Mourning
Polished — 52m25s — 2023/12/20
There is a reason they are called the Broken Legions of Tronde and Rigel and never the Broken Legions of Rigel and Tronde. Tronde is named first as he led the fabled exodus with his diplomats, scouts, scholars, and such—of which only a few were fighting men. He needed few warriors since they fled across friendly lands, and were often embraced by the scattered towns and villages of the western Tallian plain. On the other hand, Rigel and his fighting men defended their van from the Waoernok hordes. His was a desperate delaying action, and he needed every body he could get.
Both generals were masterful fighters, though they had opposite styles and strengths. It might be hard to imagine the two came up under similar circumstance, met at an early age, and were fast friends for decades despite—or perhaps because of—their contrasting personalities. Tronde was a charismatic leader, a silver-tongued diplomat, and negotiator of pomp and flourish; while Rigel was a hard-scrabble tactician, with few words to spare (which were always forward and forthright). Both were highly decorated and accomplished leaders, even before the Great Betrayal, even before they turned against their duplicitous superiors and rescued a great many of their countrymen from impending doom.
Tronde’s work at the head of the exodus was diplomatic and logistical, as he needed to convince more and more to join their long march, or else they should perish. JamJoarie was the last great city before the people thinned across the marginal Tallian plain—and there were no great fortresses left in the kingdom to which they might retreat. The Waoernok invaders were far too numerous and offered no quarter to those they overcame. Once the charismatic Tronde had convinced these outliers to join the exodus, he then incorporated them into his long train and salvaged anything that could be salvaged.
At the far end of the exodus, Rigel was tested in a very different way. He was always under pressure, and constantly fighting to keep the Waoernok at bay, with trappers, sneaks, and assassins galore. Rigel lost a great number of men, though he bled his Waoernok pursuers and consistently slowed their crawling advance. Those under his command often touted his brilliance. They frequently swore many more would have died under any other leader.
From the day Tronde and Rigel abandoned their posts on the outskirts of the ancient city JamJaoarie and took many of the city’s occupants with them, their slow march across the Tallian plains took five hundred and twenty-eight days until the blended forces of the Broken Legions beat back the last of their pursuers at the Pass of Stoens, upon the ridges of Mount Victorie, at the eastern edge of the Bunderhilt mountains.
After the exodus of the Broken Legions, Tronde settled in the valley of the Heartflow and continued to train as a warrior and diplomat near Hearthstone; while Rigel went north and west and settled half a day’s journey from the village of Melmorahn. Unlike Tronde, Rigel was determined to live a quiet life. He hung up his sword in favor of a shovel. He took a young bride, and kept to his home as she gave him babies to raise. He lived quite apart from others and was known to refuse the occasional visitor.
Despite their divergent courses and what one might expect of their continued experiences, Tronde’s later years were fairly easy, as an age of peace and prosperity settled over the mountains. Yet, in the wilder north lands, Rigel was involved in a number of violent confrontations. Although Rigel was forced to defend himself on several occasions, his sword never left its place above the door. It was always enough for the man to have a rake, a shovel, or nothing but his hands to fend off his enemies. Indeed, despite the great difficulties of living at the very edge of the wild, Rigel always claimed it was the squirrels that gave him the most trouble.
— The Nine Tribes of the Trohl: A History of How the Yak of the Bunderhilt and The Broken Legions of Tronde and Rigel Forged a New Nation, Aogostua Veribos, p. 82-84
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A skeleton of flame-scarred timbers tenuously hung in the bright morning air. Flames stretched from the top of the House of Leaves, but no longer spread, as zealous citizens of east Ebertin flung their buckets of water at the last few hot spots that remained.
Several blocks from the embers of the house, Celesi did her best not to think of Traust, buried somewhere in the ash. She glanced about her companions, happy that so many of them had made it out alive, yet anguished by the amount of blood on their clothes.
Saleos and Duboha parlayed with officers among the Pan Iskaer as the others rested under the watchful eye of their captors. A Pan Iskaer guard, a slight and weaselly man, caught sight of Wenifas among the surrendered party. He nudged a friend as he pointed at the priestess and whispered, “Ministrian.”
At his word, the other Pan Iskaer turned. They stared at Wenifas, then approached to get a better look at the unsuspecting priestess. Several other Pan Iskaer leaned in as more and more noticed the foreigner. The one that discovered her stood just in front of Celesi as he pointed at the beleaguered Ministrian, then motioned for her to stand up.
Wenifas turned and stared back at the slight guard, dumbfounded and unsure of his language.
“Git up,” he told her again—though he spoke a language she didn’t understand.
All emotion and raw nerves, Celesi’s anger boiled over at the curt command. She lunged at the accusing Pan Iskaer and struck him with her balled fists before he could do anything about it. "You will not touch her!” she snapped. “She is exiled! You hear me! She is no more a Ministrian than you or I, and YOU WILL NOT TOUCH HER!" She struck at the slight man again and again.
Quite surprised by Celesi’s attack, the Pan Iskaer flinched and shrugged aside her assault, then caught her hands and wrapped her in a restraining hug. “Easy now,” he growled. “You don’t really want to fight me,” he told her.
Despite her fury, Celesi could do no harm. Although the combatants were similar in size, the Pan Iskaer was well muscled and seemingly made of wood. It was likely he could break the young woman with nothing more than a hard squeeze. Still, she struggled. “Let go, you brute!” she yelled, as she squirmed and fussed. She kicked at his shins, though it seemed only to hurt her heels.
“Stop striking, and perhaps I will,” the Pan Iskaer replied between gritted teeth.
A dark hand gripped the Pan Iskaer’s shoulder. The guard turned to see the serious face of Carringten. With a bit of a bow, the captain imposed himself between the two. “Apologies, Squirrel,” he said to the Pan Iskaer guard, as the dark man took hold of Celesi and pushed her toward Toar.
Squirrel bowed back to the dark foreigner, happy to back away from the red tempered Jay. Celesi started yelling at all the gathered Pan Iskaer. “Do none among you speak Ministrian?!” she snarled. “If you wish to be sure of what she is, why don’t you ask her?!”
Another of the Pan Iskaer stepped toward the frightened priestess. “Is it true?” he said in her foreign tongue. “Are you exiled?”
Wenifas shrank from the man, but the others encouraged her response, and so she gave a nod.
"Is it because of you that they attack?" he continued.
Wenifas shook her head.
“Then why has this trouble started?”
Carringten answered for her. “The Degorouth and their Baradha allies believe we had something to do with Kezodel’s death—though I can assure you it was nothing more than a cosmic accident.”
Squirrel gaped as he looked about the group with new eyes. “It was you!” he half-accused as he looked about the captives. “You were the ones that confronted that cretin and brought about the vengeance of Jeiju!”
Carringten shook his head. “We cannot cause meteors to fall. Still, we knew the Ministrians and their Degorouth allies would blame us all the same, and so we have been hiding. Last night, they discovered us.”
“You got a good distance,” Squirrel smiled. “You had a good number behind you. Indeed, we caught half a dozen, and chased off several dozen more. I’d guess there was half a company after you.”
“You have captives?” Carringten noted. “What do they say about all this?”
“They say they are after fugitives. After that, they simply demand their release,” Squirrel shrugged. “Wait here.” He turned and stepped over to where Duboha and Saleos continued their conversation with several of the Pan Iskaer captains. Initially, the Pan Iskaer officers were upset by Squirrel’s revelations, but they quickly realized that although Duboha and Saleos may have been keeping information from them, they were still in the right.
They continued to talk as the crowd of onlookers grew, interested in the militia’s activities. Noticing the growing jumble of busybodies, the Pan Iskaer came to a quick decision. Squirrel left their midst and returned to the dark captain, as the commanders gave orders among their own to push a path through the growing throng of rubberneckers. "It is evident to us that you were defending yourselves and should be free,” Squirrel smiled. “However, since so many take such an interest in this morning’s mess, we think it is best if we escort you into the countryside—and since we travel with you, we hope that perhaps you will tell us more of your story,” he smiled.
Carringten nodded. "Before we go, we would like to collect our fallen," he said.
Squirrel shook his head. “We will see to it. For your own safety, it is best if we take you from the city with all possible haste. We may control this quarter for the time, but the Degorouth and their Ministrian allies still hold sway over the city. They will gather a force we cannot oppose. Already, my captains are forging the apologies they’ll offer when they finally release the men that were pursuing you.”
With that, the Jindleyak and their associates gathered their weapons and were pointed toward the nearest city gate. As they walked, Scurra leaned between the brothers Homoth and Komotz. “What happened to Traust?” she asked under her breath.
Komotz shook his head. “He is lost. We are lucky he is the only one.”
“No,” Scurra replied. “Apulton didn’t make it.”
“Oh,” Komotz frowned.
“He caught an arrow in the back and tumbled from our perch,” she revealed. “What of you?” she turned to Homoth. “That’s a fair bit of blood.”
Komotz answered for him. "It is superficial, very much like my brother. But you know Homoth; he must be the best at everything, even bleeding.”
Homoth took a swipe at his little brother, though Komotz dodged away with a wicked grin.
“How many of the enemy did we claim?” Andrus interjected.
“A dozen on the ground?” Komotz shrugged. “We injured at least that many more. What of you?”
“We got at least a dozen from our perches,” Andrus said. “We might have killed twice that many.”
Scurra sighed. “Not to entertain this ghoulishness, but I doubt we killed half that many—though I suspect there are at least a dozen that won’t sleep comfortable for weeks to come.”
How many were there?” Komotz asked.
Andrus shrugged. “A lot. We were lucky. Those stuck at the front were cut off and slow to follow, thanks to the fire.”
“A fire they set,” Komotz noted.
“Once they started the fire, I think they expected we'd come out naked, unorganized, and easy to arrest,” Homoth sneered. “It must have shocked them to see a dozen men crash out of the house in full battle gear at the very beginning of it all.”
“Still, Apulton and Traust,” Scurra shook her head. “And what happened to Aim and Elpis? Did anyone see what became of them?”
Andrus and the brothers glanced about the rest of the party. They shrugged as they realized that the big man and their injured cousin were nowhere to be seen.
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Aim lost his cousin’s fancy pole axe. He buried it in a Ministrian's ribs, the weapon caught, and since he couldn’t take the Ministrian with him—though he tried for the better part of a block—he was forced to let the dead man keep it. After that, he pulled his long sword so he might fight his way clear, but he lost that weapon when he threw it at a fleeing Degorouth. The blade almost cleaved the man’s head in two—before it carried another twenty feet down the alley. Having felled the man, and since he wanted to go the other direction altogether, Aim left the sword. Besides, he still had his other weapons—and unlike the axe, he wouldn’t have to explain any further losses.
Aim was running a touch hot under the collar after seeing Traust, his friend and mentor, die in such a violent manner. He might have been a bit careless as he charged a knot of men. But then, perhaps not. Of the four that once stood against him, only a single Degorouth remained. Having witnessed the juggernaut take apart several of his friends, the much smaller Degorouth soldier took the prudent course. He turned heel and ran down the cobblestone alley as fast as his feet could carry him.
Aim chased a half dozen steps, but was quickly outpaced, as he was still weighed down by the unconscious form of Elpis. With the disappearance of this last opponent, Aim checked that his cousin still breathed, then turned back to the others—or where he thought they should be. With a frown, he realized they were nowhere to be seen. He listened to the distant mayhem and hoped they were doing fine without him. He knew he should not have allowed his anger to get a hold of him—but in the heat of battle, what was a man to do?
The streets were suddenly full of men running in every direction. Calls and screams filled the air. Aim turned to the south and west, fairly certain his friends were somewhere in that direction, and barreled his way through the early morning crowd.
Most of those on the street took immediate note of the burning House of Leaves and turned to battle the blaze, so it might not spread into the city proper. Though many of them noticed the giant man—how could they not—they prudently passed him by. Aim pulled the horse blanket over his own head. He hunched over, affected a hobble, and acted malformed. Many stared as they passed, and those that stared too long were met with Aim’s own gaze, which was quite unnerving.
Aim turned a corner and stepped into a larger street. He found several armed men facing him. He had no weapon in hand—though he had several more upon his body. The armed men turned and blocked Aim’s path. "You ain’t no Pan Iskaer,” one of them said. “You Degorouth?”
Aim shook his head. He wore a doltish mask, as if he was as dumb as he was big. His hands slipped to a pair of short swords, and he prepared to kill the lot of ‘em, should they answer unkindly.
The Pan Iskaer shrugged since the large man denied being a Degorouth. The first of the Pan Iskaer turned back to Aim and pointed his sword. “These streets belong to the Pan Iskaer, so clear out, or be arrested!" he ordered, then sidestepped the large man altogether. Another of the Pan Iskaer thought better of it and turned to the giant yet again. “Would you care to join the hunt?” he asked.
“For Degorouth?” Aim asked.
The Pan Iskaer nodded, “and Ministrians.”
Aim grinned, then shook his head. “As tempting as that is, I shall do as you ask, and make myself scarce.“
With a disappointed nod, the Pan Iskaer turned and followed after his colleagues.
Aim smiled as he watched them go. The Degorouth were about to have a bad morning of it, what with the Pan Iskaer chasing after them! He resettled Elpis on his shoulder, and made for the gate once more.
The crowd grew. Aim drifted among it. Most of the gathered rabble were simply curious bystanders—but there was a thick ring of Pan Iskaer militiamen—and at the center of it were his friends. Happy to see that most of them had survived, he kept his distance and watched as Duboha and Saleos pleaded their case to the Pan Iskaer officers. There were far too many Pan Iskaer to fight—but if they tried to hurt his friends, Aim figured he could cut down several before they realized their mistake—and then he should have his friends fighting with him. At that point, at least a few of the others might get away and return home to tell of what happened. For his own sake, Aim didn’t care if he ever made it home or not, as there was still a bloodlust upon him; and above all else he simply wanted to do damage.
Yet, it was the Pan Iskaer militia, and Aim knew them to be a level headed bunch. They had little love for Kezodel and his Ministrian allies, so it was just as likely his friends would be let free once it was realized they were attacked in cold blood. Though the Degorouth had the general run of the city, the various militias did much of the peacekeeping in their own enclaves—which was a big reason the Oak and Beast kept their safe house in Pan Iskaer territory. The militia was big, powerful, and quite suspicious of the Degorouth. Thus, Aim was not surprised when his friends gathered their weapons and began toward the nearest city gate, under the watchful eye of the Pan Iskaer militia.
Slowly, the growing crowd made its way to the gate. As they walked, Aim counted his friends. He frowned as he came up short. He must have counted them four or five times before he realized Apulton was missing. This made his heart heavy—though he had to admit they were incredibly fortunate that only Apulton and Traust were lost. Then he realized Apulton might not be dead at all, and wondered if perhaps his good friend was simply missing, like himself, simply somewhere in the crowd. He searched for Apulton among the growing sea of people as more and more gathered to witness those at the center of the early morning disturbance.
As the crowd grew, so did the number of Pan Iskaer. They appeared everywhere with their red and gold emblems, at least a hundred obvious men—and there were bound to be a number of subtle agents about the crowd. He spotted several spies, though they seemed to ignore Aim and his mask of doltishness.
Of all the spies, the one that caught and held Aim’s attention was a strange woman. He knew she was a spy because of her familiar look. He’d seen her before, though he couldn’t remember where. There was a young boy with this red-haired woman, undoubtedly a Ministrian. It was confirmed by his foul tongue as he asked questions that the woman never answered. Aim glared at the angular woman and imagined the worst as he followed. He considered grabbing her from behind and squeezing the truth from her—but there were still too many people around for such a direct approach. For now, it was simply best to follow.
The strange lady and the young boy continued past the city gates. Aim kept his distance. He knew he was not inconspicuous—especially as he carried Elpis—yet, he knew a few tricks when it came to blending into a crowd and stalking a target.
Soon, his friends arrived at a stable, and the Pan Iskaer proceeded to outfit them with mounts. The crowd had thinned and Aim decided it was time to be seen. He confronted the redhead and the boy as they snuck toward his friends. He grabbed the woman by her shoulder.
As he touched her, the woman turned on Aim and tried to bite him! Aim let go and brushed the redhead away before she could sink her teeth. He pulled a knife and stared her down—but the woman stood her ground. She hissed as she stood in front of the boy, though she had no obvious weapons.
Despite her protective stance, the boy would not be coddled. The child pulled a dagger of his own and crowed at the large man.
“You’re a bit of a spitfire,” Aim glared at the boy. “Put down the knife, before you hurt yourself.”
The horse blanket slipped, revealing his injured cousin. The boy’s gaze turned quizzical as he stared at the injured man on Aim’s shoulder. “Elpis?!” the boy began, though his words trailed off into Ministrian goobledygook—it was far too quick for Aim’s tenuous grasp of the foul language. Still, the boy regarded his cousin with a look of concern.
Confused that the boy should identy his ward, Aim took a step back. “What’d you say?” he stared at the child.
The others turned and stared after the commotion. “Aim!” Komotz beamed. The younger brother waved and took several steps forward—though he also turned and stared—as squeals of excitement erupted from the priestess.
Sitting on a wagon, Wenifas pushed Evereste into the shaman’s hands, then jumped from her perch with such abandon that she nearly ended up face down in the dirt—only to right herself and rush at the boy with outstretched arms. She gathered the child in a rough smothering hug, and also the strange lady, as she berated them both in her foul foreign tongue. From there, she proceeded to kiss them and stroke their hair, as they all giggled and cried in each other’s arms.
Embarrassed, Aim turned to the others who smiled and laughed at his bewilderment, then wrapped him in their own hugs, and asked his story, as several checked to see that Elpis was still okay.
So it continued for several minutes.
Eventually, the party rode from the stables. As they left, Aim continued to stare at the silent woman with flame red hair. He couldn’t help a sneaking suspicion. There was something odd about her, almost alien. It was obvious that she harbored secrets, but he had no idea what they might be.
Several miles down the road, as Aim continued to stare at Meu, Andrus noticed his cousin’s preoccupation with the strange older lady. He leaned close to his cousin. “What is it?” he whispered.
Aim shook his head. “Something ain’t right with that one,” he began. “Weird, in the weirding ways, like the shaman, I think,” he suggested, then shrugged as he had nothing solid to offer.
Andrus stared at Meu. With a nod, he held two fingers to his eyes, pointed them at the strange woman, then back at his own eyes in a gesture that said: I’m watching.
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The Jaded Blades scoffed and shook their heads as they watched the locals put out the last embers that devoured the House of Leaves. “It is your fault we are late!” Grunther snapped at Meriona. “If you had not insisted we chase rumors and ghosts in Edgewater, we would have been here for this!”
Meriona recoiled. “I didn’t suggest that! I said it was only a few of their new Trohl friends, and not the duke at all! You took us to Edgewater!”
“But you are in charge,” Grunther reminded. “And since we went to Edgewater, you must have taken us there.”
The other Jaded Blades chuckled and nodded in agreement.
Exacerbated, Meriona glared at her new companions. “Not only do you pay me no mind, but now you mock me for your own bad decisions?!”
Naiphan raised a hand. “Your complaints are not making this trip any easier. Just accept your failings, and let us follow after our quarry,” he concluded with a sneer that revealed discolored and misshapen teeth.
The others laughed as Meriona glared at them in turn. Initially, she thought they might be friends—or at least friendly—but they had banded against her almost immediately and treated her as a burden. They mocked her for her civility among the commoners, and repeatedly told her to shut up.
Still, she was not all grace and niceties. She had a long memory and her own ways of getting even. But first, she would tend to the duke and his priestess. Once that was done, she’d worry about these Jaded Blades and their absolute lack of civility!
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Thanks to the Pan Iskaer, the duke had an escort of a good fifty men. After arriving at the Copper Kettle and Rooms, other friendly militias appeared to speak with the Jindleyaks. Few, if any, bothered the foreigners at all—which made Baet’s job an easy one.
Most of those that came to visit did not even look at the duke. They were far too interested in the crinkly old shaman and how he’d predicted—or possibly caused—the death of Kezodel. They stood, enraptured by the strange man’s story, and heaped praise upon the unsettled Krumpus as he blushed prudently and accepted the compliments in a graceful manner—though he mostly tried to avoid the Jindleyaks telling his story, and also those listening. Still, they occasionally cornered him, that they might stare at his scarred countenance, shake his withered hands, and wish him well.
The poor bastard.
And since the grumpy old wizard was busy hiding, he had no time to glare at the Saot guard for seemingly fondling Wenifas. Baet huffed as he remembered that. To think that he’d almost reclaimed Cloud Breaker from the morose priestess!
Creigal was resting in his room, with Carringten undoubtingly close, and so Baet was free to do as he liked. The inn boasted several small pools, fed by a hot spring. Baet sat in the heat of the water. He occasionally shifted to one of the warmer or cooler pools, depending on his mood. The sun dipped in the west as he rested his eyes. There were still so many hours until dark, when Baet would take the watch with Homoth and Komotz. He smiled to think of the cards that would fly between them, of the silver he’d win.
A shadow crossed over the undressed man-at-arms and brought an uneasiness with it. Baet reached for the sword he kept with his towel, only to relax as he realized it was Carringten. “Silent as the night,” he said with a forced smile.
“Apologies,” Carringten replied. “The Pan Iskaer have retrieved the bodies of Apulton and Traust. The others mean to light a pyre and mourn their friends.”
“Ahh,” Baet bowed his head. “The others have gathered?”
“As the sun sets,” Carringten answered. “For now, they gather wood.”
Baet gave a nod and relaxed back into the water. “I shall miss these pools when we leave.”
Carringten smiled. “Then you will be happy to know that our friends mean to stay another day. Elpis is still quite weak, and I think everyone is a bit weary. They all seem quite certain we are safe, even if we are just beyond the city’s limits.”
Baet nodded emphatically. “I don’t know about you, but my tiredness goes to the bone,” he began. “It's been a long—what? Has it been two months since we left Gaurring Heart?” He stared at his captain. “Do you think we'll go home any time soon? Does our master still mean to search for the thief?”
“Do you prefer one over the other?”
Baet frowned at the question. “I should very much like to go home,” he nodded. “I would have liked to stay in the first place,” he admitted.
“You did not have to come,” Carringten replied with a quizzical eye.
Baet wondered if that were true. He suspected if he had refused, they would have thrown him in a cell. But then, he wasn’t sure if they knew of his betrayal or not. He wondered if it was possible they asked him to join the hunt simply because he was a talented and dangerous man. He felt a tinge of guilt as he remembered why he came, and how the whole fiasco had started. The duke and Carringten gave nothing away, and so Baet was forced to wonder what they might know—and to speak nothing of the truth.
After a long second of nothing, Baet turned and looked Carringten in the eye. “I am honored to guard the duke,” he claimed.
“Well, when we eventually get to Land’s End, who is to say we will find Humbert at all?” Carringten shrugged, as he stared off into the distance. “Who is to say he has not lost himself on the road; to brigands, or sickness, or some other calamity?”
“And who is to say we won't find him running further afield, perhaps for Gramgoar territory, or even New Tallia?” Baet interjected. “Who is to say this isn’t just the beginning of our quest?”
“Who is to say Humbert hasn't turned west and lost himself somewhere in Ebertin? Indeed, it is impossible to know,” Carringten continued. “Perhaps it is best to leave the unknowable future for the days to come.”
Baet agreed. “It does not matter anyway. The duke will say what he wants, and I will do as he says. I will serve as I always have.”
For a long second, Carringten stared at his junior guard; then he turned and glanced at the sun, determined to change the subject. “Tomorrow, I go with Saleos and some of the others to get supplies. You’ll stay upon the grounds of the inn, and you’ll know where the duke is at all times.”
“Oh course,” Baet smiled. “Care to join me? The water is warm, and this pool is big enough for a dozen of us.”
“Later, perhaps. For now, I shall help gather wood,” he said, then turned and stepped away.
Baet closed his eyes that he might forget his troubles and concentrate on the warm water as it rippled across his skin. He certainly didn’t want to think about mourning more dead. He felt guilty enough about Haddleton, Vearing, and the loyal guards of Creigal.
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Baet approached the bonfire to find the others already there. Even the injured man, Elpis, sat at the edge of the fire—though he looked pale and drawn as his injured eye stared off at a strange angle. Indeed, Baet had a hard time telling which eye was the one that was wonky, and wondered for a while if they might both be bad.
The fire licked higher and higher into the fading darkness. Sparks rose to mingle with the first of the night's stars. The crowd was reverent and sedate. There were only two sounds: the crack and roar of the fire, punctuated by squeals of delight as Evereste stared wide-eyed at the dancing flames, as she leaned out of the priestess’ arms.
The various members of the Oak and Beast stared into the fire, a morose and somber lot. Occasionally, they spoke. “Apulton was like an older brother to me,” Homoth began with gathering tears. “We used to swim the waters of the Heartflow. He was with me on my very first hunt.”
“Traust was the best men I ever met,” Duboha stated in a flat tone.
“It is a shame,” Aim noted. “It is a shame indeed.”
The mood became increasingly despondent and sullen as the Jindleyak drank and spoke of their friends in heartfelt snippets.
As they continued, Creigal's mood became increasingly dark. After a short time, there was something of a scowl upon the duke’s face. For nearly an hour he remained quiet—as the Trohls mourned their losses—so it surprised the natives when the duke stepped on the trunk of a fallen tree and looked about the group with a commanding eye.
Although the natives were surprised, Baet and Carringten realized immediately that their duke meant to deliver a speech—and he meant to do it the only way he knew how: in a grand and dramatic fashion. Creigal waited for the others to be quiet. He began slow, and with a low voice as he directed his words at the Jindleyaks. “I barely knew them—your brothers. We met only a few days ago, as I was to be hanged for sins I did not commit,” the duke began with a grim smile. “Despite the serious charges against me, Traust escorted my men and I to the safety of his own home. At great risk to himself, and to all of you, we were seen through the streets of Ebertin, and tunnels of Beletrain. He even lent me money and supplies.
“Like the rest of you, Apulton was agreeable, and when push came to shove, he put his life on the line," Creigal hanged his head. "And now the deal is done. We have paid our enemies, tit for tat, and my loyalty is bought with the most precious of coin: life’s blood.
“But these are not all the men that have died of late,” Creigal continued, as he stared about the gathered militiamen. “My men in Wibbeley died that I might live: Vearing, Marik, Haddleton to name a few. These are not names you know, but they were loyal to me, and I have not had the time to mourn them proper. I have not had the opportunity to inform and comfort their families. I hope they will forgive me for such short shrift,” Creigal bowed his head. He gave his dead men a moment of silence. Tears welled in his eyes as he began again. “One day, Abra will take us all, righteous and wicked alike!” He said with a booming voice. “She gave us life, and one day she will claim us, each and every one. You and I are but food for her worms. Our friends simply go before us, their bodies settled in the deep dark earth, their sprits drifting in the great beyond!” he roared. “Despite our inevitable endings, I celebrate what our friends have bought—for they have bought our lives, our hopes, our ambitions!
“And that is not all, my friends! Oh no! That is not it at all! For giving me yet another chance, I vow on their graves that I will not go lightly to my death!” Creigal scowled as he stared about those that had gathered. He shook his head. “We do not honor the dead by following a deadening path, with sad and pitiful platitudes! We honor them by living full and courageous lives! We honor them by clinging to our values, tooth and nail!
“I will not go lightly!” the duke boomed. “Indeed, I will be as potent as I can! I will be a boon to friends—and I will be a terror in the face of my enemies! I shall cling to my precious life with a tenacity! I will do all that I can for all that I love!" He lifted his arms and turned his face to the sky. "Sweet Abra, receive the spirits of our fallen friends! Remind them of our love! Do not let them be forgotten, for one day the earth will claim us all; and that day we shall know our friends once more!” he finished.
Realizing that he had finished his impassioned speech, the others stood and cheered. For several long seconds, he encouraged their cheers, then gave a nod and turned to sit.
"Let us be worthy!" Saleos called.
Duboha nodded. “Praise Jeiju!”
"Praise Jeiju!" Komotz repeated.
"Praise Jeiju!" the others took up the call. "Praise indeed!"
The men stood and crowded around Creigal. They patted him on the back, hugged him, and thanked him for all his kind words. In exchange, he was allowed to see their tear-streaked faces.
An ethereal sound began—a high-wailing moan, otherworldly, and strange. The group turned and realized the song came from Meu. The silent redhead sang a haunting ethereal song, a dirge of her kind, inhuman and otherworldly. Krumpus caught the melody and hummed along, grounding the song with baritone notes, as the others stared on in marvel.
The song ended, and as it did, Krumpus shifted it and changed the tempo, that he might hum his favorite song, written to memorialize the Broken Legions of Old Tallia. The song started slow and sad, as the people suffered greatly on their march, hounded and hunted for hundreds of miles across the plains of Tallia, with only the 'traitors' Tronde and Rigel and their 'criminal' men to protect them.
During the exodus, countless men died; in battle, of fatigue, of sickness, of hopelessness. Yet, so many lived, and in the mountains of the Bunderhilt, the survivors of Old Tallia found a friendly people, warm and welcoming. The song swelled and became hopeful as the Tallian refugees met the various Yak tribes. It took on a joyous tone as it turned to the mingling of these peoples. The native tribes of the mountains took in the beleaguered survivors of Old Tallia and helped them establish themselves. They gave freely of their surplus, and shared vital stores. They saved so very many those first few months—and the Tallian refugees were thankful for such kind treatment.
Indeed, the Yak and Tallians found each others customs to be rich and endearing. There was much knowledge and wisdom shared between them. Over the years, the refugees and their rescuers mingled and melded into a single people—and the nine tribes of the Trohl were born.
Smiles overcame the company as the glad sound of the shaman continued. Others among the Jindleyak took up the song and filled the air with words.
All this continued as Wenifas thought of Derris. Emotion overcame her. She wanted to sing the sad parts of their songs, but she could not. She did not know the lyrics. Yet, the priestess could dance. She was a master of rhythm. Indeed, music was sacred to Ministrians, and dance was one of the primary ways that her people worshiped. Despite her tears, Wenifas stood and began to stir. She gave Evereste to Celesi. Tonight, she would mourn her lost love with soft steps and the sway of her hips.
The movements came naturally as Wenifas weaved and snaked around the bonfire. The song shifted and became joyous as the Tallians and the Yak exhanged customs. Wenifas allowed her expression to shift with it—though it belied her devastation and grief.
Celesi placed the babe in the lap of Elpis and joined in the dance, trained in the ways of Minist, and knowing the style. Although she mourned those that were lost, the former Jay felt boisterous and alive. After all, she was free! Thank the gods, she was free! On top of that, she had a man to impress! Her dance took on a seductive edge as she lingered near Toar.
Meu followed their lead as she very much loved to dance. Her serpentine nature was wise to the fluid shift of song, and she performed well. The shaman stood and took steps with her.
Scurra also joined, though she was a novice compared to the others. Still, she managed to keep time just fine, and was a beauty in her own right. Indeed, Scurra received boisterous applause as she stood to join the others. In comparison, her steps were simple—but the others cheered and whistled to see their cousin move in such a womanly fashion. They knew her to be a tomboy and were most surprised to see her implement such feminine wiles.
Several of the other men stood and joined the dance. For some time, much of the party weaved in a circle about the bonfire as the long and ancient song continued. Creigal was one of the few that did not dance—though he clapped, smiled, and encouraged the others.
Evereste screeched and laughed to see them dance, and for a time, Elpis let her down—until he thought he saw her grab an errant ember that popped out of the fire. He reached out for her, expecting a scream—though she smiled at him with ashy teeth and a cool chunk of charcoal that he fished from her mouth.
Baet danced among the others. Though he mourned his friend, Haddleton, he found himself mostly thinking of the man’s cute wife, Emia. She must be heartbroken.
And then the guard found himself dancing with Wenifas. It happened by accident—though he was glad when he noticed. He stared at the priestess as she stepped, bounced, and waved all about. She was beautiful in an exotic way, her dress and features so very foreign, as were her manners and attitudes. She was a vision, in part because of the tears that streaked her face.
Baet realized that the priestess was not mourning Traust and Apulton—but the guard at the fort—her lover. He stopped in his step as he remembered how they had wronged her. He stared at the woman before him and wondered if there was any way he might possibly win her heart. Would she ever forgive him for what he’d done? If he could not forgive himself, how could he hope of such a thing from someone else?
For her part, Wenifas did not notice the guard. He was just another man, and he could never be the one she cared for. Then, as he stood stock still, she took the time to wonder why. Only then did she realize who it was that leered at her. It did not matter that Baet’s face was stained with grief of his own—only that he stared at her with an obvious longing. Despite the goodwill the Saots had engendered over the last several weeks, the anger of the priestess flared. She stumbled in her step. She swayed to a stop and stared at the man with murderous intent in her eyes.
Now that he had her full attention, Baet collapsed to his knees. He took the priestess by her hand and pressed it to his forehead. After the heartfelt speech of his duke and the emotional song and dance, he felt the keen sting of his own betrayals and shortcomings. He longed to be forgiven.
The priestess continued to glare, then her free hand shot out and caught Baet's cheek with a resounding slap. The dancing and the singing stopped as the others turned toward the odd couple. There was no sound except the crackle of the fire—and the happy babble of Evereste.
Baet made no move. He only touched his stinging cheek as he stared wide-eyed at the priestess.
Rage surged through Wenifas. She screamed and lunged at the Saot. “Die!” she roared, as she struck him again and again. She pushed him to the ground and continued to yell her fury as she lashed out at him.
Baet curled into a ball and took his punishment. Wenifas was not terribly strong, and despite her eagerness to do damage, her bare hands were not up to the task—then Wenifas spotted the knife on Baet's belt. She yanked it from the sheath and swept her hand back. She aimed the blade, and would have stabbed the man—but as she swept the blade down, Scurra caught the priestess by the arm and held it. She stared at Wenifas, shocked that the Ministrian might try to kill.
Wenifas turned on Scurra with a scowl and shrieked at the Jindleyak “Let me do it!”
"No," Scurra said to the priestess, her voice calm but authoritative.
Wenifas roared. She turned and tried to strike the Trohl woman, but Scurra deflected the blow and twisted the knife out the priestess's hand. With a gasp, Wenifas dropped the knife.
Having disarmed the woman, Scurra picked the blade off the ground. “Whatever happened between you, leave it in the past,” she said to the priestess.
Wenifas screamed and bawled as Meu and Celesi restrained her. At first, the priestess struggled against her friends, then she crumbled into their waiting arms. The priestess bawled as Celesi and Meu led her from the crowd.
Everyone thought the drama was over—until Claiten pulled his naga knife and lunged at Baet. He crowed and took a swipe at the man—but the guard was no longer frozen. He managed to dodge the boy; once, twice—then caught the child’s hand.
Meu left Wenifas and returned to the bonfire in a flash. She pulled Claiten away, then took his naga blade from the guard. She led the boy away as she scolded him with her eyes. Still, Claiten dragged his heels. He turned and snapped at the guard. “Stupid spearhead!” he cursed as Meu pulled him along, then crowed in defiance. “ERR-AYE-ERR-AYE-ERRRRR!”
~!@#$%^&*()_+ 8.7 +_)(*&^%$#@!~
After the fracas between Wenifas and Baet, the mood of solemn reverence was broken, so Creigal took the opportunity to slip away. He disappeared from the light of the fire and proceeded to the bank of the river.
After a short time, Carringten appeared at his elbow. "Quite the speech," he assured as they moved away from the fire.
Creigal nodded and smiled at his captain. "I spoke from my heart."
“Yes, and in a grand manner too,” Carringten smiled. "I appreciate your words for my fallen brothers. I believe Baet feels the same—though he has a peculiar way of showing it,” he shrugged. “Anyway, I think our new friends are quite taken.”
Normally, Creigal was quite happy to hear Carringten’s pragmatic evaluations, but tonight he was uninterested. He turned to his adopted son and stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “I thank you for your candid observations, but might I be alone with my thoughts for a while? I do not feel any danger around us, and it has been such a long time since I have been alone.”
Carringten stopped and gave a bow. “Yes, my liege," he said. “If there is need, I shall be among our new friends.”
“I thank you,” Creigal smiled and watched as Carringten disappeared back toward the fire. The duke walked to the very edge of the river, then continued along its bank. He checked to see if Carringten followed, and although he saw no trace of the bodyguard, he knew the man might easily stalk nearby. Creigal decided it was enough. Whether he was alone, or simply thought he was alone, there was little difference. Either way, the duke was quite alone in his thoughts. Haunting thoughts. Thoughts of his daughter. Thoughts of a thief. Thoughts of his sons. Thoughts of his people. Thoughts of the duchy…
There was certainly enough to think about.
Being so far from home, Creigal knew it could do no good to worry over the duchy—and yet he could not put it aside. His ministers were good and capable men, and the duchy was largely in their hands, even when he was around. He simply hoped they did not feel abandoned. He hoped they would not forget how powerful they were all on their own.
He also hoped his sons would be denied any power. He cared nothing for his boys, whom were disinherited after it was proved they killed their sister. Oh, Daphne! Did they really think they could get away with it?! Now, his sons would get nothing from their father—except his holy wrath. Now, the duchy would fall to his nephew, Varius; a solid and weighty diplomat with a serious demeanor and outlook, and very much one of Creigal’s inner circle. The duchy would prosper under his nephew. There was no doubt of that.
Not that Creigal wanted to consider the politics of the duchy. He had little passion for his position anymore. There was just an endless war before him; cold and bitter calculation. Perhaps that is how passion and sentimentality could send him after his daughter's necklace, in a fit of rage, with the thief’s accomplice in tow—and as they traipsed across an unknown land, not an assassination attempt, a poisoning, or the threat of hanging could give him pause! There was nothing Creigal wanted aside from a base and simple necklace—his daughter’s remembrance. There was no other lust in his life, no other zeal. There was only a small, enduring ember that he could stoke into a rage simply by thinking of his daughter.
It was the only death he remembered. He felt a fraud as he remembered his words to the others—even though he knew his speech was good for his new friends, he could not feel the death of his guards anymore. There were too many such deaths to consider. How many strong capable men with glaringly bright futures had lost their lives in his service? If it were not for the infernal King—for Gred duReb’s incessant plotting—how many might still be alive?! It was a colossal waste of life and talent.
Creigal sat at the edge of the lapping water and pondered its flow. The water would never run east, never uphill. There was no undoing what was done.
So much was already done.
Why should he worry that he might lose his sweet daughter, when she was already gone? Was it not an irredeemable debt? Retrieving her necklace would do nothing to bring her back!
Yet, endless dreams of her spurred him on. Indeed, he was more adamant than ever about finding Humbert and retrieving the trinket—though he thought it quite unlikely that he’d ever see hair or hide of the man. What were the chances he might find the thief's trail when he should finally arrive in Land's End? Another city that hated him. More than likely, there’d be nothing to find. He’d eventually return home and resume his duties, his heart cold and calculating once more.
He would do the job. Creigal loved his people, but it was a passionless love struck from a sense of duty and honor. In all honesty, he wanted to be free of it. He preferred the open road. He preferred the company of these kind strangers and their ambivalence to his status.
And what if he should die in the wilds, so far from home? He was not eager for death, but unlike many of his Baradha cousins, he did not cling to immortality in a cruel and vain way.
As if such a thing was ever desirable.
Creigal had met some of the long lived; those that managed two, three, even four hundred years. He did not envy their tortured and frail forms—and especially not the unending cruelty necessary to maintain their shallow lives. They robbed the most innocent of their youth and vitality for their twisted blood magicks. Selfish and resentful, their lives were no boon to their people. Indeed, they were the cancer that sucked at the very marrow of their society; a creeping sickness that threatened to destroy the Ministrian Empire from within—and with such a perfection that Creigal doubted anything would remain, whenever it should finally happen. He was convinced of the Empire’s eventual demise—though he imagined it'd be years, decades, maybe centuries before it might finally implode under the bloated weight of their exalted Baradha masters. Such an end was inevitable, and likely it would be a sudden and bloody end.
Of course there were also such men among the Saot, among the Politico Superiore—but they were not so accomplished as their Baradha cousins. Too much of their evil science was stolen or corrupted so very long ago by the sabotage and betrayal of the dark prince, Lasitus; a fact that saw the political class subsume itself to the Ministrian elite, and thereby made the Saot Kingdom little more than a vassal state of the Empire. With the best of the Kingdom’s grammars and magical artifacts in tow, Lasitus had destroyed all pursuit as he fled north into the Bunderhilt, several hundred years ago. And then what? He disappeared, and with him, much of the dark science he’d stolen—and good riddance, as far as Creigal was concerned!
Creigal stared up at the night sky. He tracked the Children of the Broken Moon and tried not to think of such vicious things. It was important to remember the low character of his enemies—but it was also important that he did not dwell on it. Indeed, he thought his study of the subject so many years ago only helped turn his sons to the dark path. While he was horrified and dismayed by the study of these ‘exalted masters’, his sons were fascinated and engrossed. Still, it was their choice to continue down the easy path, the selfish path, the destructive path; and they did so despite the best efforts of their father to turn them back.
With a heavy sigh, Creigal turned from the sky and stared out over the river. He skipped stones across the silent water as far as they might go, and told himself he'd think no more about the duchy, about his sons, about his daughter.
Plock, plock, plock.
Who was to say everything wouldn't turn out for the best? Who was to say he wouldn’t return home to find Gaurring as strong and stable as ever before? Let the people continue on without him for a time! For such effort, they'd be less dependent and all the more free!
Creigal smiled to have such bright thoughts crowd his mind. He picked another stone and skipped it across the water.
Plock, plock, plock, plock, plock, plock, plock.
For a time, he thought about nothing, nothing at all. He simply stared across the rippling surface of the river and threw another rock.
Plock, plock, plock, plock, plock.
He threw another.
Plock, plock.
And another.
Plock, plock, plock, plock.
And as the darkness grew, he threw one last stone, before he leaned on the soft moss of a maple, just to rest his head for a bit…
Plock.
..and then the darkness overcame him, and brought with it no end of dreams.
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