Pursuit

Polished 7.1 — 15m35s — 2023/12/14

Polished the whole shebang — 1h05m44s — 2023/12/18

The first night after his death, Brankellus thought to sleep. He found a hollow, and since he was neither warm nor cold, he laid against the trunk of a tree and closed his eyes. Since the time of his death, a deep and profound tiredness had washed over his spirit, and he hoped to cure his exhaustion in the way he always had. He settled among the debris of the forest, rested his head, and tried to relax. He listened to his breath as the night sounds drifted in the background and hoped for sleep—but the cool night air chilled him to the edge of chattering, and the pressure of the small needles under him never let up.

Despite his irritations, Brankellus persisted to try and sleep. After a short time, his hands and feet shook—almost of their own accord—as a jitteriness overcame him. The scent of death, both rancid and sour, gathered and grew in his mouth. He felt like he’d struggled to sleep for days—struggled for what felt like an eternity—but it was just a few hours. Finally, he realized there would be no sleep. In a fit of disgust, he gave up on rest. He rolled to his knees and hands, got up on his feet—grunted with the effort of standing fairly straight-ish—then, grudgingly, trundled back out into the road. He concluded there was only one rest for the dead; the eternal rest, and though he knew how to enter that blissful realm, he was unwilling to take that step. Not yet, anyway. Not until he caught his quarry.

Brankellus sloughed along the road as the stars continued their call. The lights overhead lit the faintest hope deep in the dead man’s chest. They pricked at his heart, as they stared down from above, and begged him to take his eternal sleep—for they were the way home. All the spirit had to do was look up and let them take him.

But he would not.

On and on, he trudged. The night slipped away and the sun crept over the horizon once more. The drudgery of the day was no less and no more than the torture of the night. He felt he should be strong and capable of a steady march; but his pains and ailments shifted and overlapped, always causing his gait to be slow and jumbled. If it was not the heat of the day, then some strange nausea overcame him, or an extreme exhaustion that sunk bone deep. If not one of these calamities, then he was limp with a sore foot—or perhaps his breath would catch, and he’d struggle for air, gasping and hacking as it finally came. His discomforts and aggravations were as numerous as they were arbitrary.

Sometimes his weakness completely overcame him. He’d stumble and pitch into the dirt. There, he’d lie for several minutes, doing nothing, overcome and given the respite of knowing he’d done all he could do. Then, the slow creep of the earth came upon him. He remembered the deep chill of the night, as he itched and burned with vengeance. Teeth clattering, he grumbled to his feet, and shuffled after the scent of his enemy once more.

In such a manner, Brankellus drifted south and east through the forests, blessed with a sixth sense for his prey. He did not understand the sensation, only that he was called south and east, as if by the voice of a sad and suffering people. He imagined these cries came from the many victims of Petaerus—and others of his ilk. These dirges helped fuel his rage as they pulled him after his prey.

The days blurred together. How long was Brankellus on the road before he arrived at the north wall of Rynth Falls? Was it two days, or a week? Once, in his living years, he’d visited the small Trohl settlement—but the little town was not as he remembered it—mostly because Rynth Falls was no longer little. The wall was built up, more than double what it was before, and the buildings beyond it were much taller.

Even at its old height, Brankellus would not have been able to pass the wall, and so he trudged along the rough stone exterior until he found a small service gate, then waited. Sooner or later, the door would swing open. A scout, a hunter, or perhaps some spy would come scurrying out…

Impatiently, Brankellus waited. He itched as he tugged at the door with no effect at all. He paced and howled and cursed as his impatience grew. He convulsed and shook as his body demanded it return to the relative comfort of his shambling pursuit. It was late—or rather early—and he was forced to stand and wait at the wall for what felt like several hours—before the door finally opened.

Eventually, the door did open.

Brankellus stepped into the doorway, and the first man out stepped right through him. The man slowed and made a face as the other two rushed past. The first man turned all about, trying to find the source of the funk that crept across his senses.

“What is it?” the second said.

By this time, the ghost of Brankellus was several steps inside, and the first man was unable to find the creep that had bothered his so. He shrugged. “It was like the reek of a thousand dead,” he began, obviously bothered. “It was like the smell of Tobias, after he ate that questionable fish he caught about a week back.”

“Keep your piece, brother, before I make you eat it!” the third man, Tobias, threatened—as the second man laughed, clapped the other two on their shoulders, and led them into the forest.

Brankellus lurched into the city. Beyond the unfamiliar wall, the town was much bigger and more established than he remembered. The houses were larger and pressed close together. Now their were no fields and few gardens. The only open space was the parade grounds at the far edge of the city.

The parade grounds were the size of several city blocks and cleared down to the very rock. There were a few triage tents, empty and all but disassembled, before the rock gave way to open air and several hundred feet of vertical drop. Cutting through the middle of the parade grounds, the Kundilae River swept off the cliff, and soared out over the valley below—the falls for which the town was named. Near the edge of the cliff, the locals had built an ingenious bridge with a protruding platform, so they might look out over the plains below.

Standing at the edge of the cliff, Brankellus looked down on the land below, dotted with more human dwellings and another wall, before giving way to a forested wilderness checkered with large swaths of chest high grasses. Past the edge of his vision was the strange Noeth lands of the Saot.

Brankellus turned to the waters of the Kundilae River as it soared out into open air. The roaring plume of the river turned to thin ropes as it fell. These ropes of water frayed, tattered and blew in the wind, as they drifted to the earth—mostly to falling in a great pool—and once gathered, twisting back and forth across the Noeth Plains. Around this pool, the second part of the old town stretched out, larger than Brankellus remembered. He stared at the sprawl of new buildings, another wall, and a flood of tents that stretched into the patchy forest beyond.

Brankellus was drawn to the tents. He was suddenly quite certain that Petaerus was among those tents. He wasn’t sure how he knew—but he knew it all the same. He turned, trying to remember where he would find the road leading down. He turned in circles about the parade grounds and was distracted by the ghosts of those that had picnicked here and frolicked with their families. At one time or another, most of them approached the edge, so they might look out at forever. Some of the revelers stepped so close that Brankellus could not believe it! A few dangled their feet, legs, hands, and even their heads over the edge! He could hardly stand to see these others acting so cavalier around such a mighty drop—especially the children! It made his hair stand on end and gave him a bad case of nerves.

But that was in the past. That was when he’d visited as a living man. Now things were different. In the dead of night, there was no one else around, just Brankellus, as he stepped along the rock—until there was nothing but air before him. And what if he should fall? Was he not already dead? It was not as if a fall could kill him—or so he thought. He knew Petaerus was below, close at hand, among the many tents beyond the wall. He could not take any of the lifts, since there were no men or horses out at this hour to work the pulleys. He dared not wait for that. There was the road down, but it was long and winding, with the drudgery of switchbacks, going on for miles. Brankellus didn’t have the patience for all that—especially since it would be so much quicker to simply step into the air and plummet like the waters. Perhaps it’d prove to be pleasant to simply let gravity pull him, instead of having to slog along, step after painful step—and so he dropped with the care of a feather in the wind—and impacted with the seriousness of meat hitting rock.

His spirit mashed through the vegetation as if it were still flesh and bone. He hit the earth, bounced once, rolled a bit, then flopped onto a large piece of granite, and finally slid to a stop. The pain of it was excruciating—but only for a split second—and then he thought he’d died for a second time, as everything went black.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

The night was getting on. Having been relieved of their guard and asleep for several hours, the brothers Komotz and Homoth rubbed their eyes as they stepped into the dark room and peeked out the window. The younger, Komotz, leaned toward Duboha and whispered. "How long have they been out there?"

“Long enough,” Duboha shrugged. "I suspect they arrived when our friends returned."

"Will they attack, or...?"

Homoth lumped his younger brother. "They're not sneaking around for the fresh air, you dolt!” He said in a harsh whisper.

Komotz grumbled under his breath as he pulled on his tabard.

Homoth turned to Duboha. "How many are out there?"

Duboha shook his head, "We've spotted at least a dozen out front and maybe that many more out back. Given the ones we can’t see… forty? Fifty?” He shrugged. “However it goes, it’s quite likely to be far too many.”

Komotz blanched. “So we’ve lost before it starts?”

“Would you not bring an overwhelming number?” Duboha asked.

The younger man looked to his brother. "How can we fight that many?!”

Homoth grinned, lifted one arm and flexed, then lifted the other and flexed it too. “However you have to, little brother.”

Duboha gave a nod. "I go to gather my stuff and to make sure that the others are waking. You’ve got the watch,” he said and stepped from the brothers. He gave a nod to Traust as the commander came down the stairs.

Traust wore a plate shirt over chain with a tabard of the Oak and Beast. He set his pack on the floor and an ornate shield next to it. "What do we see?" Traust asked as he stepped between the brothers and gazed out the dark window.

“Degorouth and Ministrians," Homoth shrugged. “Duboha believes there may be as many as a hundred.”

“That many?” Traust replied.

“I wouldn't bring any less,” Homoth shrugged. “What do you think? Do we wait for their attack? Do we slaughter ‘em as they try to get in?”

“If we hole up, I imagine they’ll just burn us out,” Traust shook his head. “Once the others are ready, we'll push through the back garden and fight our way free. We’ll make for the wall.”

Komotz gulped. “How long do you think we have?”

“A few minutes, maybe a couple hours…” Traust shrugged. “Let's just hope we're ready to leave before they're ready to come in—otherwise we'll have to start the fighting before we start the running.”

“Simple enough,” Homoth said.

“I should think it is too simple,” Komotz complained.

“Don’t fret, little brother! Plans tend to go right out the window once the swords start swinging! We’ll stay simple, and let their plans be complicated. Then, once we disrupt them, they can fall all over themselves while we march on by,” Homoth grinned as he stroked the long handle of his war mallet.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Andrus rushed into the room as Saleos and Toar rested in their chairs. Elpis lay in the bed, heavily bandaged and completely out. Saleos stirred, and Andrus pointed at the injured man, “He’ll live?”

“I'm a touch concerned about the eye, but given a good couple weeks, I think he’ll be right as rain,” Saleos gave a nod. “Of course, that says nothing of his emotional state—but then, we won’t have to worry about that until after the drugs wear off.”

“And what if we have to move him?” Andrus asked.

Toar rubbed sleep from his eyes. “Like, to another room?” he asked.

“More like out of the city,” Andrus answered.

“You mean, now?!” Toar sat up in his chair, suddenly concerned.

Andrus nodded.

Saleos shook his head. “He's drugged to the gills. If he has to move, we have to carry him. Why? What's going on?”

“We’re discovered,” Andrus said. “Traust means for us to make for the wall.”

“The wall?!” Toar stood. “What good 'll that do?! The gates won't open 'til dawn!”

“That's, what, maybe an hour away?” Andrus noted. “If they put up half a fight, it'll take us that long to get there.”

Toar didn’t like the sound of that! “You expect us to run and fight for an hour?!” He was about to complain further when Aim stepped into the room—a massive intimidating beast of a man. At the sight of him, Toar swallowed any further objection.

“I hear we have to go,” Aim said as he looked about the others.

“That's the word,” Andrus said to the massive man.

Aim pointed at Elpis. “I assume he's not going to carry himself?”

“Not a chance,” Saleos answered.

“Well then, I suppose I better bring our friend,” Aim said as he gently scooped Elpis from among the covers and placed the man over his shoulder.

Saleos helped settle the injured man, then arranged a thick blanket to cover the comatose warrior. “It'll have to do,” he shrugged at the light padding.

“That it will,” Aim grinned. “Get what you need and get downstairs,” he said as he left the room. “We leave immediately.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

“Not you too!” Scurra fussed as Duboha stepped into her room. “Why won't you people just let me sleep!” she bawled as she leaned from her bed, picked a shoe off the floor, and flung it at the man.

Duboha brushed the flying shoe aside. “Andrus says you threw a cup at him.”

“I'd have thrown a knife if I had one close!” Scurra complained as she buried her head in her pillows.

“Wish I didn't have to bother you, cousin, but we have company,” Duboha noted. “Degorouth? Ministrians? Either way, I doubt they mean to bring us breakfast.”

Aware of the implications, Scurra stared wide-eyed at the man. “We were followed?”

Duboha nodded. “That's what I was thinking.”

“We led ‘em right to you…” Scurra noted. “Argh!” she huffed as she rolled over and onto her back. “Dear Jeiju! I was finally comfortable!” she complained in a loud whisper.

“It isn't meant to be,” Duboha pointed. He pulled a small leather pouch from his pocket. “Your brother gave me this. He told me it is for anyone that might want it,” he held up the small leather pouch. “If it’s what I think it is, I wouldn't mind having a pinch myself,” he noted as he offered the small pouch to Scurra.

Scurra opened the pouch and removed a slight spoon, then sniffed its contents. Her eyes went wide as she identified what was offered. “Fio,” she said, as she sat up straight. “So it’s gonna be one of those nights. Alright then,” she said as she stuck the spoon into the pouch, removed a bit of fine green powder, and ate it. She wiped the spoon clean with her fingers, then passed the spoon and pouch back to Duboha.

Duboha took a dose himself. “Invigorating,” he grinned as the fine herb lit up his veins.

“Never been a fan of the stuff. Makes me jittery,” Scurra noted. “But if there ever was a time to take it,” she threw off her covers and peeled off her nightgown.

Wide eyed, Duboha turned from Scurra as she wore nothing but her small clothes. He fought the urge to take another glance at the athletic woman in her near-naked glory.

“Where do you want my bow?” Scurra asked as she pulled on her travel leathers.

“Apulton is up on the roof. Andrus is headed there if you care to join them,” Duboha said. “Otherwise, the rest of us gather in the main hall.”

“The roof it is,” she nodded. “So what's the plan? Do we stand and hope to outlast a siege, or do we make a run for it?”

“We run,” Duboha said. “We make for the wall. If you get separated, make for The Copper Kettle and Rooms, six hours on the main road east.”

“Six hours, eh? That's not so bad,” Scurra noted.

“It's six hours on horse,” Duboha shrugged. “It’s easily a day on foot—at least a day—more like three or four the way you’ve been traveling.”

“Then you can expect to see me by weeks end,” Scurra mocked.

“There might be fifty men or more out there,” Duboha noted. “They don't mean to see us go peaceful. If you don’t find us at the Copper Kettle and Rooms, I do hope to see you in Hearthstone some day.”

Scurra studied Duboha with a critical eye. “Have a little faith, my friend. You never know what might happen.”

“May Jeiju step from the clouds and deliver us,” Duboha shrugged as he turned from the room. “Until then, I’ll pray for the best and prepare for the worst.”

~!@#$%^&()_+ 7.5 +_)(&^%$#@!~

In the main hall, as the party crowded around in the dark, Celesi stepped close to Toar with Evereste in her arms.

"Why do you bring the baby?" Toar asked her. "Why don't you give her to her mother?”

"That one is still a bit of mess," Celesi whispered.

Toar caught sight of the priestess. Wenifas leaned heavily on Krumpus as the two navigated the stairs. “I'm just happy to see her on her feet again,” the former Jay mentioned.

“That bad, eh?” Toar stared at Wenifas. A wicked looking dagger dangled from the priestess’s hand. Toar turned back to Celesi. “Do you want a weapon?”

Celesi lifted the hem of her dress, that he might see a set of blades attached to her thigh.

“Throwing knives,” Toar smiled.

“And I don’t intend to throw a single one,” Celesi shrugged. “If I need to fight, we've already lost. Besides, I’m not very good with them. Instead, I'll care for the babe and let the mother handle a weapon. She looks like she'd enjoy cutting someone.”

"Let's just hope it's not one of us," Toar muttered. He shook his head. “I'm not much better myself,” he said as he eyed the sword at his waist.

“There are a few fighters here. We'll be alright,” Celesi said as she looked about the others. The fighting men all wore the colors of the Oak and Beast, varied armor, and a wide array of weapons. Saleos carried a bow in hand, a quiver at his waist, and two short swords on his hips. Despite his smaller frame, Duboha was heavily armored with a shield and a long sword. Homoth was also armored, but had no shield. Instead, he had a long mallet in his hands that was nearly as tall as he was, and a two-handed sword that he carried on his back. Komotz wore chain mail as he carried a shield and a sword. Aim carried his cousin’s war axe—and so many additional weapons about his waist that Celesi felt she’d be hard pressed to count them all. On top of that, the large man had Elpis on his shoulder.

The Saots also wore the green and silver of the Oak and Beast. Creigal carried a long sword in one hand and a small shield in his other. He wore chainmail and a metal helmet, and cringed as he declined whatever it was that Duboha had in a small leather pouch. Carringten had a long spear, a large shield over his back, and Bence's short sword on his hip. Baet had Derris's sword and a long knife in his other hand. Even the shaman was armed. Krumpus was draped in his dirty travel cloak and carried his staff with a metal point on the end. His other arm was looped around Wenifas.

Of all of them, Celesi thought Traust looked the most formidable. His armor shined as he brandished his extravagant sword with a sculpted black hilt in the shape of a beast's gaping maw. The shield bore a great tree of silver and jade with a large onyx beast beneath it. Celesi smiled at the regal look of the man and thought nothing could happen to the party with such a leader at their front.

Toar looked about the room. “We're missing a few,” he frowned. “Where are Apulton, Andrus, and Scurra?”

“They're on top of the house. As soon as we start running, they'll cover us until we get free," Saleos whispered. "Once we're free of the house, they'll cut loose and follow.”

“And then?” Celesi asked.

Saleos shrugged, unconcerned.

“That's not a very deep plan,” Celesi frowned.

“If it’s simple, we might actually manage it,” Saleos replied. “Now here’s the bit to remember: if you get separated, make for the Copper Kettle and Rooms. Its on the road to Hearthstone, maybe thirty miles.”

“Thirty miles?!” Celesi stared.

“It’s probably best if you don’t get separated,” Saleos continued. Strange shadows began to grow and dance on his face. He glanced past them and pointed at the front room. "Fire," he noted in a calm manner, he leaned toward Traust and repeated the word, “Fire.”

Celesi turned and saw flames as they crawled under the door and climbed the closed drapes.

“We go now,” Traust ordered. He stepped to the back garden door while the others pressed close and pulled the door open. A barrage of arrows screamed out of the night. They shattered against the armored form of Traust and fell away harmless—all but one. One slipped just above the edge of his shield and buried itself in the slit of his visor. With a jerk, Traust floundered, fell to the floor, and convulsed—as death overcame him. Celesi watched in horror as blood poured from under his helmet. She took half a step toward the man—but Toar shook his head and pulled her away. It was already too late. There was nothing anyone could do for the man.

With a curse, Duboha stepped over his dead friend and pushed his way out of the door. Several arrows slammed against his shield and armor—though there were significantly fewer missiles. This time, none of the arrows caused any damage as Duboha surged into the garden, followed by Homoth and Komotz.

In the middle of the rest, Celesi left the house and entered the maelstrom. There was screaming and fighting all about her. Thankfully, the only arrows that fell happened to drop off the roof sideways. She looked up to see arrows zip to and from the top of the house as Andrus, Apulton, and Scurra exchanged missiles with their enemies.

Celesi cradled Evereste as she ran toward the sounds of conflict, with her stomach in her throat. Panic rose in her chest and threatened to overwhelm her as Toar pulled her forward, toward the growing mayhem.

“Yargh!” A figure toppled over the edge of the carriage house with an arrow stuck in his neck. He landed with a sickening crunch a few feet away. Another slipped from view over the edge of the roof—an arrow caught in his leg as he bellowed and cursed. The long form of Homoth’s mallet flashed from the surging crowd and struck the dangling man, who promptly fell to the ground and disappeared under the feet of the Jindleyak militia. Celesi refused to look as she stepped over his bloody body.

A third man leaned over the edge of the carriage house and aimed his bow among the fleeing men—but someone in front of her threw a hatchet and caught the man in the chest. He toppled off the roof into a hedge of roses, which must have lashed him in a thousand places before he slumped to the ground in an awkward heap. Celesi couldn’t help but stare at the man’s form, twisted and uncaring, as the roses swayed and snapped.

Ahead of her, metal banged against metal. Curses, yells, and screams were quick to follow. If not for Toar, Celesi would have hid in the first convenient patch of shadow. Instead, she kept her eyes on the brave, young Trohl and gripped his arm as tight as she could. This is the way forward, she told herself. This is the way to a new life.

Toar led Celesi through the back garden gate as they chased after the others. She passed Saleos as he aimed his bow back the way they came. She glanced back and saw his arrow impale a shadow as it rushed to catch up to them. The attacker jerked back and flung his sword as he gurgled and died a short distance away. His weapon crashed to the ground, slid, and clattered to a halt near Celesi’s feet—and then she was running again.

Toar pulled Celesi along. They passed a number of dead and injured enemies. One man sat against a fence with a rough gash across his stomach. Shock and horror danced across his face as he tried to put the ropes of his intestines back where they belonged. Celesi felt sick. She pressed her mouth into the screaming form of Evereste and gagged.

Celesi followed Toar into a thin alley at a breakneck pace. She turned her focus to Evereste and did her best not to jar the child as she ran. They turned a corner. Toar stopped suddenly, and Celesi ran into the back of him. He turned, wide eyed, and pushed her away. Off balance, they reeled away from each other. Celesi fell backward—as something heavy and metal split the air between them.

An axe looped end over end through the space Celesi just occupied. She backpedaled furiously, but couldn't keep her feet. She lost balance and was careful to cradle Evereste as she crashed to her ass, then flopped on her back. Thankfully, her head landed in a soft patch of flowers. Her breath caught as she tried to ignore the pain that rang through her rump, spine, shoulders, neck, and head. Tomorrow, there'd be bruises for sure.

A large form appeared from the side. Celesi screamed as a Ministrian pulled a sword and sneered at her. She figured it must be the axe-thrower.

Toar appeared over her and ran at the attacker. He slashed at the larger man—but the shock trooper turned the strike aside and countered. Toar deflected the blow, but was forced to step back.

Celesi hobbled to her feet and tried to get away—but the Ministrian grabbed her and nearly pulled her off balance as he yanked her in the other direction. Celesi fumbled Evereste and almost dropped her—as she thought to get at the blades buried under her dress. Instead, she clung to the babe and barely managed to keep the child from falling.

Toar stepped up again and slashed at the attacker. The shock trooper turned the blow—though he was forced to let go of Celesi. She dodged behind Toar and looked about for the others. Where’d they go?!

Toar swung again and again—but was turned aside each time. He took a step back. Now that he had the Ministrian’s full attention, he realized he was outmatched. They both knew it. With a knowing grin, the Ministrian advanced.

Suddenly, a long thin form with wide angular wings dropped out of the sky and wrapped about the Ministrian. The shock trooper screamed and tried to throw the beast off as it bit him again and again.

Toar took the opening and attacked—though he wondered if he should go for the beast or the man. The tip of his sword pierced the Ministrian between his heart and shoulder. The shock trooper gaped at Toar, horrified by the sudden turn of events. He backed away, dropped his weapon, and stumbled to the ground as he continued to wrestle with the winged beast.

The serpent separated from the Ministrian—though the man continued to fight—only now he fought himself. He clawed at his own throat as he screamed in terror and panic. Blood streamed from his neck as he buried his nails into his own soft skin. He jerked and convulsed, and his screams turned to a gurgle. A few seconds more, and the attacker slumped to his back as blood pooled all around him.

The winged serpent turned toward Toar and Celesi, fangs bared. Celesi screamed as Toar lifted his sword and stood between them. With a hiss, the beast spread its wings and launched itself into the air. Wide eyed, Toar and Celesi stared after the creature—but it disappeared just as quickly as it came.

Scurra and Andrus appeared from out of the dark as they ran down the alley with bows ready. They glanced nervously after the unexpected beast. “What the bloody hell was that?!” Andrus asked as he took Celesi by the arm and pulled her along.

Celesi shrugged and wondered how half the city wasn't awake with so much screaming and fighting! She looked about the nearby buildings to see that many windows were lit. Now that she thought to look, she noticed much of the neighborhood was awake! Indeed, people streamed out of their houses, most with weapons in hand! Panic gripped Celesi as she realized they’d never fight through all of them!

“Let's go,” Toar urged and pulled Celesi down the street. There were several more bodies. She only looked long enough to see that she didn't recognize them, then turned away from the pooling blood.

Celesi noticed others running in the streets. To her left, a shout went up, “Ministrians!”

“Ministrians!” The call was repeated, then started to sound all around them. “Ministrians!”

The sounds of fighting erupted everywhere instead of just ahead of them—but as the fighting intensified, it also drifted away. Slowly, the tension eased from the air, and Celesi felt she could breathe. For the first time since she stepped from the house, she thought she might live through the night.

A crowd gathered before them. It was the others! Celesi was happy to see they no longer fought. Nor did they run. They were all stopped in the middle of an intersection as they stared down both streets. Celesi glanced about her gathered friends. There was a good deal of blood among them, though most kept their feet. She began to count heads—then noticed the armed shadows that gathered about them—shadows that were slowly closing in. She stared as a crowd of men advanced from every direction. A knot of dread formed in the pit of her stomach.

The warriors formed a ring, and Celesi found herself pushed to the center of her companions. She came eye to eye with Wenifas. The priestess looked just as harried as Celesi felt.

“Oh, my sweet baby!” Wenifas exhaled. She dropped her bloody knife and claimed the crying child. “Thank you!” the priestess sighed her relief as Celesi handed her over. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” Although Evereste whined, she seemed no worse for the wear.

"So much for making the gate,” Celesi said as she leaned into Toar. He wrapped his arms around her, and she thought that although she might die, it was a nice consolation to die in his arms. Indeed, she hoped for death over a return to servitude, and feared she might still end up in Tikatis, sold to some old Baradha, for the occasional indulgence.

“Who goes?!” Duboha called to the men that gathered all around them.

“We ask the same!” Came a reply. “Put down your weapons or perish! We are the Pan Iskaer, and you have broken our peace!”

Duboha let out a sigh of relief, then set down his sword, and sat in the street. The others sheathed their weapons or set them on the ground.

Celesi stared at the relaxing Jindleyaks. “Do we know them?!”

“We know 'em,” Duboha nodded. “It's their neighborhood after all.”

“Wait,” Celesi began, suddenly suspicious. “You expected them to intercede—and you made me think we had to run all the way to the wall?!”

Duboha shrugged. “It was always a possibility,” he admitted. “But we prefer not to rest on the efforts of others.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Claiten woke from his sleep and sat up in the luxurious bed. He considered the room as a light haze poured through the windows. The sun was about to come up.

Despite the early hour, Meu was missing.

Claiten was unconcerned. The serpent came and went as she pleased and kept strange hours—but she always came back. Besides, he didn't want to distract her from the task at hand. She was looking for his mother, and nothing could please the boy more.

Over the past several days, Claiten saw Meu with the Grandus of the Ministrians several times, but the boy was forbidden to talk with any of the men. She stared into his eyes and warned him of the harm that might come to himself, his mother, and even his sister, if they were found out. Claiten kept his distance and remained silent. Instead, he went about during the heat of the day, when the nagas were least likely to be slinking around. He took several coins and often treated himself to sweets while he looked for his mother—or possibly any of the others—among the endless streets and shops.

Once he noticed a man with black skin and thought he must be the dark warrior—but he was not the first to find him. Several guards marched the black man away; then, as he passed, he got a good look at the midnight foreigner. For a long moment, they stared at each other, but there was no recognition in the stranger’s face. Besides, he had a different shape and a sad hollowness about his expression, quite unlike the serious, self-assured, and daunting manner of Carringten.

Ahh, but that was yesterday. Today, Claiten planned to wander the streets some more. He pulled on his pants and went to the balcony door, opened it, and stared off to the east. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon. There was a chill in the air and it made Claiten feel alive to face the light morning breeze. For several seconds, he listened to the birds chirp as the world was painted red. He breathed in the new day as a defiance surged through him.

“ERRR-AY-ERRR-AY-ERRRRRR!” He crowed, as he’d done each day since he’d escaped Golifett, long and loud, like a proud rooster should. He turned this way and that to see if anyone cared—but if anyone minded, they kept it to themselves. Again, he gathered his breath and gave another call, “ERRR-AY-ERRR-AY-ERRRRRR!” He felt he sounded a lot like the other crowing cocks.

Claiten stared out over the waking city streets. He was about to crow a third time when he spotted Meu, as she flew straight at him. Claiten pushed the balcony doors wide and stepped out of the way. Meu shot into the suite and swirled about before she settled on the bed. A darkness swallowed her and Claiten turned away. As soon as the darkness faded, he knew she'd be naked. He didn’t want to see it. He didn’t want to think of the strange serpentine women that complicated his dreams.

Meu stepped from the bed and whipped on a sundress. She ran to Claiten. She grabbed his hands and pulled him inside as she said the only thing she ever said out loud. "Druss meu!" She said excitedly and stared into his eyes. She’d done it! She’d found the others!

Claiten forgot about his crowing. “Where are they?!” he pleaded as he turned, gathered his purse, and snagged the naga knife from off a low dresser. “Where is my mother?!”

"Druss meu!" she exclaimed again. She took his hand. They ran out of the room, and from the inn altogether, then fled down the street as Claiten laughed long and loud.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.7 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

A limp child hung from Golifett's arm. He'd gone through a great deal of trouble to secure the young girl and hoped it’d live just a little while longer—just another day or two. He was not interested in the slave trade, so the children he stole never needed to live for long. Still, they were always better fresh.

This child was smaller than the last and didn't come with a surprisingly large bag of coin—but it was a worthy prize and should do as the centerpiece of his feast nonetheless. To think he'd found the other child almost by chance in the very halls of Beletrain—only to have him stolen away! Indeed, Golifett found himself dawdling as he continued to think of the child that had escaped him several days before.

The light of day grew, and Golifett was still above ground. He was in a patch of wild growth, and approached a pool in a stream that was much deeper than it looked. On the northeast side of the pool was a bolt hole that would carry him down into the safety of Beletrain. The cold of the water would shock the girl awake—but then he'd be in Beletrain—and all the screaming and struggle in the world wouldn't save the child!

Still, this was a strange night for the naga, and he’d be quite happy to get home. The normal quiet of the morning was shattered just after he grabbed this child from her bed. At first, Golifett thought he was discovered and might have to fight his way free—but then he saw a nearby fire, and knew there was other trouble afoot. He turned in the opposite direction, and was more than happy to hear the fighting and craziness drift away, toward the wall of the city. He slipped among the shadows and wondered if the rumors were true. Were the men once more fighting amongst themselves? He certainly hoped so! Let the humans fight! He thought. With luck they’ll reduce Ebertin to ash—and then we’ll return to the surface once more!

As Golifett thought his cruel thoughts, another note caught in his ear and sent a jolt through his spine—though it was a most pleasant and appreciated sound! Indeed, he liked it more than the sound of the fighting! It sounded as if a cockerel crowed—but he knew it was no rooster! Indeed, it was just a young boy that mimicked the sound. He stopped and listened intently as the crowing sounded again. A grin split his lips. He was sure it was the boy he’d caught before—the one with all the gold!

He listened for a third crow, as the magic often caused the subject to call again and again, as long as they still suffered his spell. The smile curled into a frown. Two crows meant that although the magic stuck, it was not nearly as strong as he might have liked. He should hope for three, four, or even five calls. Still, as long as the chicken spell lasted, the child would be easy to follow. Eventually, the boy would slip the curse altogether and think no more of proud roosters caught by sinister snakes—of courage and cowardice—but for a month, a week, or maybe just a few days, he’d always identify himself as the sun rose and fell.

Golifett licked his lips and wondered if he might get the child, the rest of the gold, and perhaps the woman's infant to boot! He touched the burn on his face and thought it proper to take both of the witch's children. She deserved no less for what she did to him! Indeed, he hoped to kill the witch too—and the strange winged serpent that helped her rescue her boy!

What was he to make of the serpent, he wondered? Aside from stew? Not that he thought the serpent would be that easy to catch. It’d snuck into his home and strangled him—then seemingly disappeared as the naked mother took her child back. Where did the winged serpent go?

But that was for yesterday and tomorrow. Today, Golifett had yet to secure his current catch. For now, he'd go home, prepare a feast, and gather his friends. Then, as night fell, the hunt would commence.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 7.8 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

The spirit of Brankellus lay at the base of Rynth Falls as if he were dead. Yet, the ghost had sworn a pact with the gods of vengeance and strife, and these gods meant to have him about his work. Slowly, they stitched their acolyte, weaving in scar tissue that could only add to his ache and misery. They pulled him back together, as easily as a mother darns a cloth doll. The howl of the dead rushed across the valley and ignited the secret purpose deep within the ghost. There was a living man that deserved a gruesome end!

Brankellus coughed and spit dust as he rose from the earth. He picked himself back to his feet and noticed it was no longer night. Now, it was day. Still, Petaerus was near at hand, among the tents at the edge of the city.

The tents would not be there for long. Indeed, they were being removed, as soldiers prepared to march. They were thick as hornets as some loaded provisions. Others simply waited, ready to go, or simply scoffing off as they might. There were a good number of Trohls among them, with some few Saot and Hebronese mixed in, even a Gressian or two. It was a mixed force, though they all wore Trohl garb—including the bulk of Ministrians. Only a few of the Saots wore anything else, another uniform altogether, one of red and black, adorned with the sigil of a bird. To dress as Trohls and Soats without a single soldier dressed in the iconic black of the Ministrian shock trooper… Brankellus could tell the purpose. Yet again, the Empire waged war under false pretense.

As Brankellus slogged along the road. A knot of officers meandered down the street in front of them, a high commander at the center of the knot. This officer inspected the soldiers—and just happened to match the unseen ghost stride for stride—and who should be among the High Commander’s escort but Petaerus himself! Brankellus swung at the man—and went right through him.

The knot of officers moseyed down the road. The ghost stood and followed after them as quick as he could. A weather worn runner stared up at the commander as a knot of lesser officers pressed in close. “How far out were they when you left them?” the commander asked without looking at the runner.

“Eight days,” the runner answered.

“And that was…?”

“Four days ago.”

“In what condition did you find them?”

“They were in good health; body, mind, and spirit,” the runner said. “If they are late at all, I should think it will only be a day or two.”

“No troubles? No sign of Waokie along the south road?”

“No, sir. Not by me or any of the men I met.”

For several seconds the Lord Commander stared at the runner as he continued down the line of soldiers. Word carried on the wind before the approaching knot of high ranking men, and the common troops engaged themselves in a flurry of activity—then watched the officers pass—relieved to see the Lord Commander took little notice of their busywork.

“Is there something you’re forgetting?” the Lord Commander asked and stared at the runner once more.

For a second, the runner simply stared back, terrified and dumbfounded. Then he remembered the letters in his bag. He retrieved them and handed them to the Lord Commander with a crisp salute.

“Right,” the Lord Commander said, then reached into his own bag and handed several letters back to the runner. “That’ll be all,” he said and turned away from the runner.

The Lord Commander continued down the street as he opened the first letter and read it to himself. He spoke to no one in particular as he wore a pleased expression. “It seems that we’ll have two more legions by the end of the week, and three more to follow before the end of the month, with another four to follow by the end of summer!”

The gathered officers hanged on his every word. A swell of cheers and glad-handing broke out among them—but the Lord Commander’s grin quickly turned to a frown, as he continued his general commentary.

“We shall need them all, since we must now fight on two fronts.”

“Then we pursue the waokie after all?” asked one of lesser officers.

“In time,” the Lord Commander nodded. “I should think the waokie are properly thinned and satiated for now. They will not attack again for some years. They will retreat to their tunnels, to Valcovour’s pass and the ruins of Salyst; and for the time, we shall let them be. Nonetheless, we shall keep half a legion here to watch the town, and also a few hundred Trohls,” he answered. “When the first legions arrives, we shall split the men equally. We need to clear the north road—especially Valcovour’s Pass. We’ve left that nasty nest to fester for too long. Then we shall rebuild and reopen the dueling forts, so we can continue our work among the Bouge. Indeed, we will rebuild them, larger and stronger than before!”

The Lord Commander stopped and turned on the gathered men.

“This is how we’ll retake the mountains!” he charged. “And this time we take them for good! We’ll control the Bunderhilt from Wibbeley to Ebertin, from the plains of the Noeth, to Crestone Ridge! And we shall do it for the Empire!”

The other officers cheered.

“Ready the men!” Gliedian commanded. “We make for Solveny, immediately!”

Brankellus tried to throttle his enemy, but his hands went right through the man! Petaerus brushed at his shoulders and ears—as if bothered by a fly. Having his orders, he turned and stomped away from the Lord Commander.

Brankellus tried to follow, but the Copal moved fast and quickly out-distanced him. He saw the hated man mount his horse, then lead a troop south, leaving nothing but dust for the spirit.

Brankellus approached the far edge of the army and left those that still tarried behind. He trudged after Petaerus, chagrined that he should see him only for a moment before the man should slip away. He wondered how long he was out after his fall from the ledge. Was it just the remainder of that night, and the first part of the next day? Had he lost another rotation, or maybe two or three? Would this have been enough time for the spirit to find a way to destroy his enemy? He remembered nothing of the episode except an impossible pain, followed by a stretch of oblivion and a vague sense of bliss; only for burning, itching, dreadful discomfort of his quest to rise through his spirit and wake him once more.

Brankellus shuffled on. The sun rose and slowly approached it’s zenith. A column of Ministrians and Trohls appeared behind him, as they marched from Rynth Falls, on their way to Solveny. Brankellus didn’t know the town, though he’d heard rumor of its grace and hospitality. These were Noeth lands and he knew them only by reputation.

Brankellus did not notice the trail of mounted troops as it appeared behind him and slowly proceeded to catch him. He did not notice the shake of the earth until the first of the horsemen was immediately behind him. The beast brushed him, then spooked to find a spirit in its way. The horse reared and almost threw its rider. Brankellus stumbled aside as he feared the pain of a trampling.

The horse stared at the ghost and did everything in its power to avoid any further collision—as the rider tried to settle the animal and coax it forward in a neat line. The mount pressed to one side, into its neighbor, and took several quick steps away from the spirit before it finally calmed under the veteran hands of its rider. Once it had passed the ghost, it gave its neighbor an appropriate amount of space—but then the next horse stamped and fussed as it veered and also gave way to the spirit.

"What's up with ‘em?" this rider asked, as he too struggled to calm his mount.

"Dunno," another shook his head. They stepped around the unseen ghost, giving him an ever increasing berth.

Intrigued, Brankellus stepped close to one of the horses and held out his hand. His fingers brushed the animal's coat and an electric jolt passed from him to the beast. The horse jumped at the touch and gave a panicked whinny. It collided with the next horse and caused several more mounts and riders to jumble—though none fell. Well trained, the riders managed to stay on top of their horses and slowly returned them to a semblance of order.

Now, the flow of soldiers stepped off the road to either side of the ghost for a good twenty feet. Aware that something was up, several horsemen eyed the spot where Brankellus stood with out and out suspicion—though they invariably looked straight through him. Whispers and murmurs flowed from the soldiers. A call went up. "Voressa! Voressa! See what cannot be seen!" they shouted back along the train of men.

A young page appeared. He led a donkey into the clearing with a withered old woman upon it. The page brought her into the circle and stopped at the old woman’s signal. Slowly, she dismounted, held out a hand so the troops would stop, then stepped from the beast and approached the spirit before her. Her eyes were cloudy and Brankellus wondered if she could see anything at all—until she stopped maybe a foot in front of him. She stared up and locked her gaze on him. "Why do you trouble us?" she asked, her voice shrill and weak—though her manner was familiar and her question unafraid.

Brankellus noted the pin she wore with two fangs, one of silver and one of gold. He did not need much encouragement to treat this old woman poorly, and the fact that she wore a mark of privilege sent him over the edge. A snarl curled over the dead man's lips. He glared and growled at the old woman, and even tried to strike her.

Voressa frowned as she raised a weathered arm at Brankellus. "Do you challenge me?!" She croaked as she pulled a charm of fine metals and delicate crafting from under her sack cloth cloak. She pointed the pendant at Brankellus, flowers and stars all knotted together. "You will learn that this is a world for the living, first and foremost!" she screeched.

Brankellus could feel a strange power radiating from the five-point forms of the relic. Caught in a wash of hate and vengeance, he thrashed and wailed at the old woman, in hopes of somehow causing her damage—but his strikes went right through her. Strangely, his hand caught the sharp edges of the metal charm, and he almost pulled it from her hand!

"By Gairfitz, begone!" Voressa yelled as she twisted the amulet.

A wall of air crushed into Brankellus. The spirit shot backward into the trees, flung like a rag doll. He caught among the thick undergrowth, a good forty or fifty feet from the road, disoriented and confused.

With a snort, Voressa waved the soldiers on as she stepped to the edge of the road and continued to glare at Brankellus. Assured there would be no more trouble, the column of soldiers proceeded once more, as the half blind woman stared through the trees at the vengeful Trohl spirit.

Caught by the old woman's uncanny gaze, Brankellus didn't dare move. He simply watched the troop pass as he wondered at the old woman’s power.

With the page’s help, Voressa struggled back on top of her donkey. Then, the page led the weary beast and its rider after the troop. Two mounted men with armor and weapons stayed back with her, and flanked her protectively as she followed the others.

With their supernatural protector at the van, the troop disappeared among the trees. Brankellus began the wearisome process of standing, though he realized he was able to straighten his back a bit more, and the pain of his shuffle was somehow improved by the rude treatment he’d received from the hands of the old witch. He slogged after the soldiers, though they progressed quite quickly. Soon, he could not even hear the clomp of their hooves.

The day stretched on. Brankellus continued his trudging walk. The trees took on the red hue of evening for several minutes before the blue of the sky finished its transition and became black as pitch. Stars peeked out of the night. Once again, thin pricks of hope shot down from these far distant lights and begged the ghost to surrender—but he ignored them, and stoked his anger, as he focused on the earth under his feet.

Near midnight, Brankellus hobbled past the same troop as they rested at the side of the road. Not wanting to run into the old woman, he kept his distance, which was easy, since he simply had to keep the road. Indeed, Voressa was awake and near the center of camp. There was no sneaking past. She turned and glared at the spirt. "Trouble us again, and I will send you through the veil!" she yelled, as Brankellus kept his distance. He wondered if she could do such a thing and thought it best not to test her. He skirted around the troop as Voressa continued to glare.

Near morning, he caught glimpse of another troop. He was sure that Petaerus was with this one—but arrived as they were breaking camp and did not even see the man.

For two days, Brankellus played leapfrog with Voressa’s column of Ministrian shock troops. Each day they passed him earlier, and each night he passed them later. Although he never stopped, they traveled at a faster clip, and Brankellus realized he would only catch his quarry if Petaerus stayed in one place. The spirit needed something to bog the man down, some obstacle, some army… These soldiers must all be going somewhere, the ghost concluded. Eventually, they would get where they meant to go—and then Brankellus must surely catch his quarry—though he feared the destruction, the senseless carnage he was sure to find, when he should finally arrive at wherever they were going.

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