Recruits to the Cause

Extended the work — 30m09s — 2023/09/11

Worked on Crea and Malcolm, and introduced the Deputy High Cleric of the Noeth — 1h36m05s — 2023/09/23

Polished 2.1, 2.2, 2.3, and 2.4 — 1h39m43s — 2023/09/24

Polished — 50m44s — 2023/09/28

Polished — 1h31m57s — 2023/10/01

Polished — 1h02m03s — 2023/10/22

Added a brief note about the new 1.3 (Maligno is released) — 2m52s — 2023/10/23

Creigal and Carringten visit the fort atop the mountain in 2.1 — 54m15s — 2023/11/17

Did more work on 2.1. Polished the first bit, then started the fight between Roustich and Carringten — 57m11s — 2023/11/18

Polished 1.1 and 1.2. Separated the second half of 1.1 and moved it to 1.3 (for now…) — 1h23m59s — 2023/11/19

Creigal was feeling solid in his decision to go north. He’d sent a number of letters with Andrus, and he felt his concerns in the south were well addressed. The only matter that bothered him, the fact that Meu insisted on going south with the post-runner—well, he understood why she must go, and wished her safe travels—but now that Meu was out of the picture, Creigal was quite content to focus on Humbert once more. Indeed, he was having dreams of his daughter again, and they were of a supportive and encouraging nature. On top of all that, Creigal was traveling through friendly lands at a leisurely pace. It seemed as if the world was at peace, and not on the verge of fire and open war.

The first day from Azra’s Estate, they travelled through Hearthstone, and while Krumpus, Scurra, and much of the party skirted the city, Creigal, Roustich, and a few others went to the fort at the crest of the mountain.

“Who lives here?” Creigal asked as they trudged the last few steps of a terribly steep and narrow road.

Roustich answered the question with a question of his own. “Why would anyone live here?” he asked.

“Because it is safe, or presumably so,” Creigal replied.

Roustich gave a nod. “So its true what they say about the south? That in your lands there are those that rule and those that serve—as if this man or that man is better than the rest?”

“It is not so much that they are better, but that they have more, and come from powerful families,” Creigal explained.

“And you come from such a family?” Roustich asked.

“I do,” Creigal admitted.

“And why do you think you are better than the men you rule?” Roustich continued.

Creigal smiled. He liked Roustich with his skeptical manner and direct questions, and so he would answer. “It is not that I am better, so much that I have resources and the leisure for study. Mine is a station well respected, so the people do as I say.”

“Your people need to be told what to do?” Roustich asked.

“Less often than you’d imagine,” Creigal smiled. “Though there are those of my station that would claim quite the opposite. Of course, our king and many of his nobles obscure themselves and look to confuse their people, so they might take better advantage.”

“And what is it that you do with your own people?”

“My work of late has been the untangling of our obligations to the throne.”

“Sounds delicate,” Roustich nodded.

Creigal shrugged. “It is impossible, which is why we’re at the verge of war.”

Roustich stared at Creigal. “If your king treats the people as chattel, it is best if you are at odds with him.”

“It wasn’t always such,” Creigal continued. “My ancestors wrote that the Kingdom of the Saot used to be a righteous and forthright place—though it was corrupted long before I was born.”

“Who corrupted it?”

Creigal turned and stared at Roustich for a long second. “I feel you may sense this already, but I don’t think it can be repeated often enough: beware of Ministrians and their gifts.”

“And what gift did they give to your kingdom?” Roustich wondered.

“They gave our king a nnak stone, and then they taught him how to use it,” Creigal answered. “They also gave one to the Sultan of Hof Hebrin, and to the Council of Chiefs in Borzia—which is how they subverted those lands.”

“And you think the Empress might try to give one of our respected elders a shiny rock?” Roustich asked

“It is always a danger, but then, maybe not. The wizard that made them died several hundred years ago, and I am told that no other has managed to replicate his magicks,” Creigal said.

Roustich gave a snort. “Let the Empress keep her fancy nnak. We have plenty of our own stones,” he said as he waved at the walls. Indeed, the fort was made of them, all topped with the snapping pendants of a hundred different militias.

Inside the massive stone walls, the space was wide open and quite empty—except for the men that gathered about. Some trained. Others talked. A few kept to their own business, whether it was strange, or mundane, or incomprehensible.

There were few buildings in the fort, except for the massive towers that were connected to the walls. For the most part, it seemed as if the massive long walls of the fort protected nothing but an oversized parade grounds.

“So this place is open to all?” Creigal asked.

Roustich nodded. “It is everyone’s home, as it is our shelter of last resort. Indeed, Tronde himself planted the first stone, though the south tower dates back before the Broken Legions.”

“And none of these men live up here?” Creigal repeated, unable to believe it.

“Some may stay a week, or even a month. But none would claim its their home. They come up here to practice for its defense, or to look after its upkeep, or to experiment with whatever has caught their fancy. They may stay as long as they like, but none would be so daft to press a claim upon the place.”

“What if one was to make such a claim? What if I was to say that this was my corner?”

“No one would believe yuo. And if you should insist on it, you would be roundly mocked, and eventually tossed out on your ears,” Roustich answered.

“And the ones that stay, do they sleep out in the open?” Creigal wondered. “It might be nice on clear nights, but what do you do in the weather?”

Roustich laughed. “There are plenty of quarters in the caves. Go into any of these towers and simply follow the stairs down if you wish to nap.”

“I feel it is a bit early for a nap, but I would like to examine the place,” Creigal said as he marveled at the fortifications.

Roustich wanted to stay and practice among the men, so Elpis volunteered to show the duke around. Toar tagged along, but Carringten stayed. “Will you train with us?” Roustich asked the dark man as they tied their horses near a trough. “I have yet to see you play touches. Duboha and Aim told wild tales of how you defeated so many of the others.”

Carringten gave a nod and followed after the large dour Trohl.

Creigal wandered about the massive fort, surprised that it was so large, and yet carefully crafted. A great amount of thought was put into its design, even into the caverns that twisted under their feet. “If there was a fight—say some grand army actually managed to make its way through the rest of the city—these tunnels are where the bulk of the fighting would actually take place,” Elpis began. “They all have defensive measures to keep any invaders out. Some have sheer shafts, and all we’d have to do is raise or cut the lifts. Other tunnels have massive steel doors. My favorite is the grand staircase, which is long and straight with a groove cut through the middle of the stairs. At the top of the stairs are large, smooth, round boulders. If there was an army coming up the stairs, we simply roll one of the boulders—which is guided by the groove,” Elpis smiled.

They explored the fort for several hours, and Creigal was sure that Carringten would be worried with his long absence—but when they came back to the dark man and Roustich, the two were oblivious to their absence, as they glared at each other over their practice sticks.

“What’s the score?” Creigal asked an engrossed observer.

“Naughts!” said the man. “They’ve been at it for over an hour, and neither can seem to score!”

Indeed, there was quite a large audience as the two men went back and forth. Their blows echoed across the grounds as they roared at each other and smashed with incomprehensible speed and strength—only to pause and reset after long, ineffective trades. Glaring at each other, the two men panted, then stormed back at each other. Still, neither could find a gap, so the blows hit a defensive stick, or simply nothing at all, as they circled and circled.

One such exchange had gone on for over a minute, when a blow from Carringten snapped one of the sticks held by Roustich. With a broken edge, the Trohl was unable to defend himself and took a touch.

“It counts!” the friendly observer exclaimed. “Weapons break in battle! Weapons break in games!” he beamed.

Roustich cursed and flung the broken stick against the stone wall. He yelled and snarled and cussed about, as he took a stick from an observer and set for the next point. Carringten gave a polite nod, and just like that the two were back at it, hammering at each other, as they danced back and forth.

Creigal watched as the frenzy continued—but the two were so evenly matched—and he began to grow bored. Sweat dripped down the combatants as they glared at each other and panted. The duke turned to Elpis, “This is all very engaging, but I have seen my men train all too often. I would prefer to explore your most excellent city,” he said, as the native managed to stare at his guest, and simultaneously at the fight, with his wonky eyes.

Elpis gave a nod. He tapped the friendly observer on the shoulder. “Are you staying to watch this end?”

“Why would I ever leave before it this is over?!” He said without even looking at Elpis, he was so engrossed.

“When they finish, will you tell them that we have gone on and will meet them at the Yockupp Enclave?”

“You would give me a reason to talk with them?!” The spectator gave a vigorous nod. “The Yockupp Enclave,” he smiled, without ever taking his eyes off the fight. “They will meet you at the Yockupp Enclave!”

“Good man,“ Elpis said as he gave the stranger a pat on the shoulder. With that, he led Creigal and Toar into the tunnels, then took them through the neighborhoods built on the northern slope.

~!@#$5^&*()_+ 2.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

After growing up on her farm and only going among a few local villages, Crea used to think that Solveny was impossibly large. But that old town was dwarfed by Land’s End, which seemed to go on and on forever. Indeed, the walls of Land’s End didn’t appear until they’d walked at least an hour among houses and buildings all crammed together.

And the people! It was an unending sea of people! She had never seen so many people, all crowding around, as if it was normal to brush and jostle others while simply trying to walk!

The markets were the worst, nearly impassible with withered old women selling their fruits, leather bags, and just about anything else one could wish to find.

Crea followed as Malcolm led the way. The young man had rarely been out of Solveny, making only a few trips to Land’s End, so he knew the city, but not overly well. He did know where to find the Keep of the Post, which he said was at the heart of the city, quite close to the Dunkel’s own castle. “You will not believe the place!” Malcolm told her. “It is so regal and opulent, it is almost deserving of the likes of you!” he grinned.

Crea gave a long-suffering smile and turned away. Still, she held Malcolm’s hand, as the other clutched at her falchion, and she felt like she was suffocating. She liked the boy. She liked him quite a lot—but he was making things impossible! He talked incessantly about how he and Crea would find a place here, that they would get married and have babies together. If he was to be believed, they were about to make a fine new start, with nothing but milk and honey before them!

That is, once the marauders were brought to justice…

It was the one stipulation that gave Malcolm pause, while Crea suffered an unending number of questions, of which the war was only a minor concern! Yes, Malcolm was quite sure they’d be all too happy together—once the men that destroyed Solveny were driven away, or slaughtered for their evil! Malcolm was quite convinced that since the Keep of the Post was sacked, that the Silver Service would take up arms and defend itself. Indeed the Silver Service had more men than the King’s Regulars! It was well known that the Silver Service was the largest army in the entire Kingdom—though it was also spread across the entire kingdom. Still, be a formidable number in the Noeth! Hundreds, if not thousands!

It took Crea and Malcolm half the day to get to the heart of the city, and it was just as grand as Malcolm had said. The Keep of the Silver Service was practically a fortress, many times larger than their Keep in Solveny. The two of them walked hand in hand as Malcolm flashed his badge at the guards. Once inside, Malcolm stepped forward and threw his bag on the counter. “I bring word from Solveny,” he said to the clerk, and placed the post he’d carried on the counter.

“Solveny?” the clerk questioned, his interest piqued. “And you are…?”

“Malcolm, apprentice runner to Master Doidge. He has gone on to Danya, to see the Holy Shrivner, and has tasked me to deliver this word,” the young man said as he pushed the pile of envelopes toward the clerk.

“Put it back in your pack, for it is not to me that will take delivery,” the clerk said, then turned to Crea. “And who is this with you?”

“This is Crea, my friend and companion. She is also from Solveny and can attest to the authenticity of my words,” Malcolm explained as he stuffed the post back in his bag.

“Is she a wench of the service? Is she just some commoner?” the clerk asked.

Crea bristled.

“She is not sworn to the service, nor is there anything common about her,” Malcolm stared daggers back at the clerk.

The clerk frowned. “I mean no insult, but she is not one of ours, so I must ask her to wait here, while you must see the Deputy High Cleric. He has ordered that anyone coming from Solveny be brought to him immediately.”

“Have others' arrived?” Malcolm asked.

“Not since the fighting started,” the clerk answered. “Come,” he said with a nod.

Malcolm turned to Crea and frowned. “I’m sorry. I have to ask you to wait,” he said, pained that they should be separated.

Crea pointed behind her with a thumb over her shoulder. “I’ll wait back at the fountain,” she answered.

With a nod, Malcolm turned to the clerk, and the clerk led him away. They climbed several sets of stairs, often interrupted by long hallways, and packed with men of every size and demeanor. Eventually, they found their way to the top of a high tower, to the Deputy High Cleric’s office, where Malcolm was left to wait, while another meeting concluded.

How long was it that Malcolm sat waiting? It was far longer than he would have liked—yet, he was fulfilling his oath—and to think that he would meet the Deputy High Cleric of the Noeth! He smiled as he considered the force of men that would soon ride out to the rescue of High Plains, and he meant to be at their lead, to show them where the enemy camps were set!

Finally, the door to the opened, and a gaggle of well-heeled men stepped from the deputy’s office. Some were high clerks of the order, while the rest were men of other means.

“The Deputy High Cleric will see you now,” his secretary, a portly and officious man, said.

Malcolm stood, gathered his bag, and stepped into the ornate office of the Deputy High Cleric. “Welcome! Welcome!” the official stated as he approached and shook hands with the much younger man. Just like his secretary, the Deputy High Cleric was a portly and officious man, only a grander version, with more decorative pins on his shirt. “Yes, yes! I hear you have come from Solveny, that you have brought post and word of what has happened! I have heard truly savage and egregious things from the west,” he added with a tsk. “You have no idea how happy I am to finally have official word from one of our own!” he finished with a smile. “Well then, let’s see the post!”

Malcolm pulled the letters from his bag and set them before the Deputy High Cleric, who immediately began sorting them. “The town was sacked, including our Keep,” Malcolm began his report.

“My, how dreadful! How did they do it? How did you escape?”

“They chopped down a tree and used it to bash the gate. They were slaughtering our brothers in the courtyard, all while Doidge and I snuck into a tunnel that came out in the neighboring park,” Malcolm told him.

The Deputy High Cleric shook his head. “This shall not go unanswered,” he glanced up. “These wild Trohls and their clandestine allies,” he tsked once again.

“They may dress as Trohls, but I believe many of them are secretly Ministrians, if not all,” Malcolm countered.

“Ministrians?” The Deputy High Cleric stared. “What of the Gaurs?”

“If most are pretending to be Trohls, then I assume that some are simply pretending to be Gaurs,” Malcolm answered.

“Well, this is quite the accusation!” The Deputy High Cleric recoiled. “Are you sure of this?!”

“We get plenty of Ministrians from the west, out of Wibbeley; and we used to see a fair number of Trohls from Rynth Falls—until a few years ago, when they cut themselves off,” Malcolm explained. “Trohls tend to be of a light complexion with round faces, while Ministrians usually have dark hair and often appear more gaunt. As for Gaur, we’ve never had many Gaur in Solveny.”

“Well, sounds as if you do know your peoples—but not every individual adheres to the propensities of the masses,” the Deputy High Cleric considered. “Perhaps you are wrong about who you saw.”

Malcolm thought about it for a long second, then shook his head. Although he only saw the one marauder up close, he believed Crea’s estimation of who they were. “We saw Ministrians,” he insisted.

“We?” the Deputy High Cleric asked with an arched eyebrow. “Do you mean that Doidge shared your view?”

“No. Crea and I,” Malcolm said. “She saw several up close. I saw just the one.”

“Crea?”

“My travel companion. Doidge and I rescued her just outside the keep, and she has been with me ever since,” Malcolm said.

“A woman?”

Malcolm nodded.

The Deputy High Cleric smiled to hear this. “Well, it sounds as if you’ve allowed the opinions of an hysterical lady to override your own senses, for I am assured by a great many others that it is Trohls and officials from Gaurring that have caused the calamity out west.”

Malcolm stared at the Deputy High Cleric, taken aback that the man should so easily disregard his testimony. “I would be happy to go down stairs and get my friend. She can tell you for herself all that she saw, and I can promise you, she is not hysteric.”

“No, no, no,” The Deputy High Cleric raised a hand. “There’s no need for all that. It is not as if I blame her, as it is the nature of women to get the details wrong,” he grinned. “Now, I suspect that our business is all but concluded. The only question left is the matter of your assignment. After all, we can’t ask you to return to Solveny,” he snorted.

Malcolm flinched from the inconsiderate joke, then sat up straight. “Indeed, I do wish to return to Solveny,” he answered. “I should like to ride with whatever men are go to reclaim the town from our enemies.”

The Deputy High Cleric considered the request for half a beat, then shook his head. “I wouldn’t dare ask you to return to the horror of an active war,” he replied. “Why don’t we send you to Kelm? Or maybe you would like to work in Pagladoria?”

Malcolm didn’t like either option—not in the least! “Can I not stay in the Noeth?!” he asked. “May I not defend my home?!”

The Deputy High Cleric shook his head. “Solveny is not your home. The post is your home!” he shook his head with yet another tsk. “No, it is certainly best if we stretch your views, that we give you some ground to cover, and let you see the world a bit! Yes, that is the way of it! You will go south.”

Malcolm frowned. “I cannot stay?” he asked one final time.

The Deputy High Cleric simply shook his head.

The young post-runner had not considered any other possibility, and now that he thought on it, there was nowhere else that held much interest. For several long seconds he blinked at the Deputy High Cleric, then wondered to whom he might the appeal such a decision.

Finally, Malcolm lit on his answer. “How about Danya?” he asked. “I’ve always wanted to see the capital,” he lied. His only thought was that perhaps he could talk to the Holy Shrivner—and then he would return to the Noeth with an army behind him!

“Danya it is!” The Deputy High Cleric smiled. “Well then, if there isn’t anything we missed…” he wrote out the boy’s orders and handed them over. “Give this to the entry clerk. He will see you outfitted and paid!”

Malcolm stood with a nod, took his orders, and shook the man’s hand. He gathered his bag, opened the door, and stepped out as the Deputy High Cleric called after him.

“You’ve done us a fine service, my boy! A fine service indeed!”

Malcolm gave another nod, waved at the secretary, then continued on his way. Although he gave no outward appearance of his dissatisfaction, he couldn’t believe that he had been summarily ignored, then pushed to the far end of the kingdom! He shook his head. If things didn’t get better in Danya, well, he only had four more months until his eighteenth birthday—and then he’d be free to quit the service altogether!

Yet, perhaps there was no need to be so dramatic. Perhaps in four months, the war would be over. For now, he would simply give the news to Crea and see what she made of it. Would she be willing to follow him all the way to Danya? She seemed to hate the war so much that maybe she’d be thrilled to go so far away from it! Indeed, by the time he got down all the stairs, he’d convinced himself that she would be quite happy with the development. She wouldn’t sulk if there was no possibility of him dying in the war. And he had a bit of money. It wasn’t much, but it would keep a roof over their heads, and food on their plates. By the time he reached the ground floor, Malcolm couldn’t wait to tell her—yet when he finally made his way to the fountain, outfitted with post he would take to Danya, he couldn’t find her anywhere! Indeed, he spent the next hour searching every corner of the square, questioning bystanders, and shop owners, all to no avail.

“Crea?” he called. “Crea!”

He searched all over, then returned to the fountain and paced the square, hour after hour, until it got dark.

Yet, Crea was nowhere to be found.

What had become of her?! Around midnight, he got a room, and suffered a fitful sleep. Exhausted, he rose before the sun. He spent the first half of the day questioning the watch. Had they seen her? Would they help him find her?! But the watch simply shrugged him aside. They had real work to do! There was a war on, if the boy too slow to notice!

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 2.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

The spectator is drinking and carousing with Roustich and Carringten when we find them at the Yockupp enclave.

Indeed, it took them a day just to get to the north end of Hearthstone, where they came upon an enclave of Yockupps that meant to talk and catch up with their cousins. Indeed, they stayed several days. At leas the people were welcoming, hospitable, even generous. Indeed, it was a life of luxury—though Creigal longed to arrive at the blight, even though he was assured that the journey would turn deadly serious once they reached that cursed land.

The first day from Azra’s estate, Creigal was generally ignored, while Krumpus and the others were the center of attention. The second night at the enclave, matters changed, and Creigal felt as if the shaman was looking to embarrass him. As they all ate, Krumpus was telling stories with subtle glances and surreptitious whispers. At first, the duke just thought the shaman was circulating through friends and family—but then he began to notice that others were staring. Uneasy, Creigal wondered what the healer was saying. After so much of this, the duke grabbed the scarred and silent man by the arm and asked him point blank, “what is the meaning of this?!”

I am spreading your legend, Krumpus said with his eyes, as he patted the duke’s hand. Don’t let this worry you. Indeed, it will serve you well in the end, he laughed, then sauntered off among the happy crowd.

“it is unbelievable that he should talk to you in such a manner,” Carringten glared.

Creigal shook his head. “I would have liked to travel through these lands anonymous, but our friend seems intent on letting everyone know who we are. Still, I cannot believe he means us any harm, and he is not fickle or oblivious. If he thinks it wise to tell them who I am, then it must be so. They may stare, but they simply seem astonished and bewildered, and despite the attention, they are kind and genuine,” he said, then shook his head. “Still, I do not see why he is so intent on letting everyone know what we are up to.” That’s what he said shortly before they retired to their beds. In the morning, Criegal’s attitude had slipped. “What the devil?!” he flinched as he came out of the inn.

Before them were some eighty or ninety people, all well armed and in good health. They all had horses or wagons, and all seemed quite prepared for a long trek. They smiled at the duke, somewhat shy and uncertain.

And more were arriving.

Krumpus was hitching the wagon when Creigal found him. “What is all this?!” He asked. “Who are these people, and why are they so interested in me?!”

They are not nearly as interested in you as they are in the blight, Krumpus revealed. I have told them you mean to go there and confront whatever dangers you find. I have also told them some of our adventure, and I have not exaggerated any point of it, he smiled. They see you as an auspicious figure—so they mean to go with you and help. They are a dedicated and talented people. I think you shall find many uses for them.

Creigal glanced about the gathered masses and studied their conduct. They seemed awed by his willingness to confront the blight, and suddenly he began to wonder if he was overestimating himself.

Before they leave Hearthstone, and elder approaches Creigal and demands to see the one that goes against his will. Initially, Creigal doesn’t know who the man is talking about, but then he remembers Maligno. He takes the elder to see the beast, and after a brief conversation, Maligno is released into the Deep under Hearthstone.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 2.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

For her part, Crea wanted nothing to do with Malcolm’s fantasy future—so when Malcolm went into the keep of the Silver Service, quite sure that she would be there when he was finished, Crea turned and left without ever saying goodbye. She felt guilty for this. Indeed, she lingered for maybe a good twenty minutes before she finally pushed herself to leave. It was the right choice, or so she thought. She was very welcome for Malcolm’s company as they’d snuck across the endless prairie of the Noeth. How much worse would it have been without him? But she did not want to stay with the boy, nor did she have any interest in telling him that his fancy was not reciprocated—and so she waited until he was occupied—then simply walked away.

But where would she go?

Crea considered her options as she stared at the fantastic buildings all around her. She knew she wouldn’t stay in Land’s End. She thought that maybe she should go to High Plains after all, but her heart wasn’t in it—and so she wandered about the city center aimlessly, as the day carried on.

As Crea considered her direction, she moseyed her way across a lush green park. She had no interest in going, just as she had no interest in staying—so she walked, stopped, and turned—only to go a block or two before she turned again and went a different way altogether! She cut across major roads, dipped through alleys, then doubled back across the same green park. Her only real interest was in the delicious food she smelled and saw in the café windows. If she waited for Malcolm, he would have plenty of coin so they might eat—but not even her hunger could not drive her back to the fountain—and so she wandered. She never considered that anyone might be watching, that anyone might have noticed the contrast between her rough and dirty clothes and the fancy falchion she wore on her hip.

Still wandering, Crea cut into an alley, only to realize that three men wearing the uniform of the local watch had followed her. Crea continued through the thin alley as it turned, then stopped at a number of solid doors. It was a dead end. With a huff, she turned to find herself cornered by three watchmen, and immediately realized her predicament. In her previous life, she would not have feared men in uniform—but now she saw past their neat clothes and observed their murky hearts. Deciding that she would rather die than have another man take advantage, she drew her falchion, and snapped at her confronters. “Get back, or I’ll gut you!”

The first one tsked as he took a step forward. “Now that’s no way to talk to the watch, missy.”

“Keep up that kind of behavior and perhaps we won’t treat you so kind,” the second one added.

“Now put down the sword and behave as we say,” the third ordered. “Otherwise you’ll force us to be unpleasant.”

“I’ve done nothing and you have no reason to stop me!” she screamed. “Come close and I’ll prove your folly!” she glared, thinking it was finally time to fight something other than trees.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 2.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Cleaning the stables was never so terrible, mostly because Horsewind never let it get that bad. At the very least, mucking the stables was an opportunity to clear his head, to try make sense of the things he’d seen and heard, and generally a chance to exercise his demons with honest labor. The honest work certainly didn’t hurt. There wasn’t much physical about his true purpose, and even less that was honest—so shoveling shit kept him in shape both physically and mentally—and it didn’t hurt that the smell of it kept others from getting too close.

Today, Horsewind was troubled. He leaned into each shovel of manure and thought of the strange news he was hearing out of the west. There were rumors that some of the invaders that sacked Solveny were wearing Gaur uniforms, implicating his true master in a great and terrible crime. His latest report home included a dire warning, one that he hoped wasn’t too late.

It wasn’t long before Horsewind had mucked the last stall. Now the cart needed to be taken to the lot next to the mill, where the manure would be mixed with chips and dust, then left to rot until winter; when it would be spread over the Dunkel’s gardens as a fine fertilizer. But that was work for other hands.

“Horsewind!” a small porter called into the stables.

The stable sweep grumbled and turned to the young boy.

“After you unload all that, Deneroe wants you to stop by the blacksmith and pick up a shipment,” the porter told him.

Horsewind acted like it took a bit of thought to come up with anything to say. “You mean Tackle by Ternce?”

“Non,” the boy shook his head. “The Fine Fire. Three blocks south and one block west. You know it?”

Destracted, Horsewind scratched a thumb of shit into his hair. “Yeah, I know it,” he said with a nod. The Fine Fire specialized in weapons.

The porter smiled. He was a nice boy, and Horsewind hoped he’d be able to maintain such a pure spirit in such a terrible place. But then, Horsewind was no fan of the Dunkels or their duchy.

“Deneroe said to make sure you clean the cart before you load it,” the porter stammered as a way of apology. “He said its more than the usual shoes and tack this time.”

“Oh…” Horsewind said with a slow appreciative nod. “Don’t you worry, young master! I’ll take special care for you! There’s a well on the way to the Fine Fire, so I’ll stop and throw a couple buckets of water, once I unload,” he smiled. Yeah, he liked the young porter, as the child often went out of his way not to give offense, which wasn’t like many in the castle. Most were all too willing to insult a lowly stable hand. It showed the true character of the masters—but also made it easy to get a position in their service, since honest work was always leaving to go just about anywhere else—which is just what a good spy wants: honest work, to hide his dishonest work.

Speaking of spying, an extra load of weapons was a thing that Horsewind found to be interesting. There’d been a steady increase in military preparation—even before Solveny—as if the Dunkels knew what would happen. Interesting indeed…

Horsewind finished his mucking. He thought he’d have plenty of time to puzzle over his clues, as he pulled his hand cart through the streets, but he was barely a block from the castle walls when he saw the most incredible thing; a young lady with an intriguing sword on her hip. It was a peculiar sword for such a dust-covered woman. Indeed, the weapon was more surprising than he could believe. But he was not the only one caught by the weapon. Three young watchmen followed the woman as she stepped into an alleyway that he knew for a fact took two turns before ending against several high walls and a number of locked doors.

Normally, Horsewind wouldn’t bother with a bunch of ruffians in uniform picking on some tart, no matter how undeserving it all might be. He had a job to do, and he wasn’t in the habit of playing small-time hero when it might jeopardize his real work, the careful work of many years. Normally, he would grit his teeth, and walk on by. But the falchion at her hip was of fine and specific crafting, a weapon he’d seen quite often in the hands of another, in the hands of his proper master, Duke Creigal berDuvante. He paused and considered being brash. Perhaps it was time to burn his cover. He could always resurface as a merchant, or a craftsman, someone of a different class. A small voice deep inside told him it was indeed the right move.

Horsewind picked his shovel off the mounded manure, then stepped into the alley. He came around the second corner to find that two guards had the young lady bent over a rain barrel while the third inspected her falchion. “Drop the weapon and leave her alone!” Horsewind barked.

Alarmed, the watchmen turned—though they all relaxed when they saw who was there. “Horsewind!” One of them scoffed. “Piss off, before you anger us!”

The other two snorted and turned back to the girl, unconcerned by the simpleton. One grabbed her hair and made her squeal, while the other felt her up.

“Go on!” the first watchman waved at Horsewind, a tall and well muscled youth. “Leave your betters to their sport!” he stood, arms akimbo.

Horsewind stared back as he approached with his shovel.

“I said, git!” The watchman snapped, then swaggered forward. He raised the fancy falchion, then paused as he figured the threat of the weapon would be enough to scare off the stable hand.

As the watchman slowed, Horsewind moved so fast that the youth was uncertain exactly what had happened. Next thing he knew, he was against the wall, bleeding from his face after being propelled into the bricks by the stable sweep’s massive hands.

The other two watchmen turned from the cornered girl and stared at the stable hand. “Did he just…?” the one asked the other. Despite only having a shovel, they now considered Horsewind to be an actual threat. They stood away from the girl and pulled their swords.

“Put your weapons away and walk on by. Otherwise, you’ll get the same sort of treatment,” Horsewind said.

“We ain’t the ones about to get hurt,” the second watchman stated as he pulled his sword. He stalked down alley with his friend close behind. He waved his sword at the stableman. “Go now, or you’ll pay in blood!”

The first watchman started to get up, but stopped when Horsewind put the tip of the shovel to his chest. “Stay down,” he ordered, then glared at the advancing toughs. They were pinched in by the walls of the alley and had to approach one at a time.

The second watchman rushed the stable hand. Horsewind dodged, as if he knew where the strike would land, then parried the next swing. He speared the second man in the chest with the tip of the spade, then spun past him and caught the third with the flat of the shovel—maybe a touch harder than he planned. The third watchman lost his weapon, and a tooth, as he staggered into the wall.

Horsewind was past them, standing between the young woman and the watchmen. “Go on, now!” he said as he brandished the shovel. “Git yourselves!” He kicked at the one still on the ground.

The watchmen collected themselves and hobbled from the alley as they stared bloody murder at the advancing stable sweep.

Having defeated the watchmen, Horsewind turned to the woman. She had the falchoin in hand and was threatening to use it. “You better leave me alone!” she shrieked.

Horsewind stared at the girl in ripped clothes as he leaned on his shovel. “Those boys won’t be gone for long, and when they come back, there’ll be more than you and me can handle. So although I need you to tell me about that fancy weapon of yours, first I’d like to get you somewhere safe, where we’re less likely to be interrupted,” he stated.

“Or maybe you should just leave me alone before I’m forced to use this on you!” she snapped.

“I admire your fire,” Horsewind began, “but if you and I start fighting, do you really think you have a chance?”

The young lady lowered the blade.

Horsewind smiled. “On the plus side, I’m not out for a cheap thrill like those ruffians. I just want to know about that sword.”

“Why do you care?” she asked.

“Because that sword belongs to my master,” Horsewind told her.

That got the lady’s heckles up. Once more, she raised the sword, her eyes mere slits.

Horsewind cocked his head. “You take issue with it’s owner?” he noted. “And what did my master do to offend you?”

“He tried to rape me,” she glared.

With a heavy sigh, Horsewind took a step forward—and before Crea could do anything about it, he was inside her guard. He grabbed the hilt of the weapon and twisted it out of her hand.

“Ow!” Crea cried as she let go of the sword, then leaned heavily against the wall, dejected and miserable, as tears came to her eyes.

Horsewind leaned in close. “I apologize if I have hurt you, but that could not have been my master. He’s not the type to do such things. Now I’d love to hear your story, but this is not the place or time. Let’s go, before trouble returns—and as we travel, you can tell me your tale—after which, I will keep the sword, and I will compensate you handsomely, if only you tell me the truth.”

“And why should I trust you?”

“Because the owner of this sword is an old and gentle spirit that would never force himself on any young woman, not even one as pretty as you,” Horsewind said. “If you took this from someone that meant to rape you, then you took it from someone that took it from my master, and I would most certainly know of such a man.”

“He was just a bit older than I. Maybe thirty turns,” Crea replied.

“My master is more than double that, and looks every day of it,” Horsewind stared into her soul with a grim expression. For a long second he stared, then gave a nod, and held the sword out to her. “Wrap it in your cloak,” he said. “It stands out against your rags.”

Surprised, Crea took the weapon, sheathed it, and wrapped it in the dingy folds of her cloak.

“Good. Now, if you’ll follow me, we’ll go somewhere safe and have us a talk, like civilized people. No waving our weapons, around and all that horseplay. What’s your name?”

“Crea,” she answered.

“Well, Crea,” he smiled and held out a hand. “I’m Tahoran. Pleasure to meet you.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 2.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

A woman opened the door, and Crea could tell this strange older lady was instantly jealous. “Who’s this?!” the woman asked of Tahoran, as she tapped her foot and glared.

“Crea, this is Methys. Methys, this is Crea,” he answered, though his tone was a touch gruff.

“It’s funny you should bring a guest when you already have several others,” Methys replied. “And why are they all women?!” she scolded. “Why are they all so damned pretty?!”

“I do not choose those that wish to call on me,” Tahoran stated.

“I know,” Methys took a step back. “And I know you say not to ask questions—but all these women are making it difficult!” she snapped.

“Come inside, Methys. We have some serious work to do—but first, let me see to these guests,” he said as he stepped through the house.

“Downstairs,” Methys told him.

Crea followed Tahoran through the house, which was old and worn, but well-loved. She entered the room, saw the strangers, and immediately realized why Methys would say they were so pretty. There were two women, and the younger one was beyond beautiful! She was absolutely radiant, all of which was only magnified by a most incredible bird perched on her shoulder! “What is that?!” Crea asked of the creature.

The beauty stood and answered. “He is a phoenix, and his name is Andrus,” she smiled as she stroked the fine bird’s head. “My name is Celesi. We come seeking a man named Tahoran.”

“Is this a matter of politics?” Tahoran asked.

Celesi shook her head, “politics are none of business.”

“How do you feel about religion?” he asked.

"I feel a lot,” Celesi smiled.

“And how will you proceed?” he continued.

“I will do no harm, and I will take no shit,” the young woman stated. “I bring the words of a friend.”

“So our duke now hires children to run his messages?”

Celesi blinked.

Tahoran smiled and shook his head, “Don’t fret, child. That last question is one of my own. I do not mean to insult you. If you come from the duke, it is because you are capable; and if you keep friends with a phoenix, well, I shall certainly not worry about your safety.”

“Quite right,” Celesi smiled. “This is my good friend, Meu,” she noted the older woman with a regal manner that wore nothing but a simple dress, not even shoes. The older woman smiled, but said nothing of her own. “Forgive my friend. She doesn’t speak much.”

“Must be good with secrets,” Tahoran noted.

Celesi smiled, “you have no idea.” The beautiful young Trohl reached into her saddle bag and took out a handful of envelopes. “These are for you,” she said, as she gave Tahoran a small stack of letters. The top one was addressed to him.

Tahoran opened the letter and read it while the others made small talk.

“Where are you from?”

“Solveny.”

“Solveny?! My goodness! The news is awful! Is it is bad as they say?!”

“I don’t know what they say, but if they say it is awful—well—they might be pretty close to the mark.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“It wasn’t your doing. And where are you from?”

“A small village in the westlands. It doesn’t exist anymore. Ministrians sacked it several years ago.”

That made Crea blink.

Celesi smiled. “You look well, and I’m happy to see that,” she said—and suddenly the prettiest girl Crea had ever met was wrapping her in a genuine hug. After resisting for a split second, Crea melted into it. For the first time in a long time she felt safe.

Tahoran gave a snort and gave the letter a shake. “Everything changes today, Methys. Go pack your bags. We’re going home.”

“You’re serious?” Methys stared.

“Deadly serious,” he answered. “Now go get your scissors. I need a proper cut, and we’re going to shorten Crea’s hair too. Indeed, find her something nice to wear.”

With an astonished expression, Methys turned and skipped from the room. Like a little girl, she threw up her arms and gave an excited yell as she ran down the hall. “We finally get out of this hellhole city!”

Tahoran shook his head, then realized all his guests were giving him a questioning stare. “She does this every time we finish an assignment,” he shrugged.

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