Eyes Abound

Polished the entire chapter — 39m26s — 2023/12/20

Embarrassed at the bonfire, Baet begged off and decided to soak in the hot springs. He would bathe until his watch. At midnight, he still had to stand guard with the brothers—but at least he was likely to win a bit more coin. From the pools, he could see the bonfire. He sighed and shook his head as he considered the others, then turned and looked away.

Shortly, Carringten appeared at the pools with a towel in hand. Carringten proceeded to strip down to his skivvies, then stepped into the next pool. “Hey Baet,” he said—and since neither was up for conversation—this was just about all they spoke to each other.

From certain pools the two Saot guards could see the rest of their company gathered on a slight hill a couple hundred yards behind the main cluster of cabins. On top of the hill, in the light of the fire, the others gossiped.

Of all the Jindleyak, Komotz and Homoth spoke the least Ministrian—though Aim wasn’t much better—and so the three had missed the words that passed between Baet and Wenifas. They’d caught only a bit of the language—just a few of the curse words that the priestess had screamed—and so they were left to speculate.

Homoth glanced at his brother. “Why was the priestess so mad? Why was Baet on his knees? Were they friends before? Did he betray her?”

Andrus joined in their conversation, though he sat on the other side of Toar. They wondered that Baet had bowed and apologized, so they figured he must have done something wrong. If so, how much did he deserve the attack? Did Wenifas go too far? Indeed, she did pull a blade on him. Their questions only compounded.

Duboha joined in the discussion with Elpis and Saleos soon after—though they mostly tempered the wilder considerations of their younger countrymen. Before long, their was no conversation about anything else, at least not among the Jindleyaks.

Despite his hesitation to talk of other people’s business, Toar thought it might be best to give a little history. They’d probably get it from Baet and Wenifas eventually, but those would both be tinted versions of the truth. He thought that perhaps they ought to hear it all from someone a bit more impartial—and so he spoke. “It’s not as you imagine,” he stared. “But please, let me start at the beginning.”

“We haven’t known each other for all that long,” Toar explained. “I came across the Saots less than a month ago, and I’ve known the ladies and the shaman for about half that—and where I got along with the Saots immediately, as soon as we met the priestess there was animosity. We only got along later, as we were pressed to get along.”

The others turned to Toar, curious to hear how he might continue.

“Let me go back before we ever met the priestess. Let me first start with the duke,” the young wanderer apologized. “I first met Creigal and his guards as they were about to be ambushed. I spoiled the attack, and after that, the duke took me on as his guide. Since he was poisoned, I took them east, and we dodged Ministrians and bugbear—until we were captured in Woodring.”

“We were taken to the dueling forts, but our capture didn’t last long,” Toar continued. “The neighboring camp was attacked, and most the prison guards left to prevent its destruction. After the battle began, after the alarm was raised, Carringten was spotted. Thankfully, it was just one guard. We overpowered him, and he died during the conflict. It is unfortunate that the man was killed—but the worst of it was that the priestess saw what we did,” Toar shook his head. “She knew him and was very distressed by his death.”

The militiamen whispered of murder.

“I would not call it murder,” Toar replied. “A man was certainly killed, yes, but he had no right to keep us locked up. We simply tried to leave, and he tried to stop us. How is that murder? How is that not simple self defense?”

“Self defense does explain both the animosity and silence about the grievance,” Saleos noted. “We would not be sympathetic to slavery.”

“Yeah, but why does she hate Baet so much?” Aim asked. “She didn’t go after you or Carringten.”

“He does seem to court it,” Duboha muttered.

“He drove the knife,” Toar told them. “And this isn’t the first time she's tried to kill him. The night we met, she used his own musket, though I am happy to say, she missed.”

“How’d she get his pistol?” Homoth wondered.

“No idea,” Toar shook his head. “We were in prison. Our weapons were stripped from us the day before.”

“If she hates you so much, why did she not stay with her own people in Falderfallen Hovey?" Elpis asked.

Toar shrugged. “I don’t know that one either. Nor do I know why she was banished.”

“That adds to it,” Saleos noted. “What did she do that so offended the Jay?”

Celesi had returned but just a short while ago. She sidled up to Toar and beamed at the young Bouge while the others gossiped around her. For a time she thought to keep her silence—but since Toar was ignoring her rather obvious attempts to steal his attention, and since she could provide insight, she decided to insert herself in the conversation. “Wenifas had command of the guards on the road, and she refused to relinquish it, which upset Meriona greatly,” she noted.

“That makes even less sense,” Toar began. “If there was animosity between the two, why would the priestess join us at court?”

“Meriona doesn’t operate like that,” Celesi explained. “She wasn’t openly mean to the priestess. Indeed, she was quite ingratiating. She promised Wenifas that she'd see the lot of you hanged—though I’m happy to say that fell apart!” she noted with a chuckle.

Toar recoiled. “She meant to see us hanged?!” He turned and stared daggers at the absent priestess. “That sneaky cuss!”

Celesi attempted to calm him. “Meriona always meant to betray her, just as she meant to betray you. She was always petty and vengeful. Besides, Wenifas has good reason to hate you,” she noted.

Toar recoiled. “She has good reason to hate me?!”

Celesi shrugged. “You did kill her man. Do you expect her to just forget about that?”

“So, this is actually the third attempt she’s made on us?!” Toar sputtered and stood. “Well, that does it! We must cut her loose! We don’t need such deviousness!”

Celesi grabbed his arm. “You killed her man! Can’t you forgive her for trying to return the favor? Besides, she’s done nothing since her plot with Meriona fell apart. And did you not see the way that Baet antagonized her?! As she was deep in her feels?!” Celesi shook her head. “He was wrong to approach her in her mourning!”

Toar stared off into the distance. “All that time on the road and she still harbors this hatred,” he noted.

“All that time!” Celesi huffed. “She lost her lover, what? Just over two weeks ago?! That’s a pittance!”

“Oh, like we should simply forgive her and allow her along?!” Toar replied. “What is to stop her from turning on us at her earliest convenience?!”

“Earliest convenience!” Celesi sneered and glared back at Toar. How could he be so unreasonable?! “Think about what you say, man! What is so convenient about her circumstance?! Without a people?! Running from the law with only a handful of strangers to guide and protect her?! Or is it having two children to watch while she does it?!” the young lady retaliated.

“More reason to leave her here, now that it’s safe,” Toar answered.

Celesi crossed her arms. “If it’s so safe, why don’t you stay?”

“Because the duke means to move on,” Toar answered.

“And would you say that safety is one of the reasons he’s moving on?” Celesi replied.

Toar frowned, stung by her sarcasm. “That’s not what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” Celesi snapped. “You mean to turn her away, because she planned revenge, back when revenge was in the cards! Well, it ain’t in the cards no more! And she hasn’t tried anything!”

Toar waved, “Didn’t she just try to stab Baet?!”

“That’s not fair,” Celesi replied. “You think she wants to cross you—and all of us—just to get back at the tea drinker?! Beside, he instigated tonight’s little drama! Maybe we should leave him instead!”

Duboha cut in and attempted to turn down the heat. “Little in this world is ever so simple,” he began. “We’ve all suffered a great deal of late. I feel this is an understandable outburst—especially if both Baet and Wenifas remain quiet about it afterward. The priestess has done nothing else to jeopardize us. And the guard seems to be fine with a bit of abuse from her pretty hands. Unless this becomes a regular thing between the two, I see no reason why she shouldn’t continue in our company.”

“Fine,” Toar gave up with a huff.

“Fine,” Celesi agreed, which was easier since she’d won—but still a bitter pill since it upset Toar so much. Why was he so upset? She thought he’d be happy to have the whole story! Instead, he was mad that Celesi had sided with the priestess.

But there weren’t sides! They were all on the same side!

Duboha turned to Toar, that he might clarify some of his story. "So all of this occurred as the bugbear warred on your prison?"

“That's how it started,” Toar nodded.

Komotz turned to Saleos. “Didn’t you fight bugbear? In Salyst?”

“Salyst?!” Toar stared at Saleos. “Well, tell us about that!" Toar beamed.

Saleos shook his head. "You haven’t finished your tale yet.”

“But that is the end of it,” Toar protested. "We escaped the prison, dodged a bullet, rescued Celesi and Meriona, then met Wenifas, Krumpus, and Meu among with so many other survivors on the road to Ebertin. Although Wenifas had control of the guards, we traveled with the protection of the Jay, so Wenifas could not deny us. We marched a good week, stopping in Falderfallen’s Hovey, then trudged another couple days, until we arrived in Ebertin, where we met you in Kezodel's court,” Toar shrugged. “After all that time, I thought the grudge was gone. Little did I know what the priestess and the Jay were planning to do,” he glared at Celesi.

Celesi shot back at him. “And then Meriona betrayed her, and left her with her lover’s killers—and yet she’s done nothing—until Baet egged her on!”

“If you should like talk of ancient history,” Saleos began in a loud voice. “Perhaps I shall tell you of mine.”

Toar stood, and rolling his eyes, went and sat away from Celesi, then turned his attention back to Saleos.

“It was a long time ago, some twenty years,” Saleos glanced about his audience. “A war of bugbear stormed out of the Cloud Mountains and fell upon the mines, farmlands, and villages north of Salyst. The bugbear continued their assault for the better part of a week, marauding and ravaging outside the city walls. They did not have the numbers to attack the city proper. Still, they did their damage—only to slink back into the mountains, satiated with blood and treasure.”

Toar nodded. “Bugbear make the worst sort neighbors.”

Saleos smiled. “After the war ended, the various Salystian militias decided they could not leave the vermin to proliferate and cause another war some twenty years distant. They formed up, intent to clear the buggers from the near side of the Cloud Mountains.

“When I first caught wind of the attacks, I was still in Gramgoar,—but I knew immediately that I wanted to go help my brothers in their troubles. It took me a year and a half, but I finally arrived—as the Salystians chased the buggers through the canyons and along the ridges. I joined the campaign to eradicate them, looking for glory and adventure—only to find blood and hardship. It was a crash course in fighting on uneven terrain, in bad weather, and also underground. We chased the bugbear into their caves, and through thickets of needle thorn, poison sycamore, and the ever-present strangle vine. We wore thick leathers with interwoven chain; gloves, and full masks to defend against the bugbear poisons. Indeed, by the time I arrived, the deadliest of the bugger poisons were in short supply—but we still saw them all, maddening wyrmbite, lightdrinker, itchy-creepy. The worst of it was slugsalt—but it was rare to see a man get stuck with a dart, or step on a spike, only to drop dead in seconds. Most of what we saw was the rot, slow, insidious, difficult to heal, and in ready supply.”

“You encountered a lot of rot?” Toar asked.

“Constantly. They make it from strangle vine and poison sycamore, both of which they grow in massive thickets about the entrances to their warrens. it seems to me that they never suffer a shortage,” Saleos rolled up his sleeve and revealed a webbed scar on his upper arm, maybe twice the size of a lune. “Needless to say, we got really good at treating the rot. By the end of the war we were losing less than one out of twenty men infected. I dodged that arrow twice,” he noted, and showed them another small patch of rot on his left foot.

“The duke got the rot,” Toar noted. “Indeed, I saw him get poisoned.”

“You managed to heal him?” Saleos asked.

“No,” Toar admitted. “I kept him alive a good week before he was taken and healed by some stranger at the camp. None of us met the man. Indeed, not even the duke knows who healed him—and his recovery was remarkably quick,” Toar stated. “I wish I knew who did it—and how—but I fear whoever did it perished in the bugger war.”

“He had the rot for a week?” Saleos whistled. “How’d you keep him alive that long?”

“I had a fine ointment made by a friend of mine, and I gave the duke lots of fio to keep his energy up,” Toar shrugged. “Still, he barely pulled through.”

“Yeah, but a week! I should like to know what was in that ointment,” Saleos noted.

“Unfortunately, I lost what was left of the bottle when we were taken prisoner,” Toar claimed, not wanting to share any of his new supply, not simply for this man’s investigation. “If you ever return to Ebertin, my friend in Edgewater can inform you. She is the one that made it.”

“Still, sick for a week,” Saleos shook his head. “He must have been a mess.”

Toar nodded. “He was on a litter at the end, and rot covered his entire right side. When we were captured, the Ministrian surgeons refused to even try. Indeed, they turned him over to some native they’d locked away from the others.” Toar turned and stared at Krumpus, suddenly suspicious, as the shaman poked the fading fire with with a long stick, seemingly uninterested in their conversation.

“Enough of your medicines!” Komotz cut in. “Saleos, tell us more of the fighting!”

Homoth and Aim agreed, and since Toar was also interested in that, Saleos began again. “It was a slow and persistent grind to chase the bugbear from their warrens. If you know buggers at all, then you know they are talented diggers. Still, we persisted. Slowly, we pushed them over the mountain, and deep into their caves. There were plenty of pitched battles, both under and above ground. It didn’t matter if I faced a bull, bitch, or pup; the buggers fought tooth and nail to the bitter end.

“Eventually, we pushed them so deep that we were in the caves for days,” Saleos continued. “Sometimes we came out on the other side of the ridge, while other times we wondered if the tunnels would ever come to an end! Indeed, bugbear weren’t the only things we found deep in the earth. After a few battles with indescribable beasts, we decided it might be best to simply destroy the tunnels on our side of the mountain and leave it at that.

Saleos shook his head. “Needless, to say, the victory was short lived. As the militias warred against the buggers, another threat approached from the south. Ministrians began their infernal work, pretending to be interested only in trade. Two years later, they managed to clear out the Salystians, just as we’d cleared out the bugbear. Then, once the people were gone, the Ministrians left. They wanted slaves, not a ruined city,” he shrugged.

“You were in Salyst when the Ministrians invaded?!” Toar could hardly believe it. “What was that like?!”

“We should have seen it coming,” Saleos shrugged. “The Ministrians overpaid for everything, and quickly involved themselves in local politics. They were a disruption from the outset—but the militias were focused on the bugger problem—and many allowed themselves to be soothed and sweet-talked by the silver-tongued Ministrians.” He shook his head. “The situation deteriorated rapidly. Salyst was small for a city and it wasn’t long before the Salystians were heavily outnumbered. Bouge militias came to help—though just as many helped the wrong side. Those that refused Ministrian blood money were attacked and harried for interfering. The siege continued and the city suffered. More and more Salystians escaped into the Red Desert, hoping to find refuge in the wilds. When that started to happen en masse, I realized I had to make a choice: chance it with the Salystians and go live beyond the desert, or sneak east and go back home. Though it was uncharacteristic of me, I decided to go home.”

“What was it like to live among the Salystians?” Toar asked. “In the early days, before the Ministrians?”

Saleos shrugged. “They were nice people, though they were different than the other Trohl tribes. They were almost completely of Yakkish decent. While the other tribes welcomed the Tallian refugees with open arms, the Salystians remained cool and distant. Some few Tallians settled among them—as they were not totally heartless—but these Tallians were forced to forgo their own customs and adopt the ways of the Yak entirely. That is how some of their Bouge brethren justified turning against them—that and a little blood money.”

“It is said they possessed wild magics and ancient wisdoms,” Toar noted.

A knowing smile overcame Saleos. “Secrets and talents like none other?!” He leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. “Powers beyond your wildest imagination?!” He whispered with wild fervor, as the rest leaned in.

Toar stared, intensely interested in what the man might say next.

Saleos leaned back and shook his head. He threw up his hands and shrugged. “Although the world certainly lost a heavy measure of ingenuity and goodness when it lost Salyst—they possessed no special magics or talents that might make them the envy of the world,” he shrugged. “I will say that they baked a good number of delicious pastries unequaled by anything I've tasted before or since, but after that, they were much like the rest of us,” he claimed.

Toar frowned. “You mock their memory,” he accused.

“I most certainly do not!” Saleos shook his head. “Indeed, I knew a good number of them, and counted them as friends. But despite my undying affection, I will not pretend they were more than plain men and women with common failings—just as you find in most quarters of the world. Besides, if they were such powerful and talented magicians, why could they not repel the armies of Minist?”

“They were heavily outnumbered,” Toar justified.

“And what are numbers compared to magic beyond imagining?” Saleos asked.

Toar glared at the man as he measured the statement. Though he did not like what the old man said—he could not fault the logic.

Duboha prodded Saleos. “That is not where it ended for you. After Salyst, you went to Saot lands. Indeed, you were a post runner for their king,” he prompted.

Saleos nodded. “First, I went to Hearthstone, where I studied the Saot language among their traders. Then I went south, and spent a number of years crisscrossing the kingdom.”

“You know Saot?” Toar asked. “You never speak it with the duke—nor with the others.”

Saleos shrugged. “There was no reason. They speak Ministrian, and we speak Ministrian—except the brothers.”

“You spied?!” Toar half-accused. He glared at the lot of them. “It seems we are surrounded by enemies!”

“I simply never bothered to mention it,” Saleos replied. “If it comforts you, I've never heard anything suspect from the duke—or his men—not in any language.”

Toar glared at the man for several more seconds, but since the others only snickered and grinned, he let it drop.

“Enough of such gossip! Tell us of your time in the Saot Kingdom,” Komotz insisted. “I’ve not heard any of this!”

Saleos shrugged, happy to entertain. “I returned home for a while, until wanderlust gripped me again. I went to Land's End, then followed opportunity to Solveny. I continued to learn Saot as I worked as a post runner for the Silver Service. We wore thick chainmail coats, burnished to a shine, adorned with the standard of the post: a running horse above the King’s own seal. For nearly a decade I traveled throughout the Saot kingdom as part of the second largest army in all the Saot: the post-runners.”

“But running post is a monotonous job,” Saleos revealed. “I grew bored and eventually left their ranks after I chanced upon a consortium of minor nobles that hoped to win favor with the Empress Seviticah. They had special charter from the king to solicit in Minist; and since they wished to appear more cosmopolitan, I joined their ranks as an adviser in Trohl affairs. Admittedly, I knew little of our politics at the time—but I certainly knew more than foreigners—so I made for Minist among their company.”

“Why would you meet with the Empress, especially after what she did to Salyst?” Toar asked.

Saleos shrugged. “A love of travel is in my blood. I have no real interest in the Empire—but I thought I should like to see the country, that I might understand it for myself. Besides, I thought our request should be denied. After what happened in Salyst, I thought the Empress would have no reason to back our efforts, and I thought this because I thought our efforts were noble. Still, I liked the idea of trying. I’d met other Trohls that had visited the kingdom. Some even liked it. Besides, I didn’t know anything of those people. What if the Empress did give us favorable terms?

“In the end, my suspicions were proved right,” Saleos continued. “Though we did meet a number of fine people, they rarely had any real power. As for the Empress, well, we did not even meet her—though we did see her from afar. Instead, we met too many of her ministers and advisors; all quite eager to meet us and our money—and even more eager to get away, once they heard our cause—once they realized that our investments would not be spoiled with drugs, women, or influence,” he noted. “In my estimation, Minist is ruled by a truly vicious and sinister lot that wants only to ruin others—and they often mark themselves with a set of fangs: one silver and one gold.”

“The Baradha,” Toar nodded. “I've met some number of them.”

“Is that what they call themselves?” Saleos shrugged. “They were quite tight lipped about the true form and function of the Empire—though they often wore those ubiquitous pins. Still, I enjoyed the opportunity to see Minist, even if it was not much to my liking. The place has a natural beauty about it—but the people are sick. They turn everything into war. Even their love is tainted with hostilities. The villages are empty of husbands, but full of soldiers,” he shrugged.

“After that, our company split,” Saleos continued. “Some returned to Danyan by boat, while the rest of us returned to the kingdom through Wibbeley. From there, my friends dispersed, and I came to Ebertin. I initially meant to go home once more, but I chanced upon Traust and these others among the Oak and Beast. They investigated the Bouge and tried to understand what had happened in far-off Salyst, so I shared my insights. We became friends. And since my intelligence proved useful, I was invited to swear an oath and take their colors. That was, what? Four years ago?” He looked about the others.

Aim and Homoth both gave nods—while Komotz counted the years on his fingers.

Saleos shrugged. “I’ve been here ever since.”

“You’re not a Jindleyak,” Toar realized.

Saleos nodded. “I'm Grammish by birth, though I've served the Oak and Beast longer than I ever served in any Grammish militia—mostly because I never served in any Grammish militia at all—and that makes me more a Jindleyak; as any of these men will attest,” he grinned. “I was never really one of Gramgoar. My upbringing was painful. My mother was poor, estranged from my father, and not particularly suited to raising her children—though she certainly had enough of us. It was a tumultuous youth. By the time I was grown, the open road was more of a home than any of the cities or villages of Gramgoar.” Saleos leaned back and shook his head, “But that is another story altogether, and I grow tired of my own voice. It is time for someone else to speak,” he said and stared about the others.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 9.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Meu slept in her serpent form between Claiten and Wenifas. She shivered as the night grew deep—but not for the cold. Her dreams turned to her daughter, a clutch of grandchildren having managed an arduous hatching. Now it would be up to their mother to raise them.

Meu woke as a feeling stirred within her. She felt she must not remain too long among these humans—though she hoped to stay with them a bit longer. She wished to see the shaman’s home, as he’d promised to introduce his wife and kids. It was supposed to be a week long journey and generally on her way, so she thought it’d be nice to spend a few more days with her newfound and hard-fought friends. But this night was not easy on the skin-walker wyrm. Unsettling thoughts crowded her dreams, and Meu found herself waking ahead of the sun. Perhaps she had gotten too used to being up at all hours—though it had served her well over the last few days—as she monitored the Ministrian shocktroops, and played a bit of kissy face with their greasy Grandus. How else could she creep about his thoughts? Still, the kiss was too kind. He deserved the fang—and nearly got it a time or two.

But that was then. Consumed by concerns for her daughter, Meu shifted into her human form, crept from the cabin, and made for the edge of the woods. She stepped under the obliging boughs of a weeping willow and summoned the shadows.

Despite her discrete manner, she did not go unobserved. Andrus was on guard, walking about the inn when he caught the faint creak of the door as Meu stepped from her cabin. Then, because Aim had made him suspicious, he followed the slight redhead as she stepped to the edge of the trees. When Meu didn’t turn toward the privy, Andrus knew she was up to something sneaky. He followed her as she slipped under the branches of a weeping willow. He saw the shadows gather and slip about her as she shifted into the form of a winged serpent.

Shocked to see such witchery, Andrus stared after Meu. Now a wyrm, she crawled up the branches of the tree, opened her wings, and flew toward the river. Amazed to have witnessed such a transformation, Andrus stared after the strange beast for quite a time. He’d heard of skin-walkers and often wondered if such magic was indeed possible—and now he’d seen it and knew it was real! He smiled and muttered to himself before he turned and walked away. “So that’s how it’s done.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 9.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

It was a night for strange dreams. Oblarra rose over the waters of the river and cast the landscape in an eerie crimson light. Creigal remembered sitting late into the night, skipping rocks over the river, as he allowed his thoughts to wear themselves out. He laid back in the shade of a maple, and thought only to rest for a bit—but a weariness overcame the duke, and sleep came quick.

Creigal suffered a strange vision as he slumbered next to the river. He had Aerindoun on a rack and stretched him for his crimes. The eldest screamed, wailed, and wept as he was pulled beyond his limits. Creigal was pleased with the sound—until the voice turned feminine. Suddenly, it was no longer Aerindoun that he tortured. It was his second child, Daphne, upon the rack. His heart lurched at the cries of his lost daughter. He undid the binds and gathered her weak form into his arms. Holding her close, he sobbed for the rough treatment he’d placed upon her and begged her for forgiveness.

Creigal hugged Daphne, and as he did, she morphed into his third child, Samaraut. The boy was confused, as was often the case, and for some time the duke tried to make sense of his third child’s ramblings—though there was little sense to be found as he cried and stammered. Then the figure was Samaraut no more, but now the youngest in his place, Jeppith; the most devious and manic of the lot. Before Creigal could stop him, Jeppith pulled the dagger from his father’s belt and stabbed the duke in the stomach. Creigal gaped at the blood gushing between his knuckles and felt his strength ebbing away. Jeppith stabbed him again and again, and chortled as he did so; then danced and skipped about with the blood-soaked blade held high. Creigal laid on the ground as life slipped between his fingers. Blood pooled at his mouth. His vision blurred, and the world went dark...

He woke with a fright and immediately checked himself for wounds. The dream was too real!

He sat up among the trees, somewhat shocked and confused to find himself next to the river. It took the duke several seconds to remember why he was here, under the canopy of a large maple.

It'd been some time since Creigal had slept out in the open. The darkness of night was beginning to lift. It’d be morning soon.

Slowly, Creigal sat against the trunk of the tree. He shivered as he checked to make sure he wasn’t stabbed and wondered at his strange dream. Was the wrath and suspicion he had for his sons somehow poisoning the love he had for his daughter? Might it be best to offer his sons forgiveness for their multitude of crimes—including Daphne’s murder? Was this not the best way to honor his lost daughter?

The duke found himself offended by his own musings. The thought of forgiving his sons was beyond repugnant! If not for them and their plotting, he'd still have his wonderful Daphne at his side! She was born to lead: intelligent, kind, and brave. In addition, his sons had mocked their mother, his loving wife, as she grew sick and died. They celebrated the fact that there could be no more siblings to usurp their ambitions. That was the fealty and worthiness of his sons! They murdered their own sister, danced on the grave of their mother, then mocked their father's loneliness—and he was to forgive them?! He would not do it! He could not do it! There was nothing the gods might offer—unless they should reunite him with the dead! How could he forgive his sons for their unbelievable cruelty?!

A sudden call shattered the quiet as it rolled through the woods. "ERRR-AY-ERRR-AY-ERRRRRR!"

The duke’s spitting, sputtering rage was cut short as he turned in the direction of the inn.

"ERRR-AY-ERRR-AY-ERRRRRR!" The cry of the rooster sounded again. It was a defiant call, angry and aggressive—and behind it was a fear that made Creigal think the bird called mostly to make itself feel better. It had suffered a scare, and now it was overcompensating.

He sat and waited, quite sure the rooster would crow again. If he knew roosters, they tended to crow and crow and crow…

Creigal stood and began back toward the inn. Thanks to the rooster, he was quite sure of the direction he wished to go—but as he proceeded, he heard another song, a thin and high-pitched mew.

It was a strange song indeed, the type of song he had not heard in years. The last time he heard such a song was in a quiet corner of the duchy, among a strange and powerful race. He slowed in his step, searched the trees, and wondered, could it be? Could it possibly be?!

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 9.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Claiten was about to crow a third time when his mother’s voice caught him off guard. “What is this about?!” She leaned against a wall and stared at the boy with a pained expression. “Why are you strutting like a cock?!” the priestess asked, bewildered.

For several seconds, the two simply stared at each other; then Wenifas doubled over, heaved, and spilled gross on the ground.

The smell of it caught in Claiten’s nose and for a second he thought he too might retch. He suppressed the urge to purge; then, worried for his mother, he ran to her side and put a hand on her back. "Are you okay?" He asked her.

Wenifas gave a weak smile to the child. "These native foods don't agree with me," she claimed—though she didn’t think her sickness was caused by the food at all. Indeed, the food was about the only thing that was agreeing with her these days. Even well fed, she was all nerves and anxiety. She was apprehensive about being in a new place, among people she barely knew, and customs she didn't understand.

She’d also tried to kill one of their company! She’d tried to kill the lustful Saot—and after barely escaping Ebertin! She’d repeatedly wondered how she’d managed to get Evereste through the entire ordeal without a scratch—until she remembered the several times when Celesi took responsibility for the baby—and she would have lost her blessed boy if not for Meu’s daring rescue! No! It was all too much! All the tension and worry was giving her headaches! It was making her nauseous!

But there was no reason to worry the boy with such adult concerns. She thought it best to let him think it was just a bit of bad food. “Everything will be fine,” she smiled, and tried to believe it herself. They seemed to be safe. She had money, and good people around her—or so she hoped. She also suffered the company of men she despised—and one of them simply refused to stop staring at her. She'd known men like him before, men of an obsessive nature. She'd bedded men like him, despite their neediness. At the time she thought it was good coin.

Then again, Derris needed her, especially at the end. He had looked at her in a similar fashion. Indeed, in that small way, the one reminded her of the other—and that made her hate Baet all the more!

Wenifas shook her head and turned her attention back to Claiten. She frowned, “How are you, my brave boy?”

“Fine,” he lied, but Wenifas knew better. The boy was more reserved, more stand-offish, more angry of late. He was no longer outgoing and carefree.

Or was it simply that there were no children his own age to distract him?

No. Ever since Beletrain, he was different. In most ways, Claiten seemed to be relatively unscathed by his experiences among the naga—but something dark and sinister was still about him. Perhaps she’d have the shaman take a look at him…

All the worry made her stomach knot. Wenifas turned from her son and spilled more sick. "What are they feeding us?!" she complained as she wiped her mouth. She stared back at her boy and wondered if he could spot her lies as well as she could spot his. "Come here," Wenifas said, and wrapped Claiten in a hug. He hugged her back and she held him for several long seconds. "We're going to be fine," she claimed as her worries began to play through her mind yet again—then, despite her claim, she pushed her boy away and held him at arms length, so she could be sick once more—though there was nothing more to purge.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 9.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Creigal stopped and listened to the odd song as he moved away from the inn once more. The song was rich and clear, and he knew it’s subject the same way he always knew what all birds were singing. The song was of bittersweet longing, of absent family and friends. It was a song that anticipated a homecoming. He wondered that her anguished song should be about a missing daughter—the very thing that tortured his own soul.

Still, this was more than a mere bird. Creigal knew the voice. He’d heard such beasts many years ago. It’d been so long ago, and such a rare encounter, that he could barely believe he was hearing the same song in this strange country! He crept among the trees on soft slow feet, scanning the canopy, looking for the source of the song. Finally, he spotted her near the top of an ancient oak; feathers splayed, as she sang with her whole body. His jaw dropped as he gaped at the majestic beast. He had not seen a wyrm in many years, since the last time he ventured through Haltbrush.

He distinctly remembered the day his father introduced him to a council of wyrm folk. When he was young, he doubted the existence of such beasts and thought they were simply figments of men’s imaginations—until he witnessed a good dozen turning in lazy circles above him as they regarded the boy and his father’s entourage. On that day, oh so long ago, one of the beasts wrapped about his father’s shoulders. His father talked as if he knew the creature’s thoughts, which convinced Creigal that his father was also a bird-talker—until he learned about their venom and the strange effect it had on one’s mind. Creigal stared at the creature. The coloring was close to those he knew in his own duchy.

Eventually the song ended. Still, he watched as the strange beast preened. Finally, the serpent leaned from its perch, spread its magnificent wings, and lifted into the air. Creigal watched as it turned a few lazy circles over the tops of the trees, then disappeared back toward the inn.

He ran after it, curious to see where the creature might be going. He almost lost the strange beast and was sure it would soon disappear over the cabins and various buildings of the inn—but just as he thought it should fly out of view, the creature settled in a willow at the edge of the woods. He crept forward and watched as the creature made its way down through the branches and to the ground. He waited to see if the creature might come crawling out—but it did not. Instead, Meu stepped from under the willow. She adjusted her slight sundress and Creigal stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. Not only was she a wyrm, she was a skin-walker!

As the duke stared, Meu felt eyes upon her. She lifted her eyes and caught sight of the duke—then promptly stared back at him. The initial shock of being discovered passed over her. A glint of mischief lit her eyes and a curious smile bent the edge of her lips. Meu raised her hand and beckoned the duke to come out of the trees.

Self-aware and still entranced, Creigal smoothed his rumpled clothes, then stepped from his cover with a foolish grin glued to his face. “Hi,” he smiled, as if he were always addressing skin-walker wyrms.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 9.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Their eyes were not the only ones about the woods. Indeed, there was another set that followed the duke from the edge of the water and saw the shape-shifting wyrm. As the duke introduced himself to Meu, Maligno turned and slithered back to the water’s edge, away from the inn full of waking men. The naga crawled into the river, slipped through a submerged tunnel, and arrived in a cavern above the level of water. Several other naga were already there—and there would soon be several more!

Maligno turned to Golifett with his burnt and useless eye. “The boy still crows,” he nodded. “There is indeed a winged serpent that stays among the men—but you will not see her unless you know what to look for,” he smiled. “She’s a skin-walker.”

“A skin-walker,” Golifett grinned. “What of the boy’s song? How long was it? How true is the curse?”

“He crowed twice,” Maligno answered.

Golifett gave a nod. “It may be weak, but it is sticking,” he smiled. “Good. Good.”

Maligno shook his head. “They are far too many. We cannot hope to take them,” he said.

“I do not believe they mean to stay here,” Golifett said. “Is this not one of their travel houses, where strangers stay? You will see. They will continued, and when they do, they will thin. Eventually, an opportunity will arrive. We will grab the children and kill the rest.”

“Let us hope so,” Maligno replied. “We are fierce, but we are few.”

“I will even the odds,” Golifett smiled. “I have been studying the signs, and I see a storm coming—one of such proportion that it will shake the earth as it passes! We only have to wait!” He grinned.

The others cheered to hear this—but not Maligno. He simply stared at Golifett and wondered if it might be true. Sometimes he was right about these things—and sometimes not so much. Indeed, a time or two, Golifett was right in such a big way that it almost spelled calamity! Sometimes his cousin was too right!

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