The Howling

Polished 20.2 — 31m31s — 2023/09/15

Reworked 20.1 — 24m56s — 2023/11/07

Polished 20.2 and 20.3, then compressed 20.3 and 20.4 into the same segment — 51m36s — 2023/11/08

Polished the chapter — 1h22m05s — 2023/11/11

Polished the second half of 20.3, where Krumpus and Wenifas discuss metaphysical matters — 16m11s — 2023/12/22

Polished — 44m28s — 2023/12/29

…and what destroyed the paradisal world of the LaPeuvians so completely? It was the approach of Oblarra—the Great Catastrophe that saw the end of the Old World—with its violent shaking and flooding. It was the Interloper, that dark harbinger, which still threatens us to this day.

Some say this story is impossible, since the world has never been a paradise. These same people often claim that the world can never be a paradise, that it is made for our torment. However, I am one of those that believe this earth has always been, and will always be a paradise—but only to those that allow it, that seek it, that are blessed to find it.

You may ask, if this is a paradise, why is there so much death and destruction—especially if a people was so blessedly righteous, like the LaPeuvians? But even paradise demands its sacrifices.

And what if this story should prove to be false? What if there was never a LaPeuvia? Is there nothing to be gained from the tall tales, from the fictional sagas of our predecessors? I believe quite the opposite. I suggest that there is still much wisdom and humor that can be gleaned from the fantasies of our forefathers, as these long lies circle the great and indescribable truths of forever, and elucidate our own temporal and fickle natures.

— Reading the Ruins: The Possible History of a Nation Lost in Time, p. 131, by Wybrow the Wanderer

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 20.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Crea crawled among the scrub oak and peaked over the crest of a hill. Clouds of dust were rising in the valley below as cavalry from High Plains chased, flanked, and fought against yet another group of marauding outriders.

Crea and Malcolm had hoped the fighting would thin as they moved east—but it had only intensified—and greatly so. Because of this, they mostly traveled at night, scurrying from one burned out hiding spot to the next. At least the rains were good, so there was plenty of water, but yesterday they ran out of food.

Crea could feel her stomach growl as she sat at the edge of a high bluff and gaped at the rolling hills covered in grass, often crisscrossed with fences, and dotted with farmsteads. There were plenty of signs of fighting: burned out houses, collapsed barns, razed fields, pillars of smoke twisting into a sky thick with ash. The road to Land’s End cut through this mess, the only part of the world that had not been attacked and twisted by the marauders—because they used it so.

Crea stared out over the difficult landscape and swore she could hear the occasional scream, the distant clank of metal on metal, the rumble of hooves thundering across the hills. Her spirit sagged and she wondered if there was anything to scavenge between here and the big city. How much further did they have to go? Were they even half way?

Side by side, Crea and Malcolm crept across the burning landscape. The first day, they found an orchard that hadn’t been completely stripped of its apples—and gorged themselves on the remainder. The second day gave them several squashes in a small garden, to fill in the corners of their packs, where there weren’t apples. The third day, Crea was answering the call of nature out back of a wrecked barn when a tall man dressed as a Trohl appeared out of the trees. She didn’t see him until he was halfway across the small field—then her heart nearly stopped. There was blood all over him, a sword in his hand, and a haunted look to his bothered eyes.

Crea cut off her business, inched up her small clothes, and picked up her falchion. She crept toward the edge of the building—but the man looked up and spotted her. The blood-splattered stranger pointed and gave a rough “Hey!” Then ran at her with manic determination.

Crea bolted. She ran for her pack which was sitting in a ditch on the way to the road. She hoped to see Malcolm there with his sword—but he had wondered off to the gods only knew. She screamed bloody murder as she ran.

Crea could feel the man catching up, so she glanced back and just happened to dodge out of his reach—but he was quick, and managed to get a hand on her ankle at the next turn. He tripped her up, and caused her to lose her grip on the sword. The falchion flew from her as she crashed to the earth.

Crea tumbled to the ground, still screaming. Her weapon was too far and the man had her by the foot. She kicked, as the man slowly climbed her leg, but only one of her blows landed very square, and it only flinched the man as his rough hands brought her under his control.

The bloody stranger got a good hold of her other leg. Despite Crea’s flailing strikes and banshee cries, he slowly brought her arms under his power. He sat on her hips, and with her hands pinned in his own, he crushed his face into her chest. Crea realized she was likely to live—but only after he took her—only after she was defiled once more. She closed her eyes and hoped he would not hurt her as much as the first one had. “Just let me live,” she heard herself saying, “just let me live…”

With drunken desire on his leering lips, the attacker began to drool—when suddenly he jerked. Crea could feel his body slacken as his eyes rolled back, then he flopped to the side and dropped off her.

Malcolm stood over Crea and the bloody stranger with a large rock in one hand. Dazed, the rough-looking foreigner began to mutter, then attempted to lift his sword. The young post-carrier lifted the rock and smashed the man in the head—then smashed him again for good measure. He considered a fourth strike—but the man didn’t move as he splayed in the field. He hadn’t even cringed away from the last blow, so the boy figured he was already done.

Malcolm dropped the rock, turned, and offered a hand to Crea. “Did he hurt you?” he asked with worry in his eyes.

Crea shook her head, and allowed Malcolm to pull her to her feet, then gave him a long hug. “Let’s go,” she said and grabbed her sword and bag. As they fled, they wondered why the man was alone, but could only speculate. Luckily, they saw no other marauders. “I can tell you one thing,” Crea said as they traveled. “He weren’t no Trohl.”

“I don’t reckon he was anything but ugly,” Malcolm shrugged. “What do you think he was?”

“Ministrian,” she answered. “And he’s the second one I seen dressed as a Trohl.”

“Are they all Ministrians?” Malcolm asked.

“Dunno,” Crea shrugged. “The only other one I saw up close was a Saot—but then, that one was dressed as a Saot,” she explained. “Red and black.”

“From Gaurring?” Malcolm wondered. “You think he was a real Gaur?”

“He spoke the tongue,” Crea noted.

“What do you make of it?” Malcolm asked.

Crea shrugged again. What did she know of war?

After the lone attacker, they didn’t see or hear anyone else, so they walked several miles before settling themselves in a clump of trees at the edge of a ruined farmstead.

While Crea rested, Malcolm had a look about. She was nearly asleep when he came sauntering back with a live chicken in hand. “And there’s at least a half dozen more where this came from!” he grinned.

They agreed on a fire, and he twisted the poor bird’s neck. They found a sheltered spot, and as Malcolm gathered wood and got the fire going, Crea plucked the prize. They ate squash and apple with the bird, and wondered if it wasn’t the best meal they’d ever tasted. They laughed and smiled as they told jokes and reminisced about their previous lives. But the revelry only lasted as long as the food. As the shadows began to stretch, Crea grew more and more sullen.

“What is it?” Malcolm asked. “What’s wrong?”

She smiled, since she knew he suspected something small, something immediate, like a mote that had drifted into her eye; or maybe some minor cut she had only just discovered. He did not consider the war that raged around them, the calamity of their current circumstance, the fact that their lives were completely upside down. He was naïve and sweet, and so she kissed him for it.

At first, the kiss was just a peck—then another and another peck—but it wasn’t long before Malcolm was kissing her back, and with a passion.

She liked it. She liked the kind touch of his soft hands, the heat of his body. Her head said that she shouldn’t, that the gods would be mad—but her heart raged. The gods that allowed her to be defiled and repeatedly attacked. As the darkness grew around them, she wanted to know a sweet lover’s touch. Although Malcolm was young, he had proved to be good company, and had showed more and more bravery as their troubles continued. He’d been a faithful companion and an honest friend. He had helped her search the family farm. He had killed to protect her. He hadn’t flinched or even asked a question afterward. He certainly didn’t blame her. Slowly, she took off his clothes, and then her own. For her sake, Crea just wanted to know a soft touch. She didn’t care that the clerics called it sin. She felt that the gods had forgotten her. She was fairly certain she was already in hell.

Nor was she worried that Malcolm might put a child in her. She was certain the heathen that attacked her in Solveny had already cursed her. She swore she could feel it already, growing inside her. She was convinced, and figured that some things a girl just knows. At least here and with Malcolm the decision was hers.

As Crea took him in, she tried to imagine a cottage with him and half a dozen babies to raise—but the vision remained hazy—since she couldn’t figure a way from here to there. She loved him simply to keep the shadows at bay. She held him and kissed him and caressed his thin muscles, sure that any second the night would come alive with malicious forces and devour them both. They would never make it to Land’s End.

The push and pull of her emotions swept her along, and despite the pleasure of Malcolm’s soft touch, Crea realized a small part of her was repulsed by what they were doing. This was not the way it should be! She felt she was making things difficult in a way she didn’t understand. She was muddying the waters. She was complicating what were already impossible circumstances. A pit in her stomach said this pleasure would come at a steep price.

And yet, she loved the feel of him. Each day as they reached the end of their slinking, and bedded down for a rest, she held him close and kissed him softly, telling him to sleep—until the sky began to light. Then she let the impulse wake him, and they made love as the sun came up.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 20.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

How many times must I mourn this child?! Wenifas wondered as she held the urn full of Claiten’s ashes. She wasn’t interested in yet another ceremony meant to honor the fallen—but when she heard that the families of Traust and Apulton had gathered, she didn’t want to seem churlish.

Still, she hadn’t expected to participate! Indeed, she almost screamed when Krumpus took Claiten’s urn off her desk and brought it along.

Now, standing somewhere in the never-ending gardens of Azra’s estate, Wenifas stood and stared at the massive oak before her, as Azra himself droned on in his native tongue. She imagined his comments were poignant and well versed—not that she cared to hear them. No matter the sweetness of his sentiments, they would not bring back her son. But this isn’t for me, she reminded herself. This is for these others.

The wife of Traust stood next to the priestess, and on the other side of Traust’s wife stood the mother of Apulton. They had hugged her and gave her pats when she first arrived, but now were standing resolute, as the patriarch continued to talk. Each of them also held an urn, and tears touched the corners of their eyes. All around them stood their children and relatives, a giant circle of mourners.

Driven by the endless grief, Wenifas cried in streams. She was a watery soul, and she hoped they’d finish soon, before she had too much time to remember her boy, before the tears could soak the edge of her collar to the point where she’d have to change her shirt.

Finally, Azra left off his words. The wife of Traust and the mother of Apulton lifted the lids from their urns. They stepped toward the massive tree, and with heartfelt words of their own, they slowly dusted the base of the behemoth with the ashes of their loved ones.

Taking a cue from these strangers, Wenifas pulled the lid off her son’s urn. The other two women were now sobbing as they slowly circled the tree and sprinkled its roots with ash. Not wanting to give the tears any more time, Wenifas turned her urn upside down and dumped its contents in a single heap.

A pile of ash stared back at the priestess, and despite herself, her tears increased. Missing her son, she bent to the ground, and poked at the dust. Was the essence of her boy still somewhere in there? Did it float off to heaven the night they cremated him? Or was he gone the moment his last breath left him?

Wenifas lifted her ash covered finger to her forehead and smudged her brow. Then, still not feeling the presence of Claiten, she licked her dirty finger—then looked up to see the mother of Apulton and some number of the others that had gathered. They were staring at her. Some were curious and questioning of her actions, while others were simply appalled. Indignant, the priestess stood straight. She dropped the urn, faced the crowd, then pushed her way through.

Meu joined her with Evereste in her arms, and Celesi joined on her other side. They each slipped an arm around the Ministrian’s back and offered their shoulders as they returned to the barracks. Only a few hours ago, they had told her they’d both be going south in the morning, so their company was little comfort.

Yet, little was better than none. The tears stopped. When she got to her room, Wenifas laid on her bed, until Naharahna blessed her with sleep.

A knock on the door woke the priestess. Irritated, she forced herself up on an elbow and bellowed, “What do you want?!”

After a second’s pause, a single knock sounded.

With a huff, Wenifas yanked herself out of bed and stomped to the door. She pulled it open and glared.

Krumpus stood before her, nonplussed and serious. We go to honor Komotz, he told her with his eyes. It is a howling.

“Honor Komotz?” The priestess stared at him. “Is he not still alive? What is a howling?” she asked.

He told her. Will you go?

Wenifas blanched and wondered that there was still room for her heart to fall. She knew the young man’s mending had suffered numerous setbacks—but had figured he would get better eventually. She put her hand on her aching chest. “I feel like it just keeps raining. Will this mourning ever end?” she squeaked, then slipped on her shoes and ignored the heavy wrinkling of her dress. She hoped that most of it would settle out. “I don’t get it,” she continued. “Aren’t there easier ways to go?”

We offered the mushrooms—a softer way out of his problems—but he asked to take the warrior’s path, Krumpus shrugged.

Long before she was ready, Wenifas and the shaman arrived at a cottage, to find many others already there.

They’ve begun, Krumpus noted and led her into the somber crowd. They hugged those they knew and tried to smile. There was little real conversation as they continued forward.

It took a minute before Wenifas realized they were drifting closer and closer to Komotz. She had not seen him since the day they left Excergie. He was propped against a board with a large rest about halfway down, so he was sitting almost as much as he was standing. He was thin and sallow, barely recognizable as the energetic youth she had first met in Ebertin some weeks before.

There was a line waiting to see the injured man. One at a time, they hugged, kissed, and whispered to Komotz as they held his pale weak hands—then gathered in tight knots, to hold each other and cry—while the others in the line kissed and whispered to their cousin. Wenifas realized she was in line to speak with him. “What can I possibly say?!” she blanched. “He doesn’t even speak my language!”

Krumpus patted her back. He knows why we’re here. Say what you’d say to anyone in his position and he’ll understand it, no matter the language.

Wenifas stepped closer and closer to Komotz. All too quickly, she was in front of him—shocked to see the boisterous youth reduced to a mere husk. Before, he’d been so carefree, so full of charm and vigor. Now he was gaunt and sickly pale, with a number of heavy bandages, half bloody and spoiled. His hair was patchy and thin. His neck and the bit of his chest that she could see were still purple and yellow with heavy bruising. Emaciated, he labored to breathe. His pain was obvious and overwhelming. It hurt her just to look at him. It hurt even more when he recognized her and twisted his lips into a tortured smile. Those pleading eyes!—at least Claiten’s death was quick! The thought jumped into her head.

Tears gushed, and Wenifas didn’t bother to hide them. Instead, she brushed the young Trohl’s shoulder—the one that wasn’t covered in bruises. She kissed his cheek, and then his lips. She tried to smile, but found herself moaning instead. Suddenly sobbing, she turned, and stepped away. Celesi was nearby and pulled her into a circle of women—some she knew—many she didn’t. They hugged and cried as they gathered her in. She bawled and clung to them as they rubbed sympathy into her back and arms.

Although not the last in line, Krumpus was close. He was followed by Aim, Andrus, and Homoth. They were slow to say their goodbyes, and wept openly as they hugged their dear kin.

Finally, the line was done. Finished with the goodbyes, Komotz leaned back onto the board and was lifted by six men, including Duboha and Elpis—with his funny eye. The bearers carried Komotz through the large garden, past the great family tree—where the lump of Claiten’s dust sat with a divot from his mother’s finger—and further up the ridge. The rest followed and sang a mournful song as they trundled along. They walked a good mile or so before they came to a cliff that overlooked a ravine, some two or three hundred feet down. The men that carried Komotz proceeded to set the foot of the platform on the ground, and slowly raised the head so Komotz was standing once more.

Most of the others had backed away and formed a wide semi-circle which opened at the cliff. Komotz leaned forward, and with the help of his grandfather and brother, he took to his hands and knees. Homoth and Azra backed away from Komotz—though the sickly youth shook. Pained and agitated, he crawled. Nearly at the edge of the cliff, he lowered himself to his stomach, then slithered as he pulled himself closer and closer to the precipice. Wenifas couldn’t believe it! Would he really?!

Komotz pulled himself over the lip of the cliff, his body sliding over the edge, dragging gravel with it. Wenifas heard a hollow thud and flinched as she imagined the impact.

And then the howling began. She jumped as a chill cry rose from all around her. The others poured their pain and grief at the uncaring sky—in the manner of wolves—as the priestess wondered if they’d all gone mad!

Altogether, the howling was uncanny, eerie, even unnerving as it continued and redoubled off the stone walls of the rising ridges. It carried on for far too long—though in all actuality it was nothing more than a couple minutes. With that, the others turned and walked away in silence. For some time, no one spoke. Beyond the family tree, whispers began, and soon there was open conversation.

“That was ghastly!” Wenifas whispered to the shaman as they walked back to the main house. “Is this why you call yourselves the Oak and Beast?!”

Kurmpus shook his head. This is not a thing for our militia alone. Indeed, it is quite common among other Jindleyak, along with the Melmore, Untu, and Indrah…

“Was there nothing else to be done?” Wenifas cut in. “Nothing else to be tried?” She asked as she wondered at the waste of the young man’s life.

What would you have us do? Krumpus shrugged. The poor boy was destroyed the moment the leviathan got a hold of him. Despite the excellent care of Giscelda, his suffering only increased. Indeed, some are surprised he lasted this long. You should have seen all the potions and medicines we gave him just so he could crawl to the edge! He shook his head. At least none will ever question the courage of Komotz!

“And what did you do?!” she snapped at him.

I prayed long and hard to our ancestors, but was given no special guidance, he shrugged.

“It isn’t right!” Wenifas complained.

It was his choice to make and that’s all that matters, Krumpus replied.

“But how?!”

It is a honored tradition, Krumpus shrugged. It’s been done by a thousand warriors of the bravest face when their wounds are too great.

“But...” Wenifas began, then stopped as she realized she didn’t really have a sound argument—only a lot of uneasiness. She decided there was no right answer, just a lot of wrong ones. With a defeated sigh, she hanged her head. “How often does this happen?”

The shaman shrugged. At least a dozen times a month?

That seemed like far too often. Wenifas blinked, and stared at nothing. “This is all very distressing,” she said to the dirt. “Why so many?”

It is not as many as you think when you consider the size of the city, Krumpus stated. Usually it is done by the old and infirm, when their time is nigh.

“Well, I find it dreadful!” Wenifas stated.

As you should, Krumpus agreed. What must it be like to feel so cornered that you’d rather crawl off a cliff than live?! he stared. But Komotz was suffering, and his family was suffering too. His injuries were so dire and varied that we were having an impossible time trying to fix one thing without aggravating another, he shook his head. This howling was deserved—but I’ve seen bad ones. I’ve seen howlings where family members have begged and supplicated themselves to the one that would go. I’ve seen those that cursed and threw insults and stones after the one that fell, because they felt they were simply quitting, the shaman shook his head. At least these are rare. I hear of these only a few times a year.

Wenifas shuddered. “It’s all so morbid and cruel,” she stated. “It is so terrible that it makes me wonder how there can be gods at all.”

An understandable question, Krumpus nodded.

“If the gods are good, how can there be so much pain and suffering in the world?” the priestess wondered.

Ahh, the old question of pain, Krumpus mused.

“And do you have an answer?!” she glared at him.

Of course! he grinned. The question is whether or not the answer is any good!

“Shoulda figured,” Wenifas huffed.

Let me start with a different question, Krumpus continued. Why do you think bad things happen to good people?

“No idea,” Wenifas shrugged. "What would you say?”

Bad things happen to good people so good things can happen to bad people, the shaman answered.

“Well that’s a terrible idea!” Wenifas frowned.

Is it? Krumpus replied. God is in the business of saving souls—not coddling those that just happen to be right. In order to save souls, god must speak to them, and there’s no better way to reach a sinner than to give him some undeserved grace!

“And so he must torture the good?” she asked.

Krumpus shrugged. The good that the wicked are given must be balanced, so perhaps it is necessary to foist some evil onto the shoulders of the good, that they might help bare the burden.

“Well, that sounds like a terrible way to operate!” Wenifas complained. “Why not just let the wicked suffer?”

But they do, Krumpus shook his head. Most of the evil in this world is simply returned to those that are evil, just as most of the good is given to those that are good—or—perhaps nobody is altogether good, and nobody is altogether evil, and everyone really does get just what they deserve, he smiled.

“Always spinning in knots,” Wenifas accused. “Is nothing straightforward to you?!”

Not much, Krumpus shrugged. Especially when it comes to the gods.

Wenifas pointed to his scarred face. “Did you deserve this?!” she snapped.

His eyes shined behind the scar as Krumpus pointed to himself. This was a blessing! he began. This was given to me so I might unnerve my enemies with nothing but a look! he beamed. Besides, I am not perfect.

“Are you not a healer?” she replied. “A holy man?”

We are all holy, Krumpus replied, at least to a degree. Do not fret! Everything must fall by the wayside, so there is space for new things, new adventures! That is why no one escapes, so the world can be renewed!

“I should prefer the things I’ve lost,” Wenifas pouted. “All that I know is behind me! I lost my oldest child, and I fear I smother the other! I lost my home. I live in a land I do not know, among strangers. I lost my lover. To add to that, Meu is leaving. To add to that, you are leaving.”

And you will stay here, and do you know why you will stay here? Krumpus stared her in the eye. Because here it is safe.

“You make me sound like a coward,” Wenifas replied—then burst into tears. “I am a coward! Let me come with you!” she pleaded. “I don’t want to be alone!” she grabbed the shaman. “If it’s so dangerous where you go, maybe you should stay too!”

Ah, but there is good reason for me to go, just as there is good reason for you to stay, he told her. Change your focus. Look at what builds, instead of what crumbles. Then you will have things worth keeping. Then you will have a reason to stay.

"And why does it matter?!” Wenifas huffed. “Even you say that everything shall be swept up by the storm, destroyed like all that came before! It is an impotent magic to build sandcastles on the beach!"

Krumpus shook his head. All castles crumble. The earth itself shall one day perish—but much of what we build persists long beyond our lives—and those that remain will build upon the things we leave. So the question becomes, do we leave them poisoned spines of our own shame, guilt, and fear; to corrupt their flesh, and speed them to their graves? Or do we leave them hearth and home, that they might raise a new generation, to value the things that nourished and kept us?

"Your magic is slow if it requires the building of life to proceed,” the priestess accused.

Krumpus gave an emphatic nod. Without the slow build of life itself, there can be no meaningful death. Without the slow build of life, there is nothing. There is just the gaping maw of the unquenchable abyss.

"There is always death," Wenifas sighed. "Black magic will not be denied."

Is that so bad? Krumpus stared at the priestess. If man should ever find immortality in his own fashion, how shall their children ever be free? If there was no death, we would forever be shackled to the tyranny of our father's inaccuracies.

"And what makes them wrong?!” Wenifas snapped. “Who’s to say they don’t have the right of it?!"

No man has ever had the right of it, Krumpus shook his head. Not all of it.

“And why must we die at all?!” Wenifas cried. “Why can’t we be happy and healthy forever?!”

Do not fear death, for you or anyone else, Krumpus smiled. If life is not permanent, what does that say about death?

Wenifas blinked.

We must return here again and again so that we might right our wrongs, the shaman told her. Beside, is this not the greatest game? To live and love? To lose and leave? He asked. The price for life is death. Even Jeiju died.

“So I am born into debt?” Wenifas frowned. “You sound like the church—only I know them to be hypocrites."

Krumpus shrugged. Even liars tell the truth from time to time, or else no one should ever believe them.

"And where are you wrong?" Wenifas snipped.

Krumpus smiled a big toothy grin. Now you learn—and that is why you must go within—that you know what to believe. But you must also know that you will get some parts of it wrong, and this is why you must listen to others—because sometimes, others will see what you cannot, even when it is right under your nose, he smiled.

“More circles,” Wenifas rolled her eyes. “For a mute you sure do talk a lot,” she glared. “Yet, I feel there is something you are trying to get at. What is the point of all this?! What is so impacting that I must stay here and be safe?!” she sneered the last word.

Ever so slowly, and with a growing smile, Krumpus put his hand on the priestess’ belly.

The priestess flinched away, then put her own hands on her stomach. Suddenly, wide-eyed, and feeling thick, Wenifas shook her head. “No!” She asserted. “But how?!”

With a knowing grin, Krumpus made a circle with his thumb and finger—then plunged a finger from his other hand through the ring.

“I know how it’s done!” she snapped at him. “I am a priestess after all! What I mean to say is that I have not slept with anyone since...” Her eyes got wide and she covered her mouth. She remembered quite well the last man that slept with her. His easy grin. His trusting eyes. She thought of him constantly. “I shall have his baby,” she whispered. Tears of joy flowed. With a wide grin, she grabbed Krumpus and wrapped him in a hug. “Blessed Naharahna! She gives me his child!” she roared as she squeezed his delicate hand. He winced—so she dropped his brittle fingers, wrapped him in a hug, and continued to squeal.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 20.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Baet woke to the clang of bars and the rattle of chains. At first, he thought it was time for the duel—but then he realized that the cage the jailors had opened belonged to the naga.

Carringten was in the room.

“Hey, Carr,” Baet called, and his former captain stepped close to the bars. “What’s going on?”

Carringten threw a thumb at Maligno, “The duke, Azra, and the shaman all came to an agreement. We think it’s best if the naga comes north with us.”

“What? Why? Why would you want him along?”

Carringten shrugged. “I don’t know that Creigal intends anything at all—but from the very first moment, he was the duke’s prisoner.”

“Well if that don’t beat all,” Baet blinked. “Did you have a chance to speak with Homoth?”

Carringten nodded, then shook his head. “He’s stubborn, and thanks to the fall of his brother, he’s overly emotional. I told him you’re very good with a pistol. He said he’s been practicing.”

“He’s a fool,” Baet shook his head. “Does he really think he can beat me after a few days of shooting?”

“I doubt that he’s thinking much at all,” Carringten replied. “You were always a thinker,” he reached through the bars and put a hand on Baet’s shoulder. “I suppose it’s a blessing and a curse,” he said with a nod. “You are backed in a corner my friend, and I have done what little I can to help. I am sorry it is not more.”

“I’ve always admired you, Carringten. May the wind be at your back,” Baet stated.

“Courage, honor, fidelity, my brother,” Carringten replied, then, having nothing else to say, he gave a nod and followed the Jindleyaks as they led Maligno from the room.

Baet shook his head. Well, at least he’d get to see Paye today. She’d made a habit of bringing him lunch—though she was giving him the silent treatment since he told her he meant to kill her brother. It’s not like he wanted to kill Homoth—but it sure beat the alternative! After the fact, after the killing, how long would it be before Paye realized Baet only did what he had to do? How long might she hold it against him?

He knew the answer immediately. Deep down he knew that she’d never forgive him. Women could be like that—irrational and resolute in their irrationality. He shook his head. it figured that he’d find a right proper woman—only to lose her at the start!

But there was nothing else for it. Once the duel happened—and assuming that he won—Baet figured he’d go south. He’d go to the coast of Ewile with the money Creigal gave him. He’d settle near the sea and become a member of some local watch—just another poke hoping to keep the peace. There are women aplenty in the south, he thought—though his heart rejected these remote prospects.

Of course, all that was assuming the Jindleyak would let him out and not just keep him locked up for killing their kin.

Or worse.

By the gods, there was always an ‘or worse’!

Paye brought a late breakfast, though she didn’t stay. Indeed, she didn’t even smile. In fact, she pulled away in shock when he tried to touch her hand, then ran out of the room without looking back.

Baet picked at the plate, unable to eat. The only feeding was done by the worry and fear that gnawed at the Saot’s stomach.

At noon, several guards arrived. “Today’s the day,” they told him, then let him out of the cell and led him through the house. They took him to the back lawn where there was a table with two muskets on it: Cloud Breaker, and a stranger. Homoth stood on the far side of the table.

Baet stared at the older brother. “Tell them it was a misunderstanding,” he said to his enemy. “Tell them Paye simply meant to clean that fancy crest, that she never intended to keep it, and that I had nothing to do with it all together.”

Homoth simply glared at the guard, then, once he was sure the Saot was done talking, he stared him in the eye and said. “I’m going to kill you.”

“You’re a fool,” Baet replied.

Homoth picked Cloud Breaker off the table. “Should I kill you with your own gun?” he lifted it to his nose, then set it down. “Smells of thieving and cheating—so I guess it’s no surprise that it pulls to the right.”

“Oh, so you fired it?” Baet feigned shock. “Well… I imagine you must have practiced the whole week! By now you must be an absolute terror among the squirrels,” he snipped, then pointed to the other musket. “What of that one? Does it pull to the left? Does it have a hair trigger? Does it have a hard recoil—so hard that you jerk it before you fire?” Baet stared.

Homoth glared at the man. “You always did talk too much,” he said. “I’m going to enjoy watching you bleed.”

“Well, don’t get too close when I’m dying. Wouldn’t want to mess those fine clothes,” Baet deadpanned.

“Enough,” Azra scolded. “Are you both satisfied with your weapons?”

Baet lifted Cloud Breaker, then loaded it. He turned to the old man and nodded.

“You will turn on ten,” Azra told them. “If either man turns before ten, he gets an arrow.” To prove the threat, several archers gave a nod.

“Including him?” Baet pointed at his opponent and wondered if they’d really do it. Would they shoot one of their own as he dueled a foreigner? Despite accusations going the other way, Homoth really was a cheater. He’d cheated when they’d played touches—and that was just a game. Hell, he’d lied about the crest! What would keep the youth from cheating in a duel?! As he considered the possibilities, darker thoughts entered his mind. Baet wondered if perhaps he’d catch an arrow, even if he waited. Would they simply claim he cheated, just like Homoth had done before they played touches? Was it a whole family of cheaters?

But the worry would do him no good, so Baet pushed it aside as much as he could. Let the chips fall where they may, and if he was lucky, he’d take his sweet time picking them up. After all, his captors must have some sense of decorum. They let him keep the coin Carringten gave him, and also the meteor he picked from the rubble of Kezodel’s court house (not that he told them what it was). Could he expect Paye to raise a ruckus if he was given a raw deal? Somehow equal treatment seemed possible. Perhaps others would be upset if Homoth was allowed to cheat. Could he possibly retain his pristine image if he openly cheated another man of his life? Even a stranger? Even a foreigner?

Baet turned and scanned the crowd. He saw several fine ladies among the crowd of men—but none could hold his attention—until he caught sight of Paye. She stood in black, cutting a fine silhouette against the earthy tones of the garden. He realized the outcome didn’t matter to her. Either way she was mourning. Indeed, her face was red and puffy from tears, and he wondered that she could be so beautiful and dour at the same time.

For her part, Paye didn’t understand any of this. Homoth had refused to hear her arguments, had refused to even see her. How was it that no one should listen to her?

And now, she could hear the others. The conversations all about her was incomprehensible. The heavy beating of her heart drowned out the meaning of their words. Only the nervous giggles seemed to make sense—a cruel mockery of her pain. It seemed flippant and incredibly rude. It didn’t matter who died. Either way it was an absolute tragedy—and it became more and more unbearable as the scene proceeded!

Baet and Homoth were placed back to back. “One…! Two…! Three…!” Azra began the count, as the men slowly stepped away.

Paye’s breath caught, and her heart hammered even harder. Eyes wide, she stared at her brother and the oddly appealing Gaur. Her brother was determined, or possibly tense; while Baet was relaxed, resigned—or was he defeated?

“Four…! Five…! Six…!”

Paye could barely hear the counting of her grandfather as her blood echoed in her ears. Horrified, she watched as the distance between the men increased.

“Seven…! Eight…! Nine…!”

Why wouldn’t Homoth listen to reason?! It was in his power to stop this! She was so mad at him! Suddenly, she wanted Baet to kill him! She wouldn’t even be mad about it!

Yet, she knew that she would be, and she realized she’d hate herself too. She had to do something to stop this! Anything!

With no further thought, her feet carried her forward. “NO!” she screamed as she pushed past the others. Would they listen? They had to listen! They lost Komotz—among so many others! There was no reason for anyone else to die! “NO!” she repeated, as her feet carried her forward.

“Ten!” Azra called, and the two men took their last step. Paye was too far away, and the two men turned. Baet was quicker as he turned halfway and stood sideways. He raised his gun with a surety, while Homoth turned all the way around and took a second to aim—yet Homoth was the one that fired.

Why do you pause? Paye wondered as she stared at the Saot. Why do you glance at me before you set your sight on Homoth? Are you not committed?!

BOOM! the pistol sounded.

Paye flinched and horror filled her heart as Homoth’s musket gave off a deafening pop. She thought her heart would explode as tears flooded and confused her vision. An overwhelming grief filled her as she crumbled to the ground, refusing to see anything more. The crowd gasped—and Paye realized that she hated them all for letting this happen! She hated each and every one of them!

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