eight! The beast was an absolute monstrosity, even in death; defeated and deflated. Some tendrils of the corpse had been removed so certain parts of the town might recover, but a large part of the creature’s carcass—including at least a dozen tendrils and its massive head—was left to rot and serve as witness to the magnificent battle. The area was quite ruined in the attack, and many survivors had necessarily moved to the fringes of Brahlam—or out of town altogether—yet, I was not the only one studying the remains of the great beast!

But that was long ago. Unfortunately, it has been decades since the beast was defeated, and I am told that the remains of the beast require a good bit of imagination to uncover. Hills have grown over the corpse; trees, grass, and moss. Now it is a park named Leviathan—as the Tallians would call such beasts—and it is quite near the heart of the town of Brahlam.

— Elder Races of the World: Considerations, Arguments, and Refutations, by Aogostua Veribos, p. 657

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 14.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

“To arms! TO ARMS!” The voice of the duke carried through the tent and caught in Baet’s ear. He snapped awake, threw off his blankets, and snatched up his weapons; then skittered to his feet and wondered that it was becoming a habit to fight in his skivvies. He peeled back the folds of the tent and found himself staring at the dark form of Carringten.

Carringten’s drenched face was etched with determination. “See to the prisoners!” he snapped, then turned and rushed away.

Taking a second, Baet grabbed for his pants, especially since it was pouring outside. He braced himself for the cold, threw open the tent, and ran into the pouring rain. He turned from the sounds of fighting and headed for their Ministrian prisoners. He lifted the flap of the dark tent and entered, sword first. "Stay where you are,” he said as he entered. “You will be spared.”

Meriona believed him and relaxed visibly. She expected a certain civility from the Saot guards. She knew them to be men of their word, as they’d traveled together from Camp Calderhal to Ebertin.

Still, it was scant reassurance to Baet. As far as he could tell, honor only went one way between them. He had it from Toar, who had it from Celesi, that the Jay meant to betray them all in Ebertin. She meant to see them hanged—despite their rescue—so he knew that this one may be pretty, but she was a snake.

And what kind of treatment would he receive from the Jaded Blades if the tables were turned? They were after the duke, and as someone that stood in the way, Baet was just another victim.

As Baet contemplated the nature of his prisoners, a loud boom sounded. Sure as day, Cloud Breaker was just fired! Baet swore under his breath and wondered how the priestess got her hands on shot and powder—and also how she managed to load it—when he also heard her cry. Did she scream her boy’s name?!

More surprising than the boom of Cloud Breaker was the sound of a second musket—though it sounded a good deal different from his own—tinny and cheap. He flinched as he recognized the hated noise of a Pemberton GremSorter, a sound he’d only heard on very rare occasions. He clenched his teeth and hoped the sound came from whoever was attacking. But no. Celesi added her scream to the priestess. Their wails of anguish piercing the heavy drum of the downpour and the sharp ring of steel on steel.

As if all that wasn’t enough, Scurra started screaming. "Run! Run, you bloody fools!” she yelled. “Death comes for us all!"

What the hell was going on out there?! Baet wondered, unable to ignore the madness any more. He turned from his charges and peeked from the tent—barely able to see anything for all the water falling from the sky.

Yet, thanks to incessant lightning, he could see birds at the far end of the lake. They flickered and reappeared in the gloom, growing as they approached. Behind the increasingly massive birds came the darkest pit of a storm Baet had ever seen! Then he realized the dots before the storm weren’t birds at all. “Dragons,” he whispered—and behind them something even worse!

Baet’s heart dropped into his stomach. He knew what he saw—he’d seen a cloud kraken before! He’d seen such a beast years ago, near Rottershelm, as he was headed out to the country. He’d given the description with a wild-eyed fervor to his superiors—only to be ignored. Admittedly, it was a freak occurance, one that was never to be repeated in his lifetime—or so he thought! Still, there was a major difference between the two times he’d seen such a beast. Last time the cloud kraken had passed several miles off, little more than a dark splotch moving above a distant town—while this malevolent mass was headed straight for him!

“Balls!” Baet swore as the dragons rushed passed with wings thirty, forty, fifty feet across! The flying reptiles dipped low, perhaps hoping to distract the cloud kraken with a handful of humans, mixing it up with their naga neighbors. The great beasts shrieked, and one of them bit the head off a naga, while another took a swipe at Aim.

Due to the insanity outside, Baet was distracted, and the Jaded Blades took the opportunity and jumped on the Saot guard. They wrestled for a short second, before Bruck and Naiphan pinned Baet to the ground. Todehis took his sword.

Meriona didn’t help because she also saw what happened outside the tent. She screamed as she witnessed the mayhem rushing straight for them, then jumped on the back of Todehis as she tried to get past him.

“Who’s side are you on anyway?!” the armed man snarled, and flung the Jay aside. With a twisted grin of spoiled teeth, the Jaded Blade lifted Baet’s sword.

Baet was sure of his death—but before the Jaded Blade could bring the sword to bare the tent collapsed on top of them. A tendril of the cloud kraken crushed down upon them, then folded Todehis among the canvas, and yanked him into the air.

Already dead, Todehis dropped the sword. Baet grabbed it and managed to get a bit of distance between himself and the remaining prisoners, then turned and gaped at the terror overhead.

With an earth-shaking shriek, the cloud kraken chased after the dragons, toward the east and south, and took the worst of the storm with it.

As quick as the beast had appeared, it was gone and the mayhem was over. The rain lightened up immediately. Baet held his sword as he stared in open astonishment at the remaining prisoners: Meriona, Bruck, and Naiphan—as they sprawled upon the grass and wondered at the strangeness of what they had all just witnessed.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 14.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!

Homoth laid in his tent, fast asleep, as sunrise crept upon them. A sharp pain caught in his side. He lashed out at the foot that struck him, grabbed the ankle, then pushed upon the shin until his attacker fell backward.

“Save it!” Komotz roared as he sat defenseless before his brother. “We're under attack!”

Homoth blinked in the dark tent, just able to see the outline of Komotz, as a shaky Elpis gathered his axe (it’d been recovered by the Pan Iskaer) and pressed from the tent into the raging storm.

With a frown, Homoth shook off his deep sleep, threw aside his blankets, and yanked on a pair of pants, then his boots. He grabbed his long handled mallet and pressed from the tent as an explosion unlike anything he'd ever heard boomed from the direction of the lake.

He turned to see Wenifas on the crest of the low ridge. “CLAITENNN!” she screamed bloody murder, as a musket smoked in her hand.

Homoth rushed from the tent as Celesi made the top of the hill with Toar right behind her. Celesi stopped and reached into her cloak as Toar stepped next to her. She pulled a musket from under her coat, aimed, and pulled the trigger—but the musket was not as she expected. It was cheap in design and exploded out the side—as Toar ran passed her. The tiny puff of smoke caught the native guide. He jerked his head and dove into the grass. Celesi screamed and dropped to his side.

With a curse on his lips, Homoth bolted up the small rise, as his brother disappeared over it, sword held high.

“Run! Run, you bloody fools!” Scurra yelled. “DEATH COMES FOR US ALL!"

Homoth stepped to the crest of the small rise and took in the mayhem all around him. A melee stretched over the beach. Men and naga fought as their mingling blood cast the nearby waters of the lake in a red hue.

Homoth ignored the naga as they fought his friends—because a bigger threat was descending upon them. Over the lake, a flight of dragons was fast approaching—and they’d adjusted course!

Several dragons took swipes at the humans and naga, as they rushed on. Homoth knocked a talon away and threatened one that looked like it might take a swipe at Celesi. The dragons raced on—followed by a sizzling mass of aggression and vitriol like nothing Homoth had ever seen!

The great beast was directly over them, shrouded in a cloud that bristled with electricity! A roar like nothing Homoth had ever heard shook the ground.

Tendrils came down among the bodies on the beach. One swept the crest, knocked Homoth sideways, and wrapped itself around the tree where Scurra was nested. With a pop, the tree ripped from the ground, as Scurra jumped and rolled in the dirt. The tree arched into the sky, was tossed aside, then splashed into the lake some fifty yards out.

Homoth rolled to his knees and got to his feet once more, as a tentacle smashed nearby and caught hold of his brother. Komotz screamed as he was crushed and lifted into the air—but the beast was interrupted. Duboha and Elpis were upon the tendril immediately, stabbing and smashing. Carringten was quick to follow, and even Homoth got in several strikes before the tendril recoiled and pulled away. The fury of their combined attack caused the leviathan to drop his little brother—but not before it did its damage. The limp form of Komotz flopped to the ground.

Across the field, the tip of another tendril wrapped about the leg of Saleos. His eyes bulged as he shrieked, and shot skyward. "IIEIEYEYEIiieyeiye..yi..ey..e.i...e....!" His scream faded as the tentacle whipped him into the roiling mass of cloud and blended with the sounds of the storm.

Tears ran from Homoth's eyes and mixed with rain as he watched his old friend disappear. Glazed with shock and horror, he stared at the heart of the battlefield, where a one-eyed naga fought a winged serpent—the serpent from the alley! One last tendril wrapped about the two and snapped the dueling pair off the beach.

And then the leviathan was beyond them. It continued to focus on the dragons before it—mere dots now, nearly imperceptible—as they raced away. There was no doubt in the warrior’s mind that if the beast had stayed, they would all be dead. He stared after the impossible beast as it crawled across the sky and took the worst of the storm with it.

Stunned by what he'd witnessed, Homoth took several halting steps until he arrived at the prone form of his brother. Komotz was a bloody mess. One of his legs was twisted at a sickening angle. Homoth dropped to his knees, stunned that the world could be so cruel. Then he caught sight of Baet, as the Saot cowered among the prisoners—as far from battle as anyone could be—and his sadness turned to a raging hatred like none he’d ever known before.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 14.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Malcolm realized Crea was going south, with or without him, so he grabbed his heavy bag and ran after her. He still planned to carry his post to Land’s End and heaped his hope upon the flimsy promise that he’d find others willing to go with him. For now, he’d take a detour and pray to Abr that this was the right decision.

Besides, he didn’t want to be alone.

Malcolm and Crea stuck to the game trails that ran through the forest. She felt they were less likely to be discovered among the thick of the trees, and she seemed to know the area well enough, so Malcolm was happy to follow. “How do you know these trails?” Malcolm asked with a grateful heart.

“Game trails are everywhere,” Crea glanced back at him. “We are going south, so we follow the game trails that go south.” She shook her head. “You’ve always lived in the city?”

“I don’t remember my early years, but yeah,” Malcolm answered and thought it was nice of her to ask.

Aside from that, Crea didn’t say much. Not that her silence bothered him. Malcolm preferred not to speak, knowing there were enemies about. He preferred to simply follow and glance at her goodness from time to time. After a while, he barely saw the bruises. Instead, he just saw a lady, quite attractive, and just a few years older.

As they walked, they passed a number of farmsteads. It was worrisome each time they came across a burned out house—though just as many seemed to be whole and occupied. They always passed at a distance, whether the farm was burnt out or not.

A few times they were spotted. Farmhands watched them; pitchforks, axes, and shovels held aloft—but these people weren’t interested in chasing a couple harmless skulkers through the forest. Crea and Malcolm carried on.

Occasionally, they’d see distant pillars of smoke drifting into the sky. Only a few were on their path. They gave these fires a wide berth. Several times, they heard and saw riders thundering down a nearby road. They looked like marauders. They hid from these—and thankfully they never had to hide for long. Malcolm surmised they were raiders striking out from the occupied city of Solveny—though they tended to ride off in any direction.

Crea and Malcolm walked most the day and took few breaks. They eventually made camp as the sun settled deep among the pines. They squeezed their blankets between a few large trees, and skipped the pleasure of a fire, since they both felt there were too many eyes about.

Although the night was calm, Malcolm found himself waking several times. Each time, he grabbed his sword and listened for anything amiss.

There was nothing. Just the dark.

Slowly, he settled back down, and listen to the strange cacophony of insects, accompanied by the rhythmic pulse of Crea’s breathing.

Sometime approaching dawn, Crea let out a gasp and woke Malcolm. She slapped at the base of her blankets, then grabbed for her fancy sword.

Malcolm held his own weapon, stared off into the darkness, and tried to make out any danger. “What is it?” he asked, as she stared intently into the trees.

“Just a raccoon?” Crea huffed, “or maybe a possum,” she shrugged. “Damned critter near spooked the crap out of me!”

With a huff, Malcolm fell back on his blankets—but after that he couldn’t sleep. Thankfully, it was nearly light, and he wasn’t up long before it was time to consider breaking camp and getting back on the trail.

Still, Crea slept. After a time, Malcolm grew tired of waiting and touched her shoulder, “Crea…”

She flinched away, but got up all the same.

It was a long, and fairly uneventful day. They dodged a couple more fires, hid as troops rode this way or that, and generally crawled among the trees. As the sun was going down, Malcolm knew they were getting close, because Crea was increasingly nervous. At the base of a slow and steady hill, that grew to maybe fifty feet, Crea’s jitters got the better of her. She broke out into a run.

Malcolm ran after her and finally caught her as she paused on the summit. “No… no… NO!” She began to cry, then dropped to her knees, tears suddenly streaming from her eyes.

Below them was the burned out shell of a house, a ruined barn, and a shed that was reduced to splinters. Malcolm felt his heart sink as he realized this must be her family home. “I’m so sorry,” he said, and placed a comforting hand on her back.

“Don’t!” Crea snapped as she pushed him away—yet her fingers caught the cloth of his shirt and held him at arms length. She stared at him as her face flushed red, “You must go look! You must,” she searched his eyes. “What if someone has survived?!”

She began to shake, then hanged her head, and tried to stifle her tears.

“I can’t,” she shook her head as she continued. “I can’t see them dead,” she hanged her head. “Please…”

Well aware of the danger—yet excited to be her hero—Malcolm turned to the charred remains of the house. There was no smoke. Likely, this had all happened yesterday. Chances were that only the dead were about. Determined, he gripped his sword and leaned close to Crea. “I’ll signal if there’s anything for you to see,” he said as he took off his pack.

With a nod, she dropped her blankets and food.

Malcolm followed the tree line as he slowly stalked toward the burned out buildings. For a moment he wanted to tell Crea that if he should die, she should take the post to Land’s End—but then he thought that she’d consider him dumb, since the dead are not bound to earthly oaths. How could she know that the Silver Service was the closest thing he had to a family?

“Hello?” Malcolm called into the house as he crept at the edges of the ruin, sword held high. “If there’s anyone home, know that I’m a friend,” he whispered—then thought that was dumb since anyone in the building was just as likely to be a marauder. He held his sword up, ready to stab anything that came at him.

Thanks to the copious holes in the roof, there was plenty of light in the ruined house. Not that there was much to see. Everything was thrown about, burned, and buried in ash.

Malcolm stumbled among the ribs of the house. Hs foot caught and he tripped into the hall. He jumped and pressed himself against the charred remains of a wall, as he wondered what had nearly pulled him down, then realized that he’d inadvertently discovered an ash-covered corpse. Heart thumping, he half-expected the murderers to come rushing out of the ruins and spell his doom.

But there was no one. There was nothing. There was just the drifting of disturbed ash.

Eventually, Malcolm moved again. He continued his search and found a second corpse in a back room. Other than that, there was little to see in the house. Anything of value was either stolen or heavily charred—if not completely consumed.

He turned to the other buildings. There was a large man stabbed and bled out between the house and the barn. In the barn, Malcolm found two more dead, both hanged and burned. He returned to Crea, shaking his head.

“Did you find them?”

“We should go.”

“How many?” she insisted.

“There ain’t no one alive,” Malcolm replied.

“How many!?” Crea practically shrieked.

“Altogether?” he glared. “Five.”

“Five?!” She repeated, her eyes boring into him. “You swear?!”

“I know how to count!” he snapped back. “I’m a man of the post!”

A glimmer of hope caught in the Crea’s eyes. She turned to the house, gathered the hem of her dress, and marched on with grim determination. “There’s still two out there…”

“Wait!” Malcolm ran after her. “You can’t unsee this!”

“Dauren!” Crea cried when she came across the body of her younger brother in the field. She broke down and sobbed and shook uncontrollably as she touched his hands and face. “Oh, my baby brother!”

“We should go,” Malcolm said again. “This place reeks.”

She turned to Malcolm and grabbed his hand. “My sister is missing!”

“But—” Malcolm began to protest.

“MY SISTER!” Crea roared.

With a nod, Malcolm stepped toward the house. He crept through the ruins once more with a particular eye for any places to hide. As he did this, Crea stood in the field—and to Malcolm’s horror—she began to yell. “Serrabela!” she called. “Serrraabbelllaa!”

Malcolm didn’t like the yelling. He thought it might attract the marauders—but only the crows answered Crea’s call.

For a time, Malcolm searched, until nature got the better of him. He glanced in the privy as he prepared to relieve himself—and was horrified to see a young lady floating face down among the waste—her dress covered in bloody splotches. He stumbled from the outhouse, relieved himself behind the barn, then stepped through the field. Bothered and pale, he laid a hand on Crea’s shoulder. She jumped away from him and grabbed at the pommel of her falchion. Malcolm shied away as he shook his head. “We should go.”

“You found her?!” Crea gasped. “Where?!”

Malcolm shuddered, shook his head, and stepped past her.

“Serra—!” Crea shrieked her sister’s name, then collapsed to her knees, and bawled. “SERRABELA!”

Not wanting to be among the dead any longer, Malcolm returned to the crest of the hill where they’d left their gear. Exhausted, he leaned against his supplies and turned away from the burned out farm, as Crea still knelt in the field. With a heavy sigh, he closed his eyes and tried his damnedest to relax.

How long was he out?

Malcolm heard the stamp of her feet as Crea approached. “Get up,” she said as she kicked his foot. “Let’s go.”

Malcolm stood and gathered his gear, then paused and turned back to the farmstead. “Do you think we should bury them?” he asked.

Crea shook her head. “Their spirits are gone. Let the bodies feed the birds,” she said as she began away from the house. “Come, there is a storm approaching, and I would be far from this place before it breaks.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 14.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

The sun peaked through the broken clouds and laid bare the atrocities of the battle. Bloodied, Creigal stood over the only naga that had not died or escaped. The wounded beast was too injured to run. Creigal figured if he watched and waited, it was likely the beast would bleed out before his eyes. He thought to offer it bandages, but he did not even have a shirt.

Duboha approached and hissed as he realized the creature was still alive. He moved to strike it—but Creigal blocked his way and shook his head. “The fight is over. We have won,” the duke noted. “We shall spare it—unless it wishes to join its fallen brothers.”

Duboha turned to the beast. “Live or die?” he asked in Trohl.

“Live,” Maligno said, curious that he should be given the option. He imagined that they might simply watch him die anyway.

Duboha turned to the duke and shrugged. “What’s another prisoner?”

Carringten approached. “Your bleeding,” the captain noted.

“Play with blades and your bound to get cut,” Creigal shrugged. “Gimme your shirt, that I can make bandages for this creature.”

Carringten set Bence’s short sword aside, then began to rip his shirt into long ribbons. He glanced into the sky. “I didn’t think I’d ever see a cloud kraken,” he noted. “Indeed, I didn’t think they existed.”

“I had doubts myself,” Creigal agreed. “How are the others?”

Carringten shook his head. “A damned awful mess,” he confessed. “Saleos is gone. The younger brother is alive—barely. If he makes it through the day, it’ll be a miracle—but then, that’s the shaman’s business.”

“What of the wyrm?” Creigal asked.

Carringten stared at the duke. “You mean, besides the dragons, the naga, and the cloud kraken; there was also a wyrm?”

Criegal ignored the question as he glanced about the battlefield. “Where’s Meu?”

Carringten shook his head. “If the old one was wise, she stayed in her tent.”

“Old?” Creigal replied, then forgot about it as he returned to the business at hand, the bandaging of the injured naga.

“The boy is dead,” Carringten said in a low tone.

“Claiten?” Criegal turned and stared at Wenifas as she cradled the corpse of her son. He shook his head. “What of that one?” the duke asked, as he noticed Andrus at the edge of the water.

“He had a mallet dropped on his chest,” Carringten said. “His arm is broke, and he’s sore as hell, but he should be right as rain given a few days rest.”

Near the crest of the rise Baet attended Toar, as Celesi bothered him halfway to hysterics. “What happened to our ambassador?” Creigal asked.

Carringten went to investigate. Baet frowned and handed a twisted bit of metal to the captain. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Instead, he brushed Celesi out of his hair with a disdainful look and a sharp word, as he turned back to Toar. Carringten returned to the duke. Creigal hissed as he saw the ruined musket in his captain’s hand. “A Pemberton GremSorter!” He stared at his captain in disbelief. ”Where’d they get that?!”

Carringten shook his head. “I didn’t care to ask.”

“To think those things are still out in the world.”

“Doing their job—discouraging others from adopting black powder,” Carringten noted as he inspected the broken weapon. “You can see the powder blew out the side and must have caught our worthy guide in the face,” the captain stated. “He’s alive, though the right half of his face is a mess. I fear he might lose the eye.”

Creigal frowned. “She’s lucky it only blew out the side of the gun, and didn’t explode back on her, the way it was designed.”

“Must not have had a full pack of powder—which means it wasn’t Baet that showed them how to use it,” Carringten noted.

Creigal stared at his captain. “Do you think he would?”

“Not in the least,” Carringten replied. “As far as I can tell, he’s quite attached to our young ambassador.”

“What a nasty bit of devilry,” Creigal said. “I can see how these GremSorters have been so persuasive, but I can’t say I’m proud of my father for commissioning their creation in the first place.”

“Is it so sinister to sell faulty weapons to your enemies?” Carringten asked. “Still, it’s never good when the old demons return to haunt those that created them. Shall I rid us of the evidence?”

Creigal gave a nod. “Ask among the others. See that they don’t have any more of these faulty weapons. Tell them what they are. I prefer that our friends not suffer such weapons ever again.”

“Then I shall show them before I get rid of it,” Carringten nodded. With a sigh, he turned and looked over the wasted beach with a frown. Meanwhile, the prisoners looked on, stunned by the sudden and strange violence they’d witnessed.

“Who watches the prisoners?” Creigal wondered.

“Elpis has an eye on ‘em, though I can’t tell which,” a grim smile spread across Carringten’s face. “A tendril came down on their tent—which is why we’re short another one. The camp in general is a bit of a mess. The good news is that most of the horses are unhurt, though a few managed to get loose. I only hope we have enough.“

“Well, there are less of us to ride, so…” Creigal began with a morbid shrug. “What a ruinous day,” he continued, as he stared about those still gathered.

“And what has happened to the sister that warned us? What has happened to her brother?” Carringten asked.

Creigal could not answer. He gave a shrug and turned his attention back to the captured naga.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 14.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Sore and injured, Scurra limped through the woods at the edge of the lake and searched among the undergrowth. She berated herself for allowing the others to set camp at the edge of the lake—yet she’d given them all the warning she could! Instead, she focused on her task and looked for any of the plants or mushrooms her brother had taught her over the years. He’d shown her a hundred different plants, and each seemed to have a dozen different applications, though she could only remember a fraction of them. She searched for the ones she liked the most and wondered how many plants she’d stepped over that could have done exactly what she needed—if only she knew it.

At least her brother knew—but he was shrunken and bedraggled, still heavily effected by the darkness of his dreams. Ever so slowly, he hobbled through the woods, and poked about the undergrowth, looking as bad as ever. Scurra wondered, did he see what she saw? Was the dark dream worse for him, or was it simply the same as it’d always been? He certainly seemed more affected, but then he’d never suffered the soul-crushing darkness of her worst nightmare.

Indeed, when was the last time Krumpus had suffered one of his own spells? Did they ever occur anymore? As he grew up, they seemed to be constant. Yet, his dreams were always light and easy on the other side. This side is where he struggled. He flopped and foamed, and looked like he was about to die; eyes bugged, his body wracked, and his breath coming in short sharp gasps. The spells were why his tongue was so mangled, and why he refused to talk.

She asked him about it once, why did he suffer twice? It was bad enough to suffer nightmares, and yet, he also seized. But he never suffered dark dreams. While his body tortured itself, his spirit danced with angels. Then he asked if she wished to trade, with his twisted tongue and thick language. She shuddered to think of the harm he’d inflicted upon himself, of all the draughts of strange awful brew he drank, the pungent poultices used to wrap his face. Was it not better to suffer on the other side, that at least she might maintain her superficial beauty?

Scurra shook her head. All too often, she stepped into her dreams and found herself unable to do anything to change their outcome. She seemed fated to know the darkest moments of her life long before she should ever encounter them—though she had to admit it was not all of her darkest moments. Why were there no dreams of her worthless husband and the beatings he gave her? Was it because such a thing was all too avoidable if only she had an inkling of his true character? At least he only lasted a few years, before he sloughed off to the gods know where.

With her thoughts caught in the past, Scurra chanced upon a colony of numb root. She took several stocks and thanked the plant for showing itself to her in their hour of need. She showed her brother, and he smiled. A moment later, he found sugar petal, which among other things would keep a wound from getting infected. He thanked the delicate flower and took nearly half of what he found, as there were a lot of cuts among his friends. With these two medicines in hand, the siblings decided it was time to return to the others and treat them as they could.

Komotz was given a double dose of numb root. Poor Komotz. Scurra did not like the look of him, though her brother was optimistic—as he set the youngster’s bones—but there was little else he could do until they arrived in Excergie and could get some more exotic medicines. The Oak and Beast had many friends and a fine house at the far edge of the border town. If all went well, they’d reach the town by the end of the day. At that point, everything would be all right.

Andrus took a healthy dose of numb root, and the duke took half a dose for his numerous, though superficial, cuts. Creigal marveled at the numb root as Wenifas stitched the worst of his cuts with meticulous attention. She too wondered at the numb root's power as she pulled thread through the duke’s skin in a neat fashion—as if she were mending a favorite dress. “You do not feel it at all?” she asked.

“I feel it,” Creigal corrected. “I feel the needle puncture and pull my skin—there is simply no pain to it. There is no sharpness, only a dull tug.”

“I think I should like a piece of that root,” Wenifas noted.

Scurra shook her head. “It does not affect the emotions, my dear. It works only on the nerves.”

Wenifas paused her stitching and wiped her tears.

“If you should like, I can finish,” Scurra said, as she reached for the needle and thread.

“And what shall I do?” Wenifas pulled away. “Evereste sleeps. I much prefer to busy my hands,” she said through her tears.

With a nod, Scurra turned and went to look after Toar. The barrel of the GremSorter fragmented and blew shrapnel into the right side of the Bouge’s face. A couple dozen shards required removal. The largest was the size of a half bit, while the smallest fragments were barely the size of a pin’s head. Baet was slow and meticulous as he proceeded to pull shrapnel from the guide’s face, though Celesi begged him to hurry. The worst was a sliver of metal that was caught at the bottom of Toar’s right eye. Celesi begged him to leave it.

“It has to come out,” Baet assured her. “The longer you leave it in, the more likely it is to get jammed in further, or jostled, which will also cause more damage—now, shush!” he snapped. He took a solid minute to build up the courage, then plucked the tiny sliver, which brought a hiss from Toar. Under the direction of Scurra, and despite his reservations, Baet wiped a thin layer of sugar petal across the burnt half of Toar’s face, then covered it with a bit of cloth ripped from the hem of Celesi’s dress.

The last to be attended was the naga, with his numerous injuries. He took numb root as his cuts were stitched, then closed his eyes and ignored his captors while they rubbed sugar petal over his wounds.

While the injured were attended, Carringten rounded up the horses and set several to the wagon. Andrus, Komotz, Toar, and Maligno were placed in the wagon with the remains of Traust, Apulton, and the small shrouded body of Claiten. It was a crowded affair, one that Andrus immediately opposed. “I don’t want to ride with that snake!” he hissed as he stared at the injured naga.

“Do you think you could sit up for the next several hours?” Duboha asked. “Besides, we need you to watch and see that the naga does nothing to Komotz or Toar,” he told the man, then gave him a long dagger. The naga simply ignored them and laid to one side, its breathing labored.

A somber mood hung over the party as they finally departed. Baet was the last to leave the beach. He kicked about the detritus left from the fight and noticed Claiten’s knife. With a sour face, he picked the blade from the sand and tucked it under his belt.

As they rode, Creigal felt more and more nauseous. Twice he stopped his horse and purged violently. He looked to Scurra and Krumpus to see if he should be worried.

Scurra shrugged. “It is normal to purge after taking numb root. Although it is easy on the nerves, it is hard on the digestion,” she explained. “Do not worry. It is rarely fatal.”

“Rarely?” Creigal frowned. Although he was sick several times on their way to Excergie—and with a mighty force—the duke did not die.

Wenifas sat up front of the cart with Evereste in her lap. Several miles before the pass, she turned to Elpis and noticed that tears streamed freely down his face. For a time she pretended not to see it; then, with tears of her own, she adjusted Evereste in her lap, pulled close, and wrapped an arm around the sad Jindleyak.

As Wenifas settled against him, Elpis leaned into her and confessed his emotions. "It is poor of me that, despite our losses, I think only of the Lady Yandira?"

Wenifas shook her head. She held Elpis for a long time as she thought of her own lost lover. Derris seemed so long ago and so very distant, even though it was—what? Just over a month since the last time she saw him? It felt like forever as the same sharp emotions welled up in her once more. Still, it was good to think of him and not Claiten. But then she did think of the boy, and the tears came in unrelenting waves. She buried her face in the Jindleyak’s shoulder, then his lap, and as the tears finally subsided and exhaustion took over, she fell asleep.

So it was that the party entered Jindleyak lands. Despite the somber mood, everyone was pleased when Toar woke—except Toar. He was not pleased, as the numb root given to Komotz had proved too much. Like the duke, Komotz had also spilled his guts, only without all the pomp and circumstance of Creigal's pyrotechnics. Andrus and Malgno both missed the incident since the mess did not touch them—but poor Toar was soaked with the younger brother’s sick, and quite upset about it.

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