A Settling of Debts and A Parting of Ways

Polished — 1h16m01s — 2023/11/5

Polished — 1h00m47s — 2023/12/29

Baet anticipated slow days with little responsibility among the Jindleyak. The duke was as safe as he’d been in years—probably safer—so when Carringten told them they were staying a week or two, the guard expected a long leash and plenty of time for leisure.

Baet didn’t do much the first few days. He wandered among the fields and watched the locals toil. At times, he would find a secluded spot, take out his weapons, and go through the motions. He hiked the ridges and stared after the city, curious what he might see there, but didn’t bother to go just yet. He was a little weary of travel. He visited the baths often—but the highlight of his days was when he sat for breakfast, or supper, and had an opportunity to make eyes at Paye.

For her own part, Paye was playing coy. On the few occasions Baet did have the chance to talk with her, she claimed to be busy, having to visit with friends, or see after some chore. So Baet waited, sure that she would talk to him eventually.

After dinner on the third day, Baet was strolling the gardens, thinking of Paye when Carringten arrived and interrupted his tranquility. “Baetolamew,” his captain said in a serious voice.

Baet turned and stood at attention. His gut told him there’d been a dramatic shift in the winds. “Sir, what is it?”

“Your presence is required,” Carringten ordered.

Baet frowned. He didn’t like the captain’s tone. With a gulp, he gave a nod, and motioned for Carringten to lead the way—thinking that surprises requiring one’s own eyes could rarely be good.

The junior guard followed his captain to a large banquet hall. There were a number of frowning natives, shuffling about, and avoiding eye contact.

Not the duke. He was staring.

“Is it the naga?” Baet asked, hoping that the creature had somehow got loose and caused havoc. With luck, he only needed to clear up some formality, and all this fidgeting was for a trouble that belonged to someone else. He stepped further into the room and blanched as the issue became apparent.

With a deep frown on his grizzled face, Azra held the ornamental crest that Paye had pried off the wall of the house in Excergie, trimmed with several pounds of precious metals, and a good deal of pricey jewels—and at the old man’s feet was Baet’s open pack.

All eyes were on the Saot guard as he realized what was being insinuated. “Now wait a minute!” Baet began. “Why should I take such a thing?! What would I want with that?!”

“What with all this gold and silver?” Azra replied.

“Mostly silver,” Baet noted. “But that is quite beside the point!”

“The point is, the crest was found in your bag,” Creigal stared. “And why would it be in your bag?”

Standing next to her grandfather, Paye stared back at Baet. Her face was red and it was apparent she’d been crying. She gave him a pleading look, then turned on Homoth and screamed at him. “You did this!” she accused, then ran from the room as she covered her face.

Baet turned and glared at Homoth. “This is your doing?!” He challenged and took a step toward the youth.

Carringten grabbed Baet and held him back.

“So this is how you repay us?!” Homoth jumped from his seat and stood to his full height. “We bring you out of Ebertin, to the safety of our own homes, and despite our kindness, you seek to rob us?! You’re worse than the Ministrians—and you should be kicked off our land all the same!”

Baet turned to Creigal and began to plead his case. “You have to believe me, I would never do such a thing! This rogue frames me!”

Creigal shook his head and stared at the floor.

“No,” Baet continued to deny the charges. He turned and locked eyes with Azra. ”This is not my doing.”

“Can you tell me why it was in your bag?” Azra asked.

Baet pointed at Homoth. “I’m betting he can!”

With a snort, the older brother said something that sounded rather insulting.

Baet was livid—especially since he could think of several other crimes he’d actually committed over the years for which no one had ever confronted him—including himself. He swung at Homoth, then grabbed the big brother and tumbled him into a low cabinet. Criminy, the kid was strong!

Neither one of the combatants was able to do any real damage before they were separated—but as they were pulled apart, Homoth slapped Baet and yelled, “I shall prove your folly with your death!”

Baet couldn’t believe his ears. He turned to Homoth. “Did you just challenge me?!” he replied, shocked that the young rogue might do such a thing. At one time, the Saot guard had considered the young man to be his friend. Yet, Homoth had set him up—over cards and a handful of silver—and now he was expecting a duel?!

With a nod, Homoth stared back and seethed.

Baet’s eyes narrowed. “It’s your funeral,” he answered. He’d faced death before and had yet to flinch. He stared back at the large youth as a fire raged in his stomach. It didn’t matter how well Homoth fought through the streets of Ebertin, or that he’d bloodied Baet when it was supposed to be a restrained and gentlemanly contest. Duels were not fought hot. They were cold and calculating, and Baet knew he would win just as soon as the question of weapons was raised.

Azra turned to Creigal and shook his head. “I ask that we be allowed to detain your man until this matter can be resolved.”

For a long second, Creigal turned and stared at Baet. Eventually, he turned back to Azra and gave a nod.

Carringten stripped Baet of his weapons. While the others watched. Homoth started to say something, but Azra snapped at him, and the youth stood quiet.

“I didn’t do this,” Baet said—though he didn’t resist.

“Trust that we will get to the bottom of this,” Carringten assured him.

After that, Carringten and a half dozen armed Jindleyaks escorted Baet through the house; including Aim, and Duboha. They traveled through numerous twisting halls, down a couple flights of stairs, and several confining tunnels. Eventually, he and his escort arrived at a large room with a series of cells; one of which held the naga, Maligno.

Thoroughly turned around and despondent, Baet was placed in his own cell. Without a fuss, he sat on the cot and ignored the chuckles of the serpent.

“I will come to you when there is something to tell,” Carringten stated. He gave the junior guard a salute, then turned and left.

“We will try to talk Homoth out of a duel,” Duboha stated, while Aim nodded. “Whether or not you are guilty, that old crest is not worth a man’s blood.” they followed Carringten out.

At least they weren’t all against him. Baet turned and glanced about the room. For a second, he locked eyes with Maligno, but the snake only glared back if he bothered to pay him any mind at all.

An hour passed. Then another.

The door creaked open, and two unknown cousins stepped into the room, each with a plate. “What?!” Baet huffed when given his. “I get a sorry lump of bread and some weak broth—yet you bring the naga fresh fried fish?!” he complained. “You treat me worse than the beast!”

The jailers frowned, turned, and walked out without a word. The cooks obviously sympathized with Homoth.

Of late, Baet was well fed, so he ignored the crusty lump and tepid broth. Instead, he paced the small cell. He exercised about the little room and wondered at his situation. Questions returned. Why was Paye so upset? Could she not set the record straight? How long would it be before Creigal could see him freed? Would Homoth really insist on a duel? Could the boy be that dumb?!

Baet wondered how long he might be in this pickle before Creigal could clear his name. That’s what he expected. He felt it fair that the duke should handle this mess for him. It was all a misunderstanding anyway, and the duke owed him a fair bit for all the guarding.

What would it cost the duke to free his man? Baet thought about ransoms and how much he’d seen put on the price of a head—even an innocent one. What if he was expected to repay a ransom? His eyes got wide as he realized he might not have the money for that little cabin by the sea after all. Then, for a time, Baet wondered if the duke might not be convinced of his guard’s innocence. His throat grew tight, and he thought that maybe the duke believed the charges against him. Wouldn’t that be a fine bit of misplaced justice!

Baet paused as he realized his fate rested somewhere between the good word of Paye and the want of Creigal’s negotiation. He expected either one should be sufficient, if properly applied, yet wondered if he would get either. He calculated that Creigal was likely to help him out, especially since he saved his life in Wibbeley—and hoped with all his longing heart that Paye would speak with a silver tongue propelled by truth—but a nagging pit of fear told him he was going to have to kill a boy for this folly.

Minutes crawled by, slowly adding to the growing hours. The shadows from the single small window were getting long when the door to the jail creaked open. A plate appeared around the corner and Baet wondered that they should bring him another meal so soon. Then he noticed the smell: roasted beef and vegetables, fresh fruit and delicate cakes—and that wasn’t even the best part! The best part was that the plate was carried by the beautiful Paye!

Paye put on a strong front. She smiled despite her puffy red eyes, as she slowly entered with the heaping plate in front of her. She carried the food as if it were an apology.

At least she wasn’t openly against him, hostile for the sake of her vile countryman!

Or was she? After all, he barely knew her. Was this all some elaborate front? Some diabolic ruse? Did she help set the trap? Would she try to talk him into taking the fall? Now that he considered it, he realized she could easily be in league with Homoth.

As Paye approached with the warm plate, Baet stared into her eyes, and his heart melted. How could he not trust those pearly blues, cursed with tears? No. He had to believe that she was genuine. Her face was soaked with suffering—as a pathetic attempt at a smile tried to break through.

“Thank you,” Baet accepted the bountiful plate. “So did you tell them?” he began in a low tone. “Did you admit that it was you that took the precious curiosity?”

“I did,” Paye said, though she shook her head, “Even so, my grandfather is convinced of your villainy.”

“But you were there!” Baet said. “How can he discount you?”

“I’m not well trusted among my family,” Paye admitted.

“Why is that?” Baet blinked. “What’d you do?”

“Maybe a decade ago, I stole a ring from my aunt. I had it for years, until two springs ago, when she found out, and tried to take it back,” Paye admitted. “I didn’t want to lose it, so I beat her for her the effort.”

“What…?” Baet croaked, horrified by the story.

“The ring belonged to my mom. She wore it often and I loved it. When she died, it was given to my aunt. I was terribly jealous—so one day I stole it. I hid it for years before I got impetuous. Then, on occasion, I’d wear it—even before the family,” Paye explained. “Well, someone noticed, and it was brought to my aunt’s attention that I had my mother’s ring. She confronted me. At first she tried to reason with me, that I might give it to her. When that failed, she tried to take it by force; but she’s never given much thought to fighting, so in the ensuing scuffle I bloodied her something good.”

“Oh…” Shocked as he was, Baet couldn’t think of anything else to add.

“Beside, Komotz also swore to your villainy,” Paye stated.

“But that’s absurd!” Baet huffed. “He’s been stuck in bed since the leviathan!”

“He spoke of you as a swindle and a coward,” Paye shook her head. “Andrus also gave his word against you, and they’ve convinced several of their other cousins that you are not to be trusted. I fear they want your blood,” she whispered with wide eyes.

“Balls,” Baet cursed. Paye offered little hope of avoiding the duel, but he was convinced that she was on his side, and in his book that counted for a lot. He looked her in the eyes. “You do me great favor. You let me know that you tried.”

“I was duped,” Paye shrugged. “Homoth was very kind to me in Excergie, and the letter he wrote said he wanted the ornament so he could shine it and show it to our grandfather. I was convinced he’d forgiven me for what I did to his favorite aunt.”

“There’s a letter?!” Baet said, hanging his hope on such evidence.

“There was a letter,” Paye shrugged. “I went to get it from my room, to prove my case, but it was not there. I think Homoth must have stolen it. It is quite likely destroyed. My brother is not the type to keep incriminating evidence.”

Baet blinked. “Did you just say that Homoth is your brother?”

Paye nodded. “And I fear he will kill you. He is a very good fighter.”

“But I shall choose the weapon,” Baet pointed. “And I shall choose the musket. He cannot beat me with a pistol.”

Paye stared at the man with a blend of fascination and terror etched around her worried eyes. “You wouldn’t!” she glared.

“And why wouldn’t I?” Baet replied. “He demands a duel—so I will kill him! I don’t want to kill him—but it sure beats dying!”

“But he is my brother!” Paye snapped.

“Tell him to drop the charge,” Baet stared at the lady. “Ain’t nobody gotta die—but that’s on him—not me. I’m not demanding satisfaction!”

Paye glared at the man. She shook the bars of the cell door. “Don’t you dare kill my brother!” she raged. “Don’t you dare!”

Baet shook his head. “It’s justice! Homoth has framed us both, and hubris has led him to commit a great folly! Now, before the gods, he has threatened to prove a thing that cannot be proved, for I am not guilty, just as you are not guilty! Indeed, he has wronged you too!”

“I WON’T HAVE IT!” she screamed.

There was a long silence before the Saot finally replied. “And what would you have me do?!” Baet whispered as he leaned between the bars. “Would you have me die in his stead?”

Paye stared at the man, her face twisted and pained. A tear ran from her eye. Slowly, she shook her head.

As heated as he was, and staring at such a beautiful and passionate woman, Baet couldn’t help himself. He wrapped his hands around her head, and planted his lips against hers before she could deny him. Engrossed with the silky fineness of her lips, Baet slowly pulled away. Did she feel it too? With a dreamy fog filling his head, Baet stared longingly into the lady’s eyes.

Paye stared back at the man, shocked and intrigued. Her eyes narrowed. Her hand slipped between the bars, flew up, and slapped the man for his impetuousness—then, before he could get out of her reach—she grabbed him, pulled him against the bars, and kissed him back.

Baet could taste the salt from her tears. He longed to kiss her until she was happy—as their hands grabbed at each other and stretched the fabric of their clothes—but after a minute of such desperate touching, Paye turned and ran from the room, weeping once more.

“Wait!” Baet called after her—but she did not return. With a heavy sigh, he stared about the cell, then sloughed down to the floor. “Balls,” he cursed and wondered at his impossible predicament.

A couple cells over, the naga chuckled as he gnawed at the bones of his fish.

“Oh shut up!” Baet glared. “You do nothing but rot, you sniveling baby-eater!”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 19.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

An hour after dark, Roustich returned from Hearthstone with a man that claimed to have seen Humbert. Aim and Duboha also joined as their sour old cousin ushered the stranger into a sitting room where Creigal repeated the question. “I’m told you’ve seen the thief?”

The stranger was dressed in simple clothes, though they were neat and clean. “I’m convinced of it,” he nodded. “We spoke at length, as we shared a meal of mutton and mead. He was quite free with his coin, so I was free with my appetite and company.”

“When was this?” Creigal asked.

“More than a month ago, less than two,” the simpleton calculated. “This Humbert looked and smelled as if he’d traveled long and hard. His threads were soiled. It was obvious he’d spent several nights on the side of the road. Indeed, he reeked so much, it might of put me off my mutton—if it hadn’t been free.”

“And what convinces you that you spoke with this thief?” Creigal continued.

“Well, he said nothing of thievery,” the man shrugged. “But he certainly seemed the troublesome sort. Indeed, it doesn’t surprise me that one such as yourself comes looking for him. I can say that I was happy to see him leave—especially when he told me he was looking for the Dreadlord Lasitus.”

“Lasitus,” Creigal leaned back. “Now that is a name I had not expected to hear. And you say he was looking for this Lasitus?”

“The one and only!” the stranger began, then thought about his statement and waxed a touch philosophical. “Or should I say that I hope he is the one and only. Could the world handle two of such a calamitous being?”

Creigal leaned forward. “What can you tell me of this Lasitus?”

“Just the rumors that every man knows,” the stranger shrugged. “Tales of a thousand crimes most vile and reprehensible.”

“Lasitus was a long time ago,” Roustich noted. “If he was ever real, he certainly isn’t anymore.”

The commoner turned on Roustich, shaking his head. “Lasitus caused the blight! He is not some superstition!” he turned to Creigal. “Your thief was convinced he is still alive!”

“Lasitus came north over two hundred years ago,” Roustich countered. “How could he possibly still be alive?”

“Ahh…” Creigal cut in. “Lasitus was said to be a hundred and seventy-three when he stole the King’s Nnak Stone and rode north with a regimen of the King’s army hot on his heels,” he explained. “Indeed, it is said that he looked not a day over fifty—and save for maybe a dozen men, the regimen that pursued him was completely destroyed.”

“One hundred and seventy-three?!” Aim frowned. “How can anyone live so long?!”

“There are ways if one is well versed in the dark arts,” Creigal answered. “But you say he settled in the wilds? He did not settle in one of your cities or towns?”

“He settled in a small village, ringed by high mountains,” Roustich replied. “Now, there is nothing in the blight. There is no one. It is death to enter—even now—whether or not this Dreadlord survives.”

Duboha leaned toward the duke. “Do you really think this Lasitus might still be alive?”

Creigal shrugged. “I have met some that have lived so long—though most are in little condition to do much of anything without their entourage of sycophants—and it takes a gross amount of blood magick, which requires a gross amount of blood. How Lasitus could continue without at least a good sized village to prey upon is beyond me.”

“This thief of yours spoke most convincingly of Lasitus,” the stranger said, a wildness catching in the corner of his eyes. “Not that I need convincing! I’m from the north, a Melmor, and our people have long heard whispers of the Dreadlord’s cruelty,” he shook his head.

“Power and cruelty,” Cregial shrugged. “The two often go hand in hand.”

The lackadaisical air with which the duke spoke of such darkness disturbed the stranger. Bright red and bothered, he took a step forward and pointed at Creigal. “It would serve you well not to piss on the devil!” he snapped. “Lasitus is very much alive and still a danger to anyone that dares approach the blight!”

In response to this stranger’s aggressive air, Carringten stepped in front of the duke and glared down at the man—though the stranger was taller by half a hand. The stranger realized the danger of being so forward with the duke and shrunk away from the menacing dark man.

Creigal raised an arm to appease the good simpleton, “I may despise evil, but I am not dumb enough to be caught mocking it,” he answered. “Tell me more of this blight.”

“Few go in to the blight because fewer ever return,” the commoner said. “Those that do manage to come back are all too often chased by the worst kinds of abominations. Mudmen, mandingo, the muttering mistwalker….”

“Well, despite all that, if Humbert goes to find Lasitus, and we go to find Humbert, it seems we must seek out this Dreadlord and at the very least try to treat with him,” Creigal stated. “Will you guide us?” he said to the stranger. “We will pay you handsomely.”

The stranger blanched and shook head. “Sir, I’ve never been in the blight. I once saw it from afar, and I shudder to remember even that! Indeed, if you had all the gold in the south, I would still not venture into that pit!”

“Leave him be,” Roustich said to the duke. “He is not wrong to fear the blight. But there are others, others that have been. I know a few—though I know none that profess to seeing this Lasitus.”

Creigal nodded and stood from his chair. “Thank you, good sir,” he said, and shook the man’s hand. Carringten gave him a gold sovereign and escorted the stranger from the room.

“I shall find some of my friends, that they may tell us more of the blight,” Roustich said, then turned and left. Duboha and Aim followed after him.

“So we know where Humbert goes after all,” Carringten said to his duke.

Creigal gave a nod and stared out the window with a finger on his chin. “It appears so,” he said. “What do you think? Should Lasitus worry us? He certainly has a fine new title.”

“We’ve faced evil men before, including our King and his cadre of wizards,” Carringten shrugged. “Still, there is always the threat of danger, even if this Lasitus is just some backwater mystic,” he noted.

“The king has few good wizards, especially since Lasitus managed to spoil so many of their grimoires,” Creigal rubbed his growing beard and continued to stare out the window.

“You suddenly seem uncertain,” Carringten stepped toward his liege. “Does this Dreadlord bother you? Are you reconsidering?”

Creigal turned to his captain and stared him in the eye. For a long second he did not answer. “I think I shall have a word with the shaman,” he said with a nod, then turned and stepped from the room.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 19.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Krumpus wasn’t hard to find. He was watching as several men loaded crates into a wagon. The crates were full of foxbane. Although another shipment had already gone north with instructions on how to use the flower, Krumpus meant to return to Melmorahn with ample supplies—just in case the distress still raged.

Creigal approached and realized the shaman had developed a bit of a limp. “Are you okay?” He asked, and pointed to his leg.

Krumpus shrugged and gave a nod. He lifted the leg of his pants and showed a bloody imprint of a small set of teeth. Children, he stared the word at the duke, then rolled his eyes while a proud grin gripped his face.

Creigal smirked. “You know, for a healer you certainly seem to get hurt a lot,” he said—then realized he’d never really thought of the man as a healer. He mostly thought of him as a mystic that predicted the fall of the meteor. A possibility struck him. “It was you that healed me, back at the camp,” he realized. “It was you that got me over the rot.”

Krumpus smiled and gave the slightest nod. And how have my ministrations treated you? he asked. Are you well?

“I am, thank you,” Creigal smiled, suddenly certain this strange man would indeed have the answers he sought. “Can we have a minute?” he asked as a nervousness, an apprehension, tightened his chest. That was something unusual. The duke was not one to get nervous around others.

With a nod, Krumpus led the duke away.

“I am reticent to tell you,” Creigal began. “For I know that no one will ever be able to tell me just what I should do for the sake of myself. When it is a matter of policy, when it comes to governance, then I might give my decision to an advisor who is better suited to make a judgement—but when it comes to personal matters,” the duke shook his head. “This is that sort of question. This is not concerning my people. This is not about my title. This is just about me.”

Well, let us assume that whatever is best for you is also best for your people, Krumpus postulated. In that way, maybe I can still help.

“One cannot do well for the world if one does not take care of himself,” Creigal agreed. “Yet I am at an impasse,” he continued. “I have a choice to make. I wonder if I should go north and pursue this thief, a pursuit that has already cost me far too much—and yet I am willing to sacrifice so much more—or do I return home? Do I return to a war that’s been raging in secret for decades, a war that is escalating, that shall soon be on the streets? Do I go home to give grand speeches and rally the public, now that there will be open fighting?”

Krumpus stared into Creigal’s eyes and shook his head. These are not all the reasons you would go one way or another. These are simply the justifications you would give to others. You shroud your true motivations so that others cannot use your desires against you.

Creigal considered the shaman’s words, and with a nod, he admitted their truth. “I have no interest in going to war,” he confessed. “Just as it is not justice that drives me north. It is little more than the memory of my daughter that spurs me on. If I should catch the thief, it will change little in the greater world. All I shall have is a locket—and perhaps a touch of inner peace, knowing that I honored her memory. And if I go south, it is not to fight the war. It is because there is a lady in my life. If I go south, it might be my home once more. If I go south, it will be for love—and who am I to deny love?” he wondered.

Well, they would not call it a decision if the course was already decided, Krumpus smiled. Perhaps add this to your considerations: I have business in Melmorahn. I go north no matter what you do. If you should like to join me—well—it would not surprise me if we found good men willing to see you into the blight. There are many that wish to destroy the evil that lives there.

And if you go south, the shaman continued, you now have friends that can help you in your war, for we can provide you with intelligence of what occurs in Trohl lands. Indeed, we have friends and family from Ebertin to Gramgoar, from Land’s End to Melmorahn.

“Yes I have talked with your uncle, and he has already promised to help with a rather significant matter,” Creigal nodded. “So what is it that you think I should do? Should I go north with a single-minded determination to recover my daughter’s trinket and bring a crook to justice; or should I go south and open my life up to all the toil, triumph, and torture that love and war entail?”

And why do you not consider what you shall do after you go north? Krumpus wondered. After you catch this thief, what shall you do? Shall you stay in the north?

“I would return home,” Creigal blinked.

Then why not do both?

“I dunno,” Creigal admitted. “I’ve paid much to get this far, but something tells me there is more I must give. If I am willing, I suspect I may not want—or even be able—to return home when all is said and done,” he answered.

Then I expect that there must be a good reason for that, Krumpus noted. Very well. Going north means staying north, and going south means staying south—though I suppose you could go hunting for Humbert after the war ends. It is not as if he shall cease to exist just because you no longer pursue him.

“If I should live another fifty years, I dunno that I should see the end of the war,” Creigal shrugged.

Krumpus stared into the duke’s eyes, then slowly smiled. I think you should sit. You should sit open to the question. Sit, and let the answer rise out of you. Then, once the answer arises, it will bolster you so much so that nothing but death itself will be able to drive you from your path. There will be no doubts, no second guessing. There will only be one way forward.

Creigal considered his words, then gave a nod, for he thought they were wise. “Well then, I will let you know,” the duke said. “As soon as I know, you know.”

Then I will wait, Krumpus smiled. Besides, you do not strike me as the type to vacillate and dawdle. I expect I shall not have to wait long. Even if it should take a week, there is still plenty for me to do here. There are many games for me to play with my daughters. Indeed, what could be more important than that? He smiled; and with that, the shaman turned and walked away, intent on seeing to his preparations.

Creigal turned. He stepped through the gardens and thought nothing of his question. Instead, he simply took in the beauty of the scenery, the finery of Azra’s estate, and the business of his people. He considered their industry and the way the fields lay.

The sun began to set.

Creigal joined the others for dinner; and though he sat next to Meu, he offered her no promises and divulged no considerations. When they talked, they said nothing of the future, nothing of what would come tomorrow, but spoke only of the food and their concerns for the others. He smiled at her, and drank in her beauty. Indeed, he even went to bed with her and held her through the night. But that night—as he lay with the skin-walker and considered the fine home they might yet make together—he slept. And as he slept, he dreamed of his daughter. There, in the shifting phantasmagoria of his inner world, Daphne begged him to continue—so when he woke, he knew his path was set.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 19.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Knowing that he would go north, Creigal sat down and wrote several letters. The first was addressed to the Dunkels of Land’s End. The letter said that Gaurring played no part in the sacking of Solveny—and insinuated that the Dunkels already knew this. He also stated that any Gaur among the invading army was acting against his interests. They were traitors to be captured and punished according to their crimes. He added that Gaurring would broke no interference in her own affairs, and that any retaliation against the duchy would be seen as an act of war. He made a copy of this letter and addressed it to Yurand, so that the count of High Plains might also have the duke’s words—though he offered further considerations to the count, since the duke considered him to be a good and just man. He offered assistance in small but meaningful ways. Then he wrote to Varius and his other councilmen, that they may have his instructions going forward. After that, he set down several quick notes to advisors and relatives, then began a final letter that was addressed to the Gaurring public. Upon receipt, Varius was to read it and disseminate its words throughout the duchy with all possible haste.

With this correspondence written, Creigal needed a courier. He felt that ideally he’d be able to send Baet, and in this way he could be done with the man—but Homoth was downright hostile when asked to drop the issue. Indeed, Creigal was puzzled by the young man’s vehemence, and even tried to explain that the Saot was a seasoned and cunning fighter. He was not among the duke’s personal guard for his good looks and charm. Why would anyone risk their lives against a man such as Baet, a man that loved to dance with chance? Still, Homoth persisted and would not even hear the end of the duke’s argument, so Criegal had to consider someone else to run his messages.

Creigal didn’t even consider sending Carringten—not that his adopted son would agree to go anyway—and so he’d have to hire from among the native population. Reluctantly, he spread word through Duboha—and was surprised when Andrus volunteered. “I’ll go,” the young cousin said. “The weather turns, and winter isn't far behind. I've never had much love of the snow.”

Creigal frowned since he felt the answer was flippant and made light of the dangers. “I doubt your mission should take that long,” he answered. “And if it should, well, there is snow in Gaurring when it grows cold.”

“Shall there be as much?” Andrus replied with a grin. “Besides, who doesn't long to see the ocean?”

“Your duties would not oblige you to go all the way to the ocean,” the duke shook his head. "And the journey is not without its dangers. If the wrong people catch you carrying my letters, it’ll be your death, and it will spoil a number of my secrets.”

“Then I shall not get caught,” Andrus replied. He stared back at the duke, his manner suddenly serious. “Nothing in this world is without risk, and when taking risks it is best to focus on the aspects that bring joy to the adventure.”

Still unconvinced, Creigal shook his head. “Your Saot is not the strongest,” he noted.

“Well, I shall have ample time to study,” Andrus noted. “Besides, I shall have little to say until I reach Gaurring Heart.”

Creigal smiled, as he was beginning to enjoy the young man’s banter. He liked Andrus, although he felt the youth was a touch impetuous. Maybe if he was away from his cousins, Homoth and Komotz… He turned to Duboha, to see if the second had any objections.

“I was teaching him to be a sneak in Ebertin,” Duboha noted. “He might be a touch green, but he took his lessons well and has learned a good deal. Indeed, he was to go west with Scurra, before they got caught.”

“You’ve taken my debt to Traust as your own,” Creigal said to Duboha. “It is your money that I entrust to him.”

The second nodded. “He’ll be fine, as long as he keeps his head down and his eyes up.”

“Alright then,” the duke said, then turned to Andrus, that he might give him a bit more instruction. “We shall have you stay clear of Gaurring Heart. Even at the best of times, it is crawling with spies—and only about half of them are mine. Instead, you will go to Bastion's Crossing—but it is not really the duchy that worries me. Once you are in Gaurring, I have people and systems in place. I think it will be easy for you to find my loyal men and avoid my enemies. No. I'm more concerned with the Noeth, with Land's End, and the delivery of the letter to the Dunkels. It must be done with great care.”

“Once I am in town, shall I take on a costume and hire a post runner to see it delivered?” Andrus asked.

Creigal smiled, happy to hear such quick thinking from the man. Yet he shook his head. “I’d prefer the letter appear as a mystery to the Dunkels—and within their personal quarters—if it can be managed. I’d like them to think that I can get closer than they find comfortable, and I cannot ask you to do such a dangerous thing. It would be suicide for you. Instead, I ask that you deliver it to a spy of mine. Tahoran is his name. He’s a careful and cunning man that’s been in that city for years. He shall see that the letter is delivered. He is also the man to see the letter delivered to Yurand,” Creigal explained. “How soon can you leave?”

“Well, there are a few things I’d like to square away before such a long journey,” Andrus shrugged. “Give me three days, and on the fourth, I shall leave at dawn, so long as you don’t mind me going through Hearthstone.”

Creigal nodded. “I have no money of my own. I shall give you a letter for the price of your employ. Of course, you are also agreeing to bring back the coin that I borrowed from Duboha, and more that I have now borrowed from Azra.”

“How long do you think this shall take me?” Andrus asked.

“If you move with care—and I expect you to—I suppose it shall take a couple of months,” Cregial answered. “Money matters such as these are best completed the first time, so do not rush.”

“Speaking of danger, I fear I cannot do all this for less than two sovereign,” Andrus replied. “One for the way there, and one for the way back.”

Creigal smiled. “If It was only your time—but your very person will be at risk,” he replied. “I shall pay you three for the trip down, and I shall pay you three more for your return. After all, your charge is not finished until the money I owe Azra and Duboha is delivered.”

Andrus smiled, gave a nod, and shook the duke’s hand. Six sovereign! What a sum! he thought. “If it is okay with you, and if it is okay with my grandfather, I would like to go all the way south to the ocean.”

“It’ll take you weeks out of your way,” Creigal replied—then gave a shrug. “Yet, my letters will be delivered and my money given to your people,” he noted. “If there is objection, it will be from Duboha and Azra. It is their ascent you should seek.”

Duboha gave a shrug. “I am not opposed. After all, it is the ocean, and I imagine it is quite a thing to see,” he smiled. “Now you just have to get Azra to agree.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 19.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Celesi was minding her own business—which is to say that she was sulking—when Andrus found her somewhere among the verdant growth of Azra’s gardens. “Oh, leave me alone!” she snapped, too wrapped up in her own disappointment to hear the young man’s news.

Andrus glared, and Celesi figured he was mad at her—not that it bothered her. After all, she was rather mad at the world and didn’t mind a fight.

“What happened to you?!” Andrus asked. “Did Toar finally tell you off?!”

Celesi glared back at him, embarrassed, as tears filled her eyes.

For a long second, Andrus stared at her, then figured he was right. “Where is he?” the Jindleyak glanced around. “If he hurt you, I’ll snap his fingers!”

“What?! No! Leave him be!” Celesi shook her head. “If you have something to say for yourself, have it out, but if you came to bother me about my other friends, it is best you go!”

Andrus stood straight and stiff. “I carry mail for the duke. I go south, and it shall be months before I return. I wanted to see you before I left,” he confessed. “I wanted to see you, and…” he paused.

Celesi wondered why Toar couldn’t stare at her in such a manner—but then she knew why. Still, she didn’t want this attention. There was nothing special about Andrus. He was the least talented of the Jindleyak, and always staring! He was almost as bad as the tea-drinker—so very thirsty! “What makes you think I’m not okay?” she snipped.

“The only one sulking more than you is Toar,” Andrus stated. “Everyone knows something must have happened between you two.”

“And do you also check on him?” Celesi asked. “But no! You have lusting eyes, like the Saot guard that rots in his jail! If you aren’t careful, you’ll end up like him!”

Andrus felt that was unfair. Why would she compare him to the tea-drinker?! He protested with a sorry sigh.

For a long second, Celesi stared at the young man, and her unprovoked quips made her feel sorry for him. “Well, I do appreciate you checking up on me,” she admitted. “But I promise I am quite alright. I am free, among friends, and well fed. So what if Toar should go north! So what if I shall never see him again?”

“What makes you think you shall never see him again?” Andrus asked.

“And even if I should…?” she shrugged and kicked dirt. “Or perhaps it is simply that I do not want to see him again,” she said—although she could barely speak the words—they tasted so bitter. With a gulp, she changed the subject. “What of you?” She asked. “So you go south to carry post. Do you intend to stay in the south?”

“It is my mission to return,” Andrus answered. “Will you be here when I return?”

“I suppose,” Celesi shrugged. “I thought for a time I would go to Melmorahn when Toar first insisted he would follow the duke, but now I do not see the point of it. I rather like it here. Scurra and the others all assure me that I can stay as long as I like,” she shrugged.

For a long second, Andrus simply stared at her with a question in his eyes.

“What is it?” Celesi asked, not particularly wanting to know, as she assumed she already knew. Yet he was likely going to tell her one way or another—but at least this way she could expedite the process.

“Can I show you something?” Andrus asked, a suspicious grin creeping over his face. Before she could answer, he was pulling off his shirt.

When he started to unbutton his pants, Celesi turned and protested. “What?! No! What are you doing?!” She backed several steps. “Stop!” she ordered and turned away.

“It’s okay,” he said, as stripped himself naked.

“Not at all!” Celesi complained. “This is not okay! Not in the least!” she shrieked, especially since she realized she was backed into a corner.

Suddenly, the light of the day became overpowering, as if there was a great fire before her, so intense that it blinded her. Shocked to have such light come over her, Celesi turned away from Andrus, confused that he should emit such a brightness. Then, when the light receded, Andrus was no longer there! Celesi couldn’t help but stare at the creature that stood before her.

“Do it again,” Celesi said. The blinding light appeared once more, and Andrus shifted back to his human form. Naked and smiling, he covered himself.

“Again,” Celesi ordered, and as Andrus shifted form once more, Celesi blinked, then shook her head, and beamed at the Jindleyak, and said to him, “so that’s how it’s done!”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 19.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Carringten led Baet to a barn. There were several Jindleyak lounging about, trying to act inconspicuous, yet Baet knew that they were there to make sure the Saots didn’t try anything funny.

None of the natives were inside. There was only Creigal, sitting in a chair, with a small table and another chair, in the middle of a wide open area. Carringten waited at the door while Baet approached and sat with the duke.

“You must know I was framed,” Baet said.

“Were you now?” Creigal replied, unconcerned.

“By Homoth!” Baet nodded. “Ask Paye, the sister! She will tell you the truth of it!”

Eyebrows arched as Creigal continued to stare. “And what did you do that Homoth would frame you?”

“He believes that I cheated him,” Baet complained.

“I have talked with him too,” Creigal shook his head. “I told him it is a mistake to fight you. I told him you are more dangerous than you appear. But he does not listen. Not to any of us,” Creigal shrugged. “Somehow he blames you for what happened to Komotz.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Baet recoiled. “That was done by the leviathan!”

“I know,” Creigal shrugged. “I fear that he means to kill you.”

“Then I shall have to kill him first,” Baet realized. “I’d rather not. His sister will hate me for it.”

“However it happens, I shall not be here to see the sordid affair to its grisly finish,” Creigal told him. “In a few more days, we leave. We go north, after the thief.”

“You would go without me?!” Baet asked. “But I have pledged to keep you safe! I cannot honor my oath if you leave me here. Will you not stay for the duel, to see that they release me once it is over?”

“Now I see your concerns,” Creigal grinned and locked eyes with his guard. “So you wish to honor your oath?" he mused.

Baet made to reply, but the duke lifted a finger and shook his head. He was not finished, and would not have his guard answer just yet.

Without a word, Creigal stood and began to pace around the table. He looked the guard up and down, then began to speak again. "Honor is a thing I take very seriously. Honor, fidelity, courage; is that not your oath?”

“It is,” Baet answered.

“Honor, fidelity, courage,” Creigal repeated. “I have not forgotten your valiant protection of my person near Wibbeley,” he stated with a momentary smile. It was quickly replaced with a frown. "I have also not forgotten your association with Humbert."

Baet's heart dropped into his stomach. His eyes went wide and he stared at the rafters of the barn. "I..." He began, in hopes of defending himself—but thoughts of Haddelton, thoughts of Vearing, thoughts of all his other friends that had died in the duke’s loyal service convinced him it was best to admit the truth and let the chips fall where they may. “I failed,” he ended lamely, then refused to look at his lordship, and stared at his boots instead.

For several beats, Creigal let Baet soak in his admission. The duke simply stared at the guard until Baet raised his eyes and looked at the duke once more. Still the duke said nothing, and so Baet decided to give a full confession.

"I failed you," he repeated. "I spoke of matters to the clerk. I answered his questions about the habits of the watch quite candidly—though I knew the information was not to be shared. Then, once I was compromised, he talked me into letting him onto the grounds. He claimed he only wanted a bit of seed from your garden—though I’ve long known that the words of a liar are not to be trusted. I allowed myself to believe he would stay in the garden, that he would forget the house and all its possessions, that he would only take from the flowers," Baet held out the palms of his hands. “Out of convenience, I believed his lies, and believing his lies made me into a liar.”

“Do you have anything else to confess?”

“Only that I kept it from you for so long,” Baetolamew answered. “I am sorry. Mostly, I am sorry for the lives of my friends—my fellow guards. They are the ones that beg for my confession.”

Creigal nodded, his demeanor calm. “I meant to wait for this, to confront you once I’d captured the thief,” he began. “I meant to accuse you in his presence, so I might ascertain the degree of your guilt. But you have complicated things; first outside of Wibbeley with your heroic effort, and then by this stupidity among our newfound friends.”

Baet began to protest, but Creigal held up a hand.

“I do believe you when you say you’ve been set up. You are normally not so stupid that you might steal a garish ornament, no matter how pretty or pricey—but I also believe that Homoth would not sabotage you if he had no reason—so I find myself wondering,” the duke continued. “Why does he hate you, Baetolamew? What have you done that he’d risk his own good name to tarnish yours? Why would he risk his life to kill you?” Creigal stared at his guard. “Since Wibbeley you’ve served me well—but I cannot say there’s been a single-minded determination about it,” he shook his head. "Do you not see the difficulties you cause me with these natives? We are in a foreign land and we are fortunate to have these friends—yet, you provoke them. You have allowed your own interests to interfere with our mission. You have become too independent. You pretend to serve me while serving yourself first and foremost.”

Baet shook his head. “Does it not matter that I am framed?”

“And why are you framed?” Creigal repeated.

“The brothers hate me.”

“And what reasons have you given them to hate you? Can you tell me honestly that there are no reasons, or that the reasons are without cause?” Creigal stared at his guard. Baet did not answer, and so the duke continued. “You are careless, just as you were with Humbert. Homoth and Komotz—have you not noticed their rising anger? Did it come upon you so unexpected? Are you not a talented and decorated spy? Have you lost all sense of subtlety?!”

“You are right,” Baet nodded. “I’ve lost my edge, and I gave them reason. Indeed, I am dulled and serve without passion.” He looked up at the duke. “What am I to do, my lord?" he asked in a flat voice.

“First, you must stop addressing me with such terms,” Creigal noted. “I am no longer your master. We are all but settled, and after this evening, I will have nothing more to do with you," he admonished. “Yet, there is hope for you—if you can navigate yourself out of this quandary. If you can see yourself through this, there is a chance of a rich and rewarding life for you. I don’t know where you will find it, but you still have the spark it takes to light a mighty fire,” he advised. “Whatever it is that you choose to do, you and I are finished. There is nothing left between us but payment for your services."

With that, Creigal reached in his pocket, pulled out a handful of gold and silver coins. He showed them to the guard. "You have spoiled an assassination, and for that I owe you," he jangled the coins in his hand.

Eyes wide, Baet leaned forward. He longed to possess such music! He could not believe the duke was offering him so much—and yet he was right! By luck and skill—and at far too high a price—Baet did spoil an assassination.

Creigal’s face changed, suspicious and aggrieved, he stared at the guard as he closed his fist about the coins. “Yet, it was your betrayal that allowed my enemies to move against me. It was because of you that so many of my guards were killed, some of my favorite men among them—so you see my quandary,” he said as he opened and closed his fist about the coins. “If I should give you this, I am justified—and if I should drag you outside and hang you by your neck until you were dead, I am also justified," he stared at his guard.

Baet hanged his head. "I will take what I deserve," he answered with a miserable and tortured look on his face.

"And what do you deserve?” Creigal frowned. “Your heart is a mystery to me.”

Baet stared at the ground, trying to control his breath and temper. There was so much more to say, and yet he dare not confess his heart. He felt it was simply best to keep his peace and have done with it. Was he not trained to keep secrets? It seemed fitting that in the end he should remember his training.

The duke sat before him, stared at the guard, and separated a small stack of silver from the rest. He pushed thirty diems across the table. “Well then, this is it. This is all you shall have from me. Good day to you, and may Abra save your soul.”

Baet was incredulous. It was a pittance, an insult!

Still, any silver was better than nothing, and with it came freedom! He would never serve the duke another day in his life! That was something! It was certainly a lot better than Meriona and the Jaded Blades got, and they caused no blood!

Baet scooped the coin and gave Creigal a stiff bow. “Honor, loyalty, courage,” he said with just a touch of a sneer, then turned and proceeded from the barn as Carringten joined him.

Carringten walked next to Baet as several Jindleyaks followed at a discrete distance. The captain held out his hand. “I know you left most of your belongings in Gaurring Heart, but I ask that you surrender any device of the Duke that you may still have upon you.”

Baet had one item with him, a lead coin of simple and base design—but the coin and the proper words to match it marked its carrier as a member of Creigal’s Fifth Column; his secret army of spies, sneaks, and assassins. Baet gave the strange round to his captain.

Carringten glanced at the coin, then slipped it in his pocket with a grunt. “If you should ever return to Gaurring Heart, do not attempt to collect anything from the barracks that does not belong to you, understood?”

“Then I am allowed to return home?” Baet replied.

Carringten shrugged. “You are not eligible to serve among the duke’s elite ranks, but you are by no means banished. Indeed, if you wish to serve among his regulars, you may even return to a military life. But you will never again guard the duke or any of his personal properties.”

Baet considered it for a split second, then shook his head. He would never serve the duke again, not in any capacity. “There are a few items I’d like to recover,” he noted. “Perhaps not enough to bother,” he shrugged. “We shall see.”

Carringten stared at the junior guard. He stopped, and Baet stopped with him. For a long second, they simply stared at each other. “When did you lose heart?” the captain finally asked.

Baet shook his head and turned to go—but Carringten stopped him as the question continued to hang. A spark caught in Baet’s belly, and he thought, why not?! Why not give the man such answers?! He’s asked, after all! Baet’s expression grew dark. “For a long time I believed,” he began. “It wasn’t until Pagladoria that questions arose.”

“What was it that drove you from our righteous cause?” Carringten repeated.

“You had me kill that child!” Baet snapped at the captain. “A girl! Eight?! Nine years old?!”

“Ahh,” Carringten sighed. “I remember…”

“I begged you!” Baet interrupted and stared daggers at his captain. “I begged you to reconsider!”

Carringten stared back. “Her father, the viceroy, he killed dozens of our men—and not just men. He captured, tortured, and killed too many of our spies, destroyed several of our secret allies, and learned far too many of our plots; and he did it all with the help of that girl,” the captain explained.

“Are you sure?!” Baet charged. “Even after I killed her, daddy killed four more men—almost five!” Baet said as he pressed a thumb into his own chest.

“And how do you think they found you?” Carringten replied. “Indeed, I think it is a good thing you struck when you did, or he might have killed you first.”

“She was so young!” Baet shook his head. "I can still feel the fine bones of her neck as I squeezed the life out of her,” he lamented, with tears welling in his eyes. “I have no problem with war, fighting men with black and selfish hearts,” he shook his head. “But I did not sign up to murder children!”

“It is more complicated than that,” Carringten stated.

“I should hope so!” Baet glared. “I had the viceroy! If I could get the child, I could certainly get the viceroy! And I asked you to switch targets—non—I begged to switch targets!” he shook his head. “But I was told it had to be the girl,” he continued with a grim face, his voice barely above a whisper, as he glared at the captain. “I didn’t want to—but I did it—and I was damned quiet! I killed her guards with no sound at all. I stuck a nursemaid that happened to get too close. Then I cornered the girl and strangled her. I stared into her eyes as they bored into mine,” he anguished. “Why did you make me do it?!” he asked. “Why did I have to be as bad as our enemies?!”

“The child had weird abilities,” Carringten told him. “How do you think her father was able to ferret out so many of our spies? And why do you think the attacks stopped as soon as you fled?” Carringten asked. “Do you even know the attacks stopped, or did you lose track of events in Rottershelm once you came back home?”

“I couldn’t hear any of it,” Baet shook his head. “Any news from Rottershelm and I thought only of that child. I thought of how the gods must hate me for what I did.”

“Well then, let me tell you,” Carringten said. “After she died, the viceroy’s intelligence dried up. Our remaining network of spies, informants, and allies were spared. We’ve been able to reestablish ourselves in the Kingdom’s largest city.”

Baet shook his head. “Was the girl a chimera?” he asked.

Carringten shrugged. “We have no idea how she knew what she knew. Indeed, it took us a long time to realize she was the source of our troubles.”

“How do you know for sure?” Baet asked.

“When we gave the order, we only had our suspicions, Carringten shrugged. “But what else could it be? She died, and suddenly the viceroy could no longer identify our spies.”

Baet shook his head. “And why, at that time, could you not tell me any of this?”

“We were suffering losses,” Carringten noted. “We had a serious leak. We weren’t telling anybody anything.”

“I’ve been under your command for nearly twenty years, and I never flinched from any other order,” Baet shook his head. He looked away and continued to shake his head “No. We have too many secrets,” he continued. “Layers and layers of secrets, until I’m not even sure we’re the good guys anymore. How can I be sure, when we are as low as our enemies?”

“It is war,” Carringten shrugged. “Men die daily. Men, women, children… do you think women and children are immune to the effects of war?” he asked. “Admittedly, we fight in secret, so we don’t have open war, so the dying is by the dozens, and not by the hundreds or thousands—and that is the way we want it, because there must be war if we would free ourselves from those that would control us.”

“Well, it may soon be open war anyway, if it is all as they say,” Baet noted.

“Yes,” Carringten agreed. “Our enemies are pushing for open war, and I think they shall have it. They’ve been losing the quiet war for years, which is why they are willing to risk more. And as the dying commences, we shall do everything we can to make sure it is them that does the majority of it.” He put a finger in Baet’s chest. “You used to know this.”

Baet stared back at his captain. “I think I’ve had enough of your lectures,” he replied. “Lead me to my cell, that I might rest, that I might never have to kill again.”

“Except for one,” Carringten noted. “Just one more time.”

“Yes, well…” Baet shrugged. He turned and began to walk away. “I suppose I cannot stop others from committing suicide by my hand.”

“Almost,” Carringten nodded and grabbed the junior guard by his shoulder, “I am almost done with you.”

Baet turned and glared at his captain. He wanted to hit the dark man so bad.

Carringten pulled a small purse from his pocket and held it out.

“What is this?” Baet blinked at the man, uncertain what to think.

“The duke is thankful for your years of loyal service,” Carringten jangled the small purse. “He is thankful you saved his life. He may have been hard on you for your faults, but he has faults of his own, and recognizes that no man is perfect,” he finished.

“Well—why didn’t he say so?!” Baet replied.

The captain shrugged, “Creigal is a proud man—it is another one of his failings—so he left me to say it,” Carringten answered. “Come, let us see you to your cell,” he said as he put his arm around Baet’s shoulder. “I hear you’ve chosen the musket for your duel with Homoth.”

“I have,” Baet confirmed.

“Tis his folly,” Carringten stated. “I shall pull the man aside and tell him so. Perhaps he will yet see reason.”

With that, the captain returned the junior guard to his cell—as armed Jindleyaks followed at a discrete distance.

Carringten turned and stared through the bars once more. “It was a privilege serving with you. Honor, fidelity, courage,” he said with a salute.

“Honor, fidelity, courage,” Baet repeated—though he left off the salute—since he was no longer under obligation to do so.

Carringten and the Jindleyak jailers stepped out. With a sigh, Baet sat himself down.

Snickering sounds came from the cell at the far end of the room, then the naga muttered something in Trohl, something that sounded insulting.

“Oh what is it with you?!’ Baet yelled at Maligno. “In a few days I shall be released. But you?! What of you?!” he snapped. “It seems to me that you have been forgotten altogether!”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 19.7 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Carringten returned to the barn where he found Creigal waiting for him. "It is done," the captain said. "I am the last of your guard," and with that he held out his hand.

Curious to know what his captain held, Creigal extended his palm and took what was offered. It was a pin of a kite, with a laurel about it’s head, arrows in one claw, and a cluster of grapes in the other. It was Carringten’s badge of office, that marked him as captain of the duke’s personal guard.

Creigal shook his head. “Why would you give me this? I have not released or demoted you, nor would I.”

Carringten shook his head. “I have failed the office. I am asked to command your guard, but there are none left to command. There is only me. All the others are gone," he replied.

“And so you resign?!”

"I have failed," Carringten repeated. "I allowed myself to be blinded by Baet's treachery, and it almost got you killed. I lost a number of your men—and when it was just me and Baetolamew left to protect you, I could not even keep one other man out of trouble.”

“But I have survived, and you have too,” Creigal replied. “I am still your duke, and I have many guards at home that need a capable commander.”

“I cannot command them if they are not here,” Carringten pointed. “Although I will continue to serve as your guard, I will not pretend there is anyone left for me to command.”

“But what of these others? What of Toar and those among the natives that we have hired to see us north?”

Carringten shook his head. “They are not Gaur. They do not look to me. A duke is not so unapproachable to them. They know you. They come to you personally,” he noted. “Yes, I may be the closest, but I am only another guard; and I will not pretend that I command anything more than my own body.”

“And what of our return home?” Creigal asked. “What shall you do when we are among our own once more?”

“Do you think the other men will respect a captain that cannot bring home any of those that he commanded?” Carringten shook his head. “No—I remain your guard, from now until the day I die—but I cannot command. Not anymore. No one in their right mind would follow,” he said.

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