The Twists and Turns of a Slow Road East

Polished 11.1, 11.2, 11.3, and 11.4. Erased 10.3 since there is a copy in this chapter. Add a bit where Carringten and Creigal talk of what the crows say (Creigal says they say nothing unusual..). Also add a bit at the beginning of 11.1 where Baet talks about cards with the brothers, and how the relationship sours as he continues to win and win and win… — 53m59s — 2021/07/22

Moved 11.1 to 10.3. Polished the new 11.1, 11.2, 11.3, 11.4, and 11.5. Added a bit of gambling between Baet and the brothers — 1h20m07s — 2021/07/24

Polished 11.4 — 1h24m38s — 2021/07/25

Polished 11.5 — 55m05s — 2021/07/29

Polished 11.5 and 11.6. The second throat-cutter needs a name — 1h18m40s — 2021/07/30

Polished 11.6. Renamed Toddles (now Todehis), and named the second throat-cutter Grunther — 37m12s — 2021/07/31

Baet spent the late morning in the pools and tried to forget the embarrassments of the previous night—including the frustrations of Homoth and Komotz. As he gambled with the guards, Baet realized he wasn’t lucky after all, they were simply bad at cards. For a time, he thought he should lose to the brothers, as he was beginning to feel sorry for them; then he decided he’d rather have their money, and gleefully took hand after hand from the idiot gamblers—until Homoth flipped the table and stomped off in a fit.

There was no winning, he thought, as he soaked and relaxed. With his eyes closed, Baet heard the patter of small feet. He looked up, alarmed to see Claiten rushing at him with his dagger drawn. “What the devil…?” he began as adrenaline shocked him into readiness.

With anger on his face, the boy jumped at the guard. “ERRR-AYE-ERRRRRRR!” he crowed.

The boy was a scrappy handful, and brave—but at a massive disadvantage. Baet was strong, a trained fighter, and several times the child’s size. He knocked the knife aside and grabbed the boy out of midair. He caught hold of the child’s hand and squeezed until Claiten dropped the knife. Then, the Saot guard lifted the slight child and launched him over the walkway into a larger, deeper, and colder pool.

Claiten hit the water, submerged, and panicked as he remembered nearly drowning in the aqueducts of old Beletrain. He kicked and paddled furiously for the surface, breached, and gasped. He was not a good swimmer, and so he struggled in the water—though he eventually caught the edge and climbed out—huffing and puffing. He looked up. Baet was out of his pool. He advanced on the boy. Claiten turned this way and that as he looked for an exit, but he was cornered against the edge of the water and unable to evade his enemy.

“You want to fight?!” Baet glared at the child as he held the naga blade in his hand. “I’ll teach you to fight!” He sunk down on his haunches as he approached, then roared and lunged at the child. “Hah!” he screamed.

Claiten teetered at the edge of the pool, ready to jump in—but Baet dodged back. The Saot relaxed as he stared at the child. “That’s a feign,” he noted. “I do that to check your reflexes,” the old guard grinned. “You may have that youthful spark, but I got years of experience. Now this…” Baet waved the blade up high as he advanced on Claiten once more. “…is a distraction,” he said and poked the boy’s belly with the finger of his empty hand.

Claiten stared at the guard, his fear rising to a choking level, barely able to breathe.

Baet leaned over the boy and poked him in the chest. “That’s a direct assault,” he said. “Now I’ve beat you half a dozen different ways,” he glared. “Are you still interested in fighting me?”

Claiten shook his head.

“Good,” Baet smiled as he stared at the boy. “It’s a nice knife,” he noted. “You want it back?”

Claiten nodded.

“If I give it to you, you have to quit trying to stab me with it—you’ll have to save that for your true enemies,” Baet stated. He held the blade out, then pulled it back as Claiten tried to grab it. “If I take it from you again, I’m keeping it,” Baet warned.

Once more, Claiten nodded.

With a huff, the guard handed the naga dagger to the child; then turned and stepped into the warm pool, his eye still on the boy.

Claiten caressed the twisted handle of the naga blade, more than happy to have the weapon back, as he gauged the guard. Twice, he’d tried to settle his mom’s score, and twice he’d failed. Indeed, Claiten counted himself lucky to be alive—though his anger still burned just under the surface. Often enough, his mother had told him to check his anger, and made several of her dancing partners extol the virtue of patience. So it was that the child consoled himself and set vengeance aside—for now. Besides, there were many songs of Ooroiyuo where the ancient god learned to fight from his enemies, only to defeat them in the end.

Baet cocked his head as he watched the child. He felt sorry for the kid. The women coddled him while the men mostly ignored him. The others were nice—of course—but they were busy and didn’t have much time for the child. They left him out of most everything. Not that he blamed them. Escaping Kezodel’s court, then the running and fighting as they fled the burning house. Things were quiet now—for most everyone else. For whatever reason, drama seemed to follow the Saot guard, just when things should be easy for him.

Baet stared at the child, sorry for his own conditions, and also those of the child. He had an inkling of what the Ministrians taught their children—especially children of the boy’s low class. He shook his head. The thought of growing up under the tutelage of the Ministrian Baradha made Baet shudder. He decided it might be good for the child to have a better influence in his life, a manly influence that could teach him proper manly things.

If only he could get the boy to trust him.

As Claiten slinked away, Baet reached for his towel and picked out the stone that sat between its layers. “You want to see something?” He asked and lifted the glittery rock toward the child. “You remember the courtroom?” he continued. “The meteor? You wanna see it?” he grinned.

The boy’s eyes went wide. He stepped into the pool and took the offered rock. It was black and smooth with small pits all over it. He stared at the stone, dazzled by a thousand colors that caught in the small divots. “Pretty,” he said.

“It is,” Baet agreed, as he stared at the child. He ruffled the boy’s hair, and added, “I wish Toar had some of your fire. He hasn’t wanted to train since we left the dueling forts,” he snorted, leaned back, and closed his eyes. “I might even wonder where he got off to—if I didn’t think that evil blonde pixie was lurking somewhere nearby,” he snorted. “She’s a piece of work. Chances are she’ll try to stab me next.” He said this last part in Soat, so as not to encourage the boy.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

After breakfast, Toar went into the village and moseyed about. In the window of a smithy, he noticed a pistol musket and stopped to stare.

Only yesterday the duke had paid the Trohl with money borrowed from the Jindleyak for services rendered. Toar was feeling flush and generous, so he stepped into the shop and inquired after the weapon. "How much is it?”

“Two lunes,” the smith answered.

Toar frowned. "Why so cheap?" he asked, for he knew he couldn’t get a decent sword for twice that amount.

“I didn’t want it in the first place,” the smith shrugged. “I bought it from a Soat that was hard up for coin, and it’s cluttered my window for nearly a year now,” he answered. “Why bother with a musket anyway?” he added with a wave. “A bow and arrow is just as deadly, and quicker to reload."

“It’s a weapon of intimidation,” Toar said.

The blacksmith smirked. “Says who?” He leaned over the counter and glared at the smaller man.

Toar shrugged, “It’s what I heard.”

The blacksmith scoffed and pulled a knife from his belt. It was nearly a foot long and serrated on one edge. He waved it about as Toar took a cautious step back. “Weapons are weapons,” the smith began. “It’s the wielder that’s intimidating,” he snorted as he jammed the knife back into its scabbard. “That rock thrower, that’s for rabbits, squirrels, and snakes—but who doesn’t need a good rabbit from time to time?” he shrugged. “You still want it? It is a good price.”

"Do you have powder, shot, and wad?" Toar asked.

The smith searched the crowded bench. "I got what the Saot had—good Gaurrish powder—or so he claimed," he snorted. “Never know with Saots,” he added, then lifted a slight pouch and passed it to Toar.

Toar smiled as he checked the bag. “I’ll take it,” he said and gave the smith two lunes. He tucked the weapon away and turned to see Celesi step through the door.

The young lady stared at Toar as he wrapped his cloak about the new weapon. She leaned in close as they stepped from the shop. “You got a musket?!” she beamed. “How’s it work?!"

Toar shook his head. “It isn’t a toy, Celesi.”

“I’m old enough to know a weapon when I see it,” the young lady reprimanded. “Come on!” she pouted. “Show me!”

With a sight, Toar pulled the weapon from his cloak.

“How does it work?”

Toar pointed out the various parts. "You put the fire powder and a ball in the barrel; then, you jam a bit of cloth down after it with this little rod, so it all don’t fall out. Next, you pull back the hammer, and aim it at the thing you want to kill, then pull the lever, which brings the hammer down. Finally, the hammer smashes the flint and causes a spark to light the powder. The powder explodes and propels the ball through the barrel. Then—if your aim is true—the ball smashes through your enemy and lets out all the blood."

Celesi gaped at the foreign device. “Savage.”

Toar shrugged, “It's made to kill.”

“Have you used one before?”

“No,” Toar admitted. “Baet claimed he’d let me fire his, but there were bugbear and Ministrians about, and we didn’t want the attention.”

“Well, there are no bugbear or Ministrians about us now,” Celesi smiled.

“I’m giving it to Baet,” Toar shrugged. “Once he has it I suppose we can ask him.”

Celesi frowned. For several seconds she stared at the weapon and mulled over her dislike of the tea-drinker. "Such an easy thing to use,” she mused. “And dangerous, you say?”

“Very.”

“Then you must let me have it,” she concluded.

"And what do you want with it?" Toar asked, suspicious.

“What if we should run into more trouble?” Celesi shrugged. “I should think a musket is more effective than my knives.”

Toar shook his head. “You want it so I won’t give it to Baet because you don’t like him.”

“It’s not all that,” Celesi claimed, wide-eyed and innocent—though Toar was perfectly right. "I'd like a better way to protect myself is all,” she feigned.

“You really want it?” Toar frowned.

Celesi gave a solemn nod.

"Then I think you would happily trade me for your blades,” he smirked.

Celesi frowned. She meant to keep them both.

Toar huffed, turned, and began down the street. Celesi ran after him. “Wait, wait!” she said as she stopped in front of him, pulled up her skirt, and undid the throwing knives from her thigh. “It’s a deal.”

Toar scoffed. “What makes you think I want a set of knives anyway?!”

Celesi huffed.

Toar stepped around her.

“Wait!” Celesi snapped. She grabbed his shoulder. “Please?! I’ll do anything.”

“Stop,” Toar tried to shrug her off.

Celesi jumped on his back, her arms wrapped around her chest.

“Anything!” she kissed him.

Toar leaned back and stared at the small, pretty girl. “Anything?” he finally repeated.

“Anything,” she confirmed once more.

“I do not know why you want it at all,” Toar replied. “Are you not attached to your knives?”

She scoffed. “I got them from Meriona. Why should I care for them at all?”

Toar studied the girl.

”Please!” Celesi begged.

Toar rolled his eyes—yet he’d come by the weapon easy enough—and so he figured he might find another one in the next village, or the next after that... "Fine," he acquiesced and held out the musket. “But give me the blades first.”

Celesi handed over the knives.

Despite his reservations, Toar traded her the musket.

“Show me how to load it?” she asked.

Toar shrugged. “I've never done it,” he said. “I barely know the theory.”

“Then show me what you know.”

“Let’s ask Baet. He knows the proper way of it,” Taor replied and stepped down the street.

Celesi grabbed his arm. “If I wanted his help, I'd ask him,” she frowned. “But I won’t. Instead, I’ve asked you.”

“He’s not such a bad person,” Toar defended his friend.

Celesi stared back, uninterested in his appraisal.

“Fine,” Toar replied with a huff. He poured a bit of powder down the barrel. He stared at Celesi for a long moment, then added just a touch more. He shrugged. “…should do...” he noted, then added an iron ball and a bit of wad. He used the rod to ram them into place. Having finished the operation to his satisfaction, Toar held the weapon out to Celesi. She moved to take it. At the last second, he pulled it away. “This isn't a game,” he stared at her. “This will kill a man, sure as lightning. It’ll kill you if you aren’t careful.”

Celesi glared. “I know when a thing is serious. Do I look like I trifle?!” She snagged the musket. “We shall fire it later, when we have the time,” she smiled and jammed it in the holster. She wrapped her shawl over it, so the others wouldn’t see what she had. For a second, she imagined the tea-drinker pressing himself on her—then she would pull the weapon, press it into his chest, and back him off—oh how that might shock him! She thought, as she grinned, satisfied with herself. “I owe you,” she smoldered as Toar walked on.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

The shades were drawn in the simple room of the small cabin. There was a table, two chairs, a couple beds—one of them occupied.

Carringten was fast asleep in the bed closer to the door, despite the fact that the sun approached its zenith. The door opened and gave an awful creak. The dark man’s eyes bolted open. He reached for his sword, turned, and caught sight of Creigal as the duke entered.

Carringten relaxed—mostly. "It is impossible to guard you if I know not where you go," he noted as he sat up.

Creigal gave an absent wave as he moved past his captain. "I should think even you would like a break from time to time."

Carringten snorted. "One day you will be gone, and I can hang up my sword for good. Until then, I prefer to do my work."

Creigal paused as he regarded his adopted son, "Will you do it? When I finally pass from this world, will you quit the profession?"

Carringten shrugged. "Who else deserves my life's blood?"

"What of my nephew, Varius?" the duke asked.

Carringten shook his head. “He is a good man—but he has his own men.”

"The day I am gone, what will you do?" Creigal continued. “How will you live?”

"Perhaps I shall build bridges, or teach among the children,” Carringten replied. “I might farm, or I might simply travel for a time,” he shrugged. “I’d like to see what lies beyond the jungles of Borzia. I‘d like to view the Tallian Sea,” he continued. “Perhaps I will settle. I’ll get a piece of land. After all, there are sheep to husband, and all manner of vegetables that require picking. Despite what the others say, I have not spent all my money on weapons.”

“Do you care so little for the protection of Gaurring?” Creigal asked.

“I was never so loyal to the duchy. There is only the man that rescued me when I was too young to defend myself,” Carringten concluded. “Now, if Daphne had survived you…” he shook his head. “But she does not. For Varius, there are other effective and cunning men. Let them protect him and your other ministers—that is—in the unfortunate event that I shall outlive you.”

Creigal scoffed. "Do not think it is such a grand thing to go before an old man like me—not into the underworld! It is never fortunate for a son to proceed his father in death! Indeed, it is against the very order of nature!"

"If it is nature that takes you, and not some villain, then I shall be happy to outlive you," Carringten replied. "But enough of the unknowable future."

"Agreed," Creigal nodded. “Were you not going into town with the others?”

"I was—until you didn’t return,” Carringten noted.

Creigal smirked. “So you used my absence to catch up on sleep?”

“Not in the least,” Carringten frowned. “At sunrise, I went searching for you. After an hour or so, I came back to get Baet— and maybe some of the others—but then I saw you walking with the redhead. Since I knew where you were, and since I figure she can’t be that dangerous; well, that’s when I decided to get some sleep,” he explained. “Have you spoken to Duboha?"

"I have not," Creigal admitted. "I spent a wondrous night under the trees, and as you noted, I was much too distracted during my breakfast.”

Carringten gave a nod. "Duboha, Aim, and Komotz have asked our pardon. They intend to go back to Ebertin.”

"We’ll have to give them our thanks, and a bit of our coin to prove it," Creigal nodded. “Be generous,” he added, ignoring the fact that all his current coin was borrowed from Traust. He frowned as he remembered the man, and wondered where the debt would go. Not that it mattered. He would pay it to the family, or to the man’s good friends. Most men might think it a mighty sum that Creigal had borrowed, but against the duke’s vast holdings and interests, it was a mere pittance to consider. Still, nothing watered a fledgling friendship like a little free-flowing coin, and Creigal was certainly good for it.

"Duboha says that once we are away and they’ve turned back any pursuit, there is little chance of trouble; so he leaves Saleos in charge of the others,” Carringten continued. “I have my reservations, of course.”

"Anything specific?"

Carringten shook his head. “General misgivings. Mine is a suspicious line of work, and I’d prefer to keep as many friendly bodies around you as possible.”

“I too like our new firends,” Creigal gave a nod. “We shall trust their judgement. If they think we are safe…”

"We’ve made a fair bit of noise in this land,” Carringten noted. “Our hosts have turned away a number of visitors.”

“They come for the shaman,” Cregial grinned. “Yesterday, they were so thick around the pour fellow. I thought they might shake off one of his hands.

Carringten nodded. “A few of them did not even look at the brittle things before they grabbed ‘em and shook. Still, I asked Toar for his assessment. He says he’s never been this far east, so he offers only hearsay. Then, when I paid him, he wondered rather loudly if he’s still any use to you.”

“Of course he is,” Creigal blinked. “He knows the people and their customs and his loyalty is unquestioned. Besides, his previous function as a mere guide is easily met by Duboha and his numerous local friends,” the duke snorted. “No, tell Toar his use to us has rather increased, as we now call for him to be our ambassador,” the duke nodded. “Have him present our gifts and payments to the others—that is—assuming he still wishes to continue with us.”

“He says nothing to the contrary. Still, I worry about the young Trohl,” Carringten mused. “I wonder if he is not overly distracted."

"By Celesi?!" Creigal smiled and shook his head. "Yours is indeed a suspicious line of work! We are no longer in the wilds with our enemies about us, and Toar's attention is not so singular as your own! He has performed admirably since the first day we met, and seems always to be honest. Despite the distraction of the young beauty, he continues to attend to my concerns. If he believes we are safe, I am apt to believe him. Besides, do you not want for a little rest, for a bit of holiday?"

"I shall welcome it if our journey should remain as simple and calm as all that," Carringten admitted. "But I shall prepare for the worst."

"That is your training," Creigal agreed. "And let us hope you do not summon trouble with such dark and foreboding thoughts."

"Ah, but you are in charge, so I am sure we shall be greeted by nothing more than sunshine and rainbows,” Carringten replied.

“Now, now!” Creigal stared at his captain. "There is no better way to tempt trouble than to say there can be none of it!"

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Scurra was out for a walk, to clear her head and get a bit of exercise. She had half a day, since the plan was to take it easy through the afternoon and the evening, to rest up while their friends continued to gather in number—then, in the middle of the night, they’d leave under the cover of dark. The local militias would guard their escape, while the familiar roads were still empty, and it’d be easy to turn back any tails. It was a sound plan and Scurra was happy with it—until she wasn’t.

With plenty of time, Scurra stepped down the trail as it followed the meandering river. She passed several Pan Iskaer and other men from militias she didn’t know. They were all kind, smiled, and made themselves discrete.

Scurra found herself in a clearing as a murder of crows gathered. The rooks jumped and squawked at the sight of her, and a chill caught in her chest as she remembered the birds of her dream.

The ruckus grew.

The chill grew with it.

Scurra couldn’t catch her breath as she remembered the storm, the icy spikes, and the shock of lightning. She shivered as she realized the birds spoke to her once more. “Run!” They cawed. “Run! Death comes for us all!”

In a frenzy, the birds burst from their perches, squawking and cawing, as they scattered throughout the forest.

Scurra felt this was an omen. She felt that if they waited to leave, a danger would come over them, and it would visit strife and death upon them. She turned and rushed back to the inn. She hurried past the duke and his captain as she made her way into the courtyard—and also the Saot guard as he instructed the small boy in the use of his dagger. She rushed to her Jindleyak cousins. They had wooden sparring sticks and were beginning a tournament of ‘touches’. They’d finished practicing their forms, and also some rolling—yet the day was still early, and several of the men had too much energy.

“Gather you stuff,” Scurra interrupted. “We’re leaving.”

“We attend our plan,” Duboha answered. “For now, we practice.”

Scurra turned on him and glared. “Will the lot of you scrap for a day’s glory while Traust and Apulton long for their eternal rest?!” she chided.

“There’ll be more of us dead if we allow our edge to dull,” Homoth added as he took the first point from Andrus. “We are safely away from Ebertin. We have many friends about us, and we will not be staying much longer anyway. The plan is a good plan!”

“Games are fine—for those days when we have nothing better to do,” Scurra scowled. “But I mean to go home, and would like to arrive there sooner than later!”

“And I would like to arrive home with the honor of yet another victory under my belt,” Homoth snorted, as he took a second quick point from Andrus.

“This isn’t about the game,” Duboha noted. “Something else is bothering her.”

“There’s a danger,” Scrrua revealed. “There’s a darkness out there. I don’t know what it is, but it’s coming for us! The longer we delay, the more likely it will catch us!”

Carringten’s ears perked as he practiced his forms nearby—but he was the only one that seemed to take her words seriously. He looked to Creigal, as the others booed and told Scurra not to bother them. Creigal shrugged.

Duboha frowned. “Is this another dream?”

Scurra shrugged. “Sometimes, they are quite accurate,” she defended.

Some of the others groaned. A few scoffed. Komotz cut in. “Yes, yes. ‘A danger, a darkness’… We’ve all heard of these portents that bother you, dear cousin, but these things rarely resolve in the way you imagine. Now, let us be,” he shooed her away.

“A great storm is building!” Scurra persisted.

Homoth interrupted as he took a third point from Andrus—a fact that caused Andrus to throw his tourney sticks in the dirt. “A storm?! Like an actual storm?!” He shook his head. “Would you have us outrun the weather?!”

Scurra shook her head. “I know not what form the danger shall take! All I know is that if we leave now, we may avoid it!”

“May?!” Homoth snorted, then leaned in close to the smaller woman. “Who says we aren’t looking for a little danger anyway? Do you not see us training to meet such things?” Arms akimbo, he measured his cousin. “Tell you what: play me at touches, and if you should beat me, we’ll call it a day and march immediately.”

Scurra glared at the large young man, “You provoke me.”

“I do indeed!” Homoth admitted. “But I am the last champion, so I can leverage the rules.” He turned to the others. “Is that not the way of it? So long as I do not give myself unfair advantage?”

The others agreed.

“What say you all?” He continued. “Do any of you consider this unfair? Do any object to calling it a day and marching on—despite a much better plan—if Scurra can land three strikes against the reigning champion?!”

None of the others believed she could beat him, so none bothered to object—though Carringten wondered. He’d been watching and he could see holes in the young man’s methods.

“Come, let us get your blood pumping,” Homoth grinned. “Show these others what the fairer sex can do!”

Scurra huffed. The others encouraged her and egged her on—and so she decided she liked the idea of teaching these whelps a thing or two. She took the tourney sticks from Andrus. “I’ve won a day or two of touches myself,” she glared as she squared off against the older brother. “Ha!” she yelled, and went all out from the beginning. She hacked and swiped at Homoth—but the gifted young man deflected and dodged. He countered, backpedaled, then danced away from her as he hooted and hollered. The others cheered and whistled to see her go.

“What do you think?” Creigal asked, as Carringten and Baet gathered around. “Can she beat him?”

Baet shook his head. “She has skill—but he has a natural talent. Did you see the way he beat Andrus?”

Caringten agreed. “He shrugs her off with almost no concern. He baits her. Unless she is holding back—and it does not appear to be so—he’ll win whenever he feels like it,” he concluded.

“She’s is not bad,” Baet added. “I see her giving many able men a hard time.”

“Agreed,” Carringten nodded. “But the older brother has seems to be the best among them,” he turned to Creigal. “What do you think? Would they make your troop?”

Creigal nodded. “I think they would all be good regulars, even irregulars if they should like.”

“What about the woman?” Baet asked.

“Especially the woman,” Creigal confirmed. “She has skill, heart, and it doesn’t hurt that she’s attractive.” He grinned at his guards. “Think of the recruiting you could do with someone like her to give the speeches.”

“More grist for the mill,” Baet shook his head. The duke frowned at his comment, so he added an apology. “Sorry, your grace, but war is a dirty enterprise.”

Despite Scurra’s aggressiveness, Homoth took the first and the second point—then Scurra won the third with a glancing blow to Homoth’s right thigh. The others all chortled to see it—though Carringten felt like Homoth gave her the opening.

The two fighters set again. Scurra rushed in. Homoth defended himself well. He consistently pushed her away whenever she managed to close the gap—or whenever it seemed like she might overwhelm him—but he also refused to counter as he danced and hooted and hollered about in circles. Using only defense, Homoth could not possibly win. Eventually Scurra caught him just a bit too open—and she gave his left ribs a solid crack—no real damage—though possibly a bruiser.

Homoth sucked air and favored his side. “We may leave early yet!” He chortled as he set himself for the final point. The others booed.

Scurra charged again. She threw herself into the effort and nearly scored several times—since Homoth still refused to attack. She screamed at him. “Fight back!” Her attacks took on a reckless edge. If Homoth wouldn’t counter, there was no reason to hold back—a fact that only added to Scurra’s aggravation. “FIGHT BACK, YOU LOUT!” she screamed again.

Homoth wasn’t phased as he blocked, dodged, and parried every stroke. He was focused and fought clean—while all of the sneakiness had drained out of Scurra. Now, she simply hacked at her cousin as she tried to overwhelm him—but he was simply too big and too talented.

Finally, Homoth grew bored. Scurra opened up a bit too much, and he retaliated—though he was ever so gentle. He poked her in the stomach with the tip of his tourney stick—and proved that he had indeed been goofing on her all along. “Ahahaha!” he laughed as he danced away with his arms raised high. “Ahhahahahaa!”

The others cheered and jeered his antics. Scurra glared at her gathered cousins. Humiliated, she threw down her tourney sticks and stomped away in a huff; thinking there was nothing else she could do. There was no way they’d listen to her now.

“Hey, don’t go!” Homoth called after her. “Don’t you want to fight among the others for the glory of second?!” he taunted.

Scurra turned and made a lewd gesture as she yelled and continued away.

Homoth turned to the duke and his two guards. His eyes settled on Baet and he glared again. “What of you? Do you have the fig it takes to claim a day’s glory?”

Baet shook his head—but Carringten nodded, stepped forward, and picked up the sticks abandoned by Scurra. He swung the sticks to test their weight.

The duke turned to Baet and gave a bit of a nod. “Let’s play,” he said. “Win honor on the way up, or make friends on the way down. Either way, this is good for us.”

Baet snorted, but thought, “what the hell. Might as well show the kid I know a bit of what I’m talking about…” and also stepped forward as he smiled at Claiten.

Carringten stepped up to Homoth.

“No,” Homoth said, and brushed him aside. “I face that one,” he pointed at Baet, still mad about the gambling.

Carringten shrugged and went pointing about the others, looking for someone to trade blows. Duboha agreed. Creigal faced Andrus, as Homoth stared down at Baet. “What do you say, Saot? Shall we put a lune on it?” he grinned.

Saleos interpreted.

“I thought you were mad at me for gambling,” Baet stated, as he squared up against the older brother.

“Gambling, no,” Homoth began. “Cheating…” he let the word hang.

“I don’t cheat,” Baet frowned. “I don’t need to cheat,” he finished—which Homoth interpreted to mean that Baet wasn’t above such things.

Homoth rushed forward. He struck fast, and drove the Saot back. Baet defended well and tried to turn the older brother—but the Jindleyak was uncommonly strong, and one of the quicker men the Saot had faced in a long time. He was Carringten fast. He was Garfindel fast. Homoth caught Baet open and gave him a bruiser across the left thigh.

Baet hobbled and sucked air. Blood boiling, he squared against the brother. Again, Homoth charged—but this time, Baet turned his advance and stuck him in the chest with a quick parry. He grinned at his crestfallen opponent. “Seems I might know a trick or two after all.”

Homoth replied, and though it sounded insulting, Baet couldn’t be sure, since he didn’t know the Jindleyak’s language.

Once more, the two set, then went back and forth—before the older brother took a swing at Baet’s melon. The shot might of knocked the Saot clean off his feet—except Baet dove for the dirt. He lifted his shoulder so that the blow clipped his arm, then glanced off his brain box, before he hit the ground.

A line of blood dripped down the side of his head. Baet jumped up with sticks in hand. “What the blazing balls are you trying to prove?!” he snarled as he touched a delicate finger to the blood.

Homoth got in Baet’s face and stared him down. He uttered the equivalent of “do something” to the Saot.

Realizing that real trouble brewed, several of the Jindleyak rushed forward and pushed Homoth back. Carringten stepped in front of an appreciative Baet. Although the man-at-arms thought to give the boy a good lumping, he was sure the political ramifications would be disastrous—personally—and possibly for the duke too.

Separated, Homoth declared himself the winner, and Baet let it go. He snorted, and meant to leave; to go back to the relaxing baths—but Komotz blocked the way and wore the same stupid, smug grin as Homoth.

“He wants to take silver from you too,” Andrus noted. “He wants to put a lune on it.”

Baet glared at the younger brother as he dug in his pocket. Glaring, he flipped a diem in the air, then turned and walked away, as it dropped into the dirt. “Consider yourself a winner,” he said over his shoulder.

“Go practice with the child,” Komotz replied in broken Ministrian.

Baet turned. “It talks in full sentences,” he snipped.

Carringten stepped in front of him.

Baet snorted as he looked up at his captain. “They practice in the the past anyway,” he shook his head.“ None of these men could hope to match me with a musket,” he snorted.

“Do you have a musket?” Carringten asked.

Baet frowned.

“There are muskets to be had,” Carringten noted. “What of coin? Do you have a little more of that?”

Baet nodded.

“Maybe they’ll wager,” Carringten shrugged. “If you think I can beat them. May then you can buy your musket.”

“What are the chances I can find a musket in these parts anyway?!” Baet muttered, though he dug in his pocket. “Listen up, Komotz! I got a lune on my friend here!”

Andrus conveyed the message. Komotz bristled. He dug in his pockets and put a lune in his cousin’s hand.

Weary that things might get a bit heated, Creigal frowned at his captain. “Careful now.”

“This is only a practice,” Carringten winked. “They shouldn’t have made him bleed,” he said as he turned to the younger brother and set himself to fight.

Komotz moved forward slow and tested the older man. Carringten held his ground, barely moving, only blocking. Three times Komotz advanced, found no entrance, and retreated. The third time, Carringten followed, took a swipe that was easily blocked—but opened the younger brother up—and tapped him on the shoulder before dancing away cleanly.

Baet laughed. “You don’t even know who your messing with!” he chortled, while Carringten gave a neat bow and set himself for the next point.

Spitting and cussing, Komotz reset. Carringten gave the ready sign and the young Jindleyak rushed in—only to be rebuffed and brushed aside by the excellent weapons master. The younger brother could not even get the dark man to budge. Carringten took the point at his leisure.

The third point was settled in a similar fashion. Komotz returned to his cousins, to be reassured by Aim and Duboha who had suffered similar humiliating defeats at the hand of the dark master.

Having seen only the end of the fight, Homoth stared at Carringten. He approached—more reserved—though still confident. He smirked. “Looks as if its down to you and me…” he began.

Again, Carringten allowed his opponent to make the first move. Homoth proved to be fast and strong, but Carringten had the opportunity to watch the younger man fight. He was well aware of the older brother’s skill—and shortcomings. After a long assault, the dark man took the point.

The two reset. Homoth was even more cautious—so Carringten did something he hadn’t done yet. He attacked. Homoth blocked several blows—though he quickly struggled. Carringten was strong, quick, and relentless as he pushed the younger man back—then took the point—and danced away almost before Homoth registered the touch. The older brother openly gaped as the dark captain spun away.

Carringten reset. Dumbfounded, Homoth set again—but now Carringten was in his head. The final point was quick and ruthless, almost more so because it was so light and controlled. Homoth couldn’t believe he’d been defeated so easily. It’d been months—maybe a year since he was so roundly dominated.

A hush fell over the others as they stared at the dark captain. Although they’d seen him fight when they ran from the House of Leaves, they didn’t have the chance to witness his subtle mastery. For a long moment, they didn’t know what to make of it.

Carringten turned to the gaping audience of Jindleyaks. “We leave immediately!” he charged, which certainly brought a few questions to Creigal’s mind—since the duke quite liked the original plan.

Scurra cheered to hear it—but the Jindleyaks simply stared at the dark man. Saleos glanced at Creigal wondering if there would be trouble with the duke, but Creigal just shrugged. Saleos laughed, which broke the captain’s spell. The others chuckled and clapped Carringten on the back to congratulate him on his inspiring victory—then promptly ignored his proclamation. They gathered their stuff and proceeded in all different directions, intent on spending the rest of the afternoon relaxing.

Creigal laughed and approached his captain. “Not used to having your orders ignored, are ya?” he said, and wrapped an arm around his adopted son. “Well, at least we know your the most deadly one among them,” he grinned. “As if I had any doubt.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Darkness crept across the land. The hour came to leave. Elpis was laid in the back of the wagon with the ashes of Traust and Apulton—a thing he did not like. “I am not dead yet!” he complained. Still, he wore numerous bandages, had a pale countenance, and his one eye continued to beam at an awkward angle.

"Hush, you," Aim chastised as he arranged the injured man in the wagon. "Are your old friends such bad company?” he asked as he patted the urns that held the ashes of Apulton and Traust.

"Let them motivate you," Homoth interjected. "You must join us, or you must stay with them."

Elpis snorted and spit to hear this. He felt better than he had in days—though he could barely sit up for more than an hour. The back of the wagon was spacious, and his cousins bought him a copious amount of padding—yet he used what little energy he had to complain. The others were happy to have him show such vigor and continued to tease him good-naturedly.

All gathered and ready, Duboha, Aim, Komotz, and the Pan Iskaer waved them on as Saleos drove the wagon. Krumpus also sat on the wide wagon bench with Wenifas and Evereste. The others all rode their own horses—except for Claiten. He rode with Meu for a time, then rode with Baet when Meu became too interested in making eyes at the duke, and while the boy’s mother took a nap. Baet let Claiten hold the reins, and taught him how to handle the horse in general. He also showed the boy several magic tricks he’d picked up in various corners, among other sneaks and rogues. In return, Claiten showed the Saot guard a few of his own tricks he’d learned among the urchins of his own race.

Wenifas woke to see her boy with the guard. She frowned and decided not to make a big deal of it. Instead, she turned the other way and found herself staring at the shaman as he sat next to her.

Krumpus turned and smiled at the priestess.

Wenifas smiled back. She tried not to stare at the bald half of his head or the burn scar that ran down his face and neck, only to disappear under his shirt. Instead, she took his withered hand and gently massaged it. “How are your hands?”

Krumpus sighed, smiled, and nodded as he stretched his wrinkled fingers. He’d regained full mobility of his digits although they were not as strong as they once were. With his gaze, he claimed to be nearly whole once more.

Wenifas realized he could now speak with just a glance. Only a few days ago, Meu had proved herself capable of the same trick. Wenifas wondered if they’d discovered this new magic at the same time—or did one teach the other?—she wondered.

Wenifas rubbed life back into the shaman’s hands for several minutes. then Krumpus took the priestess by her hand and checked the recovering burn. “It’s feeling much better,” she nodded, and indeed it was. The sunburst scar barely stung at all anymore. The far edge of her palm and her pinkie were no longer blistered but merely a tender rose color. They only bothered her when she did something extraneous. Even then the sting only lasted a minute or two. She figured a couple more days and she would have nothing but a withered scar to remind her of Beletrain. “I never did thank you,” she smiled. “That beast would have murdered us and stolen both my children if you hadn’t intervened,” she blushed. “I am lucky to have such powerful and magical friends.”

Krumpus frowned and shook his head. He stared into her eyes and told her that magic is only magic when one doesn’t know how it works. Magic is taught and learned, after which it is never called magic again.

The priestess considered this, “I’ve always been told I can’t understand magic. They say it is beyond those of us born to a mundane life.”

And who would tell you such lies? the shaman asked.

“Mostly the church fathers,” Wenifas frowned.

If they cannot teach you, the shaman began, it is because they do not understand it themselves. Admittedly, magic is not always explainable, he shrugged. Some only know it instinctively or subconsciously—and if they are the only one that can do a thing, who dare call it is anything else?

“There is that, I suppose.”

There are some magics that others refuse to share, Krumpus continued. These are just secrets, sussed out and scurried away, so that one can hold power over others. These things are rarely so complicated that most can’t understand them, given the opportunity.

“Then there are magics I can learn?” Wenifas pressed.

Magic is only ever limited by your time and attention, Krumpus smiled. There’s only one thing that you need to learn magic, and that is practice.

“And what magical practice allows you to heal?” the priestess replied.

It is the study of herbs, the shaman began. I am also attuned to the ancestral spirits of my people, and have a deep understanding of our elemental nature. I’ve sat in fields of flowers for days on end so they might feel comfortable with sharing their secrets.

“And they have?” Wenifas wondered at such a statement.

Some, Krumpus shrugged. They are not all so forthcoming—and some of them are outright liars—though perhaps I just met a few disagreeable individuals. All said, it’s certainly been worth the time I’ve spent to sit and listen. He smiled. What is it you wish to learn? Do you wish to be a healer, or do you wish for magics of a different sort?

“I should just like to be happy,” Wenifas shrugged.

What is it to be happy? Krumpus asked.

“It is getting all that I need,” the preistess began. “And also getting some of what I want.”

Krumpus nodded and smiled.

“That is what I call a white magic,” Wenifas continued. “It is a noble sort of magic—the sort of thing you practice.”

White magic? Krumpus shook his head. I do not think you and I use that term in the same way.

Wenifas frowned. “How would you define it?” she countered.

The shaman shrugged. Black magic is taking what you want, however you can get it. Black magic is selfish, cruel, and short-sighted. White magic is the ever-living sacrifice of love and loss, never to hold, and always to want. White is the saintly abstinence of a perfect life, always giving, only ever taking the long view.

“And that is why I strive to be a white magician,” Wenifas nodded.

We are not to deny our shadow, Krumpus disagreed. Our path is not so easy that we should only ever give. No. Our path is to walk the middle ground, taking and giving as the situation requires. When I pick a flower, do I not cut it short? Do I not end its life?

“That is different,” that is but a flower,” Wenifas frowned.

It is everything to the flower, Krumpus shrugged. Still, it is good to take the long view—even if we can barely see our own hands in front of us. Yet, other times we will see the future stretching out for days, months, and years—and our nature will require us to drive the knife, to cut the cord, to break and mangle. You see, our magic is multicolored, many faceted; balanced between the extremes of the blinding, burning light of god’s eternal throne—and the cold, damp, dark of the devil’s own abyss. We do not walk the earth with our eyes turned forever to the sun, just as we can’t live in darkness all the time. Instead, we must suffer the scorch of the sun and the chill of the moon. We shall dance in the soft sands of a fallen world with one foot in the water, and one on dry land. We will wrap the pour miserly beasts of the earth with our ever-loving attention—and slit the throats of their succulent offspring for the feeding of our own children. It is by honoring both the need and sacrifice of all that is around us that we sanctify this petty, cruel world, and transform it into a haven.

Wenifas gaped. “Sounds impossible,” she admitted, then hanged her head, embarrassed by her doubts.

Krumpus smiled and lifted her chin with his hand. It is not impossible. Indeed, it is quite simple—but it is not easy. He shook his head. Simple is rarely easy.

“Then how do I find such a path, this straight and narrow, that balances the left and right?” Wenifas asked.

You go inward, Krumpus told her. It is the inner knowing that you must find. God speaks to you—through you—and also the devil. You must learn to distinguish between the two.

“So I will not succumb to the trickery and temptation of the devil,” Wenifas interjected.

No, the shaman shook his head. The devil must also be honored, and drawn from his abyss. If you would remain strong, you must eat and honor your flesh. If your children shall grow, they must feed. The devil will have his due. Once appeased, he shall be married to the angel within, so he is willing to give up the excess. Then, you shall know when to give with the right and when to take with the left.

“Is the devil not the enemy?” Wenifas asked.

The devil is necessary, Krumpus told her. Without the devil’s chaos, the world would stagnate. It would become the choking order of the old guard in which nothing new could ever take seed. Instead, we must aspire to our highest good, while still honoring the dark material that we inhabit.

Wenifas huffed and shook her head. “I do not get it,” she stated, still confused.

Consider your breathing, Krumpus began. In order to breathe one does not only exhale. Instead, there is a rhythmic balance. We draw in all that we need, then expel the excess. It is give in take, a thousand times a day. Those that would have it all are akin to those that hold their breath. He shook his head. You must honor the impulse and appetites of your flesh—but you must do so in a high-minded manner, with love in your heart—for it is not what is done, but it is the manner in which it is done. Then, having married the sun and the moon within you, you are perfect—or nearly enough—so that your immortality is obvious. He smiled. Don’t you see? In that moment, how can you not know that the eternal universe loves you, and will always take care of you?

“We are immortal?” Wenifas stared at the shaman.

Yes. Krumpus nodded, then shrugged. But even that does not satisfy all—for some will always be blind. You see, our immortality is god’s blessing upon us, but it is also the devil’s curse; for even the wicked are immortal—only theirs is an eternal torment, for the wicked are never satisfied.

“Huh…” Wenifas sat quiet and considered the strange and paradoxical words of the shaman. For a while, neither spoke. When the shaman began again, he did not talk of such weighty or poignant things. Instead, he told her of the various plants and flowers they passed along their way.

They continued to talk as the slow wagon followed the twists and turns of the road. The sun crept toward its zenith, then slowly dropped to the horizon. Evening came and the party stopped. They met a local farmer and paid a few silver so they might set a camp in one of his fields, then partook of a quick dinner and bedded down for the night, quite sure that no one followed. Night came on, and those that did not watch, slept.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 11.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

“Bunch of blasted idiots, marching on the road for all the world to see,” The throat-cutter, Todehis, complained of the main body of Ministrian shocktroopers and Degorouth militiamen. Some three hundred men strong, the troops watched and waited for the duke to leave his protected inn—then, as the duke slipped away, and they attempted to follow—they were confronted by a thousand men from the local militias and sent back toward Ebertin. “Serves them right for being so obvious,” the throat-cutter muttered.

Not all were turned aside. Meriona and her four conspirators managed to sneak passed the local militias—which quite surprised the Jay. She had a low opinion of her four companions. Their faces were grim and troubling. They could barely manage a civil word whenever they spoke. They smelled of the streets, drank continuously, and had little interest in anything—except the money they’d make by killing the duke. In the scant places where they had hair, it was deviled into knots. On top of it all, they tended to leer at her when they thought she would not notice. She could not wait for this mission to be over, simply so she could be rid of their foul company.

They trailed the duke’s party down the long slow country road, bogged with local farmers and traveling merchants. Meriona told the throat-cutters to smile and nod at those that passed; but then she saw the awkward and resentful way in which they did this—and also saw their troubled teeth—so she rescinded her command and told them to go back to ignoring the locals.

Night came and this small band of miscreants camped a mile or so back from their quarry. Once the horses were tethered and their blankets laid out, an argument began. “Light a fire!” Meriona demanded. “I am cold, and I will have a warm supper!” she scolded. “If you will not do it, don’t think I won’t!”

“There will be no fire,” Todehis contradicted. “If we should light a fire, they’ll know we’re out here.”

The senior Jay stared at the man, flabbergasted. “It’s open country!” she countered. “You can see a dozen other fires burning all about us! One more light among these others cannot matter!”

“And what if someone shall come to join us?” Todehis asked.

“We are simply eating and being comfortable—and this is what we shall tell anyone that confronts us,” Meriona noted. “We do not need to let it burn for long. It is a simple dinner fire—not a beacon! As the night deepens, we will let it run out, then we will meld with the darkness.”

“We will not do it,” Todehis shook his head. “It is too dangerous.”

“Do you truly think the duke believes himself safe? That there can be no further trouble?” Meriona stared among the men. “Such men do not trust their own homes—much less the wilds of a foreign country! Indeed, it is quite likely they have already noted our camp. If that is so, won’t they find it more suspicious if we do not light a fire?” She glared, then began to gather rocks in a circle. “We light a fire, and we enjoy it! If any come to join us, I will talk, and I will talk fast. Keep your tongues and I shall be rid of them. Then, in the night, you can do what you mean to do.”

“We scout them,” Todehis nodded. “And if we find an opening,” he stared at Meriona for several long seconds before he dragged a finger across his throat. The other throat-cutters grinned, chuckled, and nodded in anticipation.

Oblarra rose high and lit the night with an angry red hue. No clouds obscured the sky as Todehis and Grunther crept up on the duke’s camp. On separate occasions, two of the guards stared out into the dark, having heard something, or simply suspecting the fields of trouble.

Although the throat-cutters crept close, they dared not enter the camp. Instead, they conferred in hushed whispers as they lay among the tall grasses. “The duke is old,” Todehis pointed at the second guard. “Think that might be him?”

Grunther snorted. “You think some hoity-toity muckety-muck is gonna take guard duty with his hired swords? Some uppity-up, out in the dark, instead of asleep in his comfortable tent?” he shook his head. “He has men to watch. He will not be out in the middle of the night!”

Toddles frowned. He thought if he snuck another twenty feet or so, he might throw a knife and stick the man—but if it wasn’t the duke, well—that’d make the job darn near impossible. Instead, as sunlight began to creep over the wide valley, Todehis and Grunther returned to their own camp, exhausted and none the wiser—only it wasn’t just Meriona and the other two throat-cutters that waited for them. A dozen local militia surrounded the camp.

“You are caught,” one of the men stated. “Lay down your arms, and you may yet live—”

Grunther pulled a blade and lunged at the man. He cut his words as he slashed at the man’s chest. In order to keep his life, the speaker flung himself back and toppled off his horse. Shouts of alarm and a general melee ensued.

The next day, as the sun climbed out of the mountains in the east, Elpis called to Saleos, “Slow ‘er down, old man! We got a tail!”

Saleos looked over his shoulder to see a tight knot of riders approaching, armed men, with Aim and Duboha at their front. “What are they doing?” he asked with a look of chagrin across his face. “Does Duboha have his arm in a sling?”

“They return with a handful of Pan Iskaer,” Elpis noted. “And what looks like a half dozen prisoners.” Indeed, their friends and the Pan Iskaer surrounded four others, three men and a woman, with their hands all tied. A fifth prisoner was slumped over his saddle. Elpis pointed at the body as he looked in two separate directions, “What happened to him?”

“That one took a swing at Duboha,” Aim explained. “So Squirrel stuck him with his spear and let out too much of his blood.”

“Didn’t mean to kill ‘im,” Squirrel shrugged. “Just meant to suck the fight out of the lot.”

“And how’d you come across this lot in the first place?” Saleos asked.

“Well, this weren’t but a few that snuck passed,” Aim noted. “We blocked maybe four or five hundred of their troop on the edge of town, and gathered about a dozen more that tried to sneak past,” Aim explained. “Then we got word of this suspicious lot that had somehow slipped our net. So we followed them all yesterday. Sure enough, they’re nothing but a bunch of troublemakers,” Aim snorted. “At sunrise, we confronted them in their camp. That’s when the leaker got frisky, pulled a blade, and took a swipe at Duboha. Duboha dodged by throwing himself off his own horse. That’s when he landed on his arm,” the giant finished with a snicker.

“He cut my shirt,” Duboha complained as he glared at the giant. “Would of cut me if I didn’t dive!”

The others were gathered around. Cregial gave a light bow to the lady. “Meriona,” he smiled. “You’re keeping colorful company these days. I presume you are still under orders from High Commander Gliedian?”

Meriona stiffened up. “I’m just looking for a good view,” she countered.

Aim snorted. “They took a peek at your camp last night. We spied on them as they spied on you—though they still won’t admit it. We were standing right behind them—heard everyu word—and they still won’t admit it.”

Meriona scoffed. “A beast like you, sneaking about in the dark?!”

“I’m sneakier than I look,” Aim grinned.

Saleos snorted. “Well, we’re only a couple days from the border. I say we take them to Excergie for a little Jindleyak justice.“

Homoth clapped Aim on the back. “Does this mean you’re coming to Hearthstone after all?” he smiled.

“We’re halfway there,” Aim shrugged. “Might as well go all the way home and kiss my mother.”

“What of you, Squirrel?” Carringten asked the Pan Iskaer. “Are you coming too?”

“Not us,” Squirrel said of himself and his Pan Iskaer. “Our mothers sleep back that way.”