The Howling

Rewrote 19.1. Polished 19.2 — 1h18m19s — 2021/09/28

Polished 19.2 — 37m45s — 2021/09/29

Polished 19.2 — 27m32s — 2021/09/30

Wenifas held the urn with the ashes of Claiten. She stood and stared at the massive oak before her as the patriarch, Azra, droned on in his native tongue, a language foreign to the priestess. She imagined his words were poignant and well versed. Not that she cared to hear ‘em. Words weren’t bringing back her son.

The wife of Traust stood next to her, and on the other side, the mother of Apulton, each holding an urn. They stood resolute, though tears touched their eyes. Wenifas didn’t want to cry. She hoped they’d finish soon, before she had too much time to remember her boy, and for the tears to gather and run.

Azra left off his words. The wife of Traust and the mother of Apulton lifted the lids from their urns. They stepped toward the tree, and with heartfelt words of their own, they slowly dusted the base of the behemoth with the ashes of their loved ones. Taking a que from these strangers, Wenifas pulled the lid off her son’s urn. The other two women were now sobbing as they slowly circled the tree and dusted its roots. Not wanting yet another bout of tears, Wenifas turned her urn upside and dumped its contents in a single heap.

A pile of ash stared back at the priestess, and despite herself, the tears started. Missing her son, she bent to the ground, and poked at his ash. Was the essence of her boy still somewhere in there? Did it float off to heaven the night they reduced him to dust? Or was he gone the moment his last breath left him, half in the water of the lake, half out?

Wenifas lifted her ash covered finger to her forehead and smudged her brow. Then, still not feeling the presence of her son, she licked her dirty finger. She looked up to see both the wife of Traust and the mother of Apulton staring at her. One was curious about her actions, and the other was appalled.

Indignant, the priestess stood up. She dropped the urn, faced the crowd, then pushed her way through. Celesi joined her with Evereste in her arms. Meu slipped an arm around her back and offered a shoulder to the Ministrian as they headed back toward the big house. When she got to her room, she laid on her bed, until Naharahna blessed her with sleep.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 19.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

A knock on the door woke the priestess from a deep and dreamless sleep. Irritated, she forced herself up on an elbow and bellowed, “what do you want?!”

Nonplussed, Scurra called through the door. “I know you’ve had your fill of grief, but the others gather to honor Komotz.”

Wenifas sat up, wide-eyed, “Komotz died?!”

“Not yet.”

Wenifas was still dressed, except for her shoes. She covered her feet, then unlocked and pulled open the door. “I don’t understand. Why do we honor Komotz if he is still alive?”

“He is dwindling,” Scurra informed. “He is in constant pain and will not live much longer—and so we go to say goodbye.”

“Oh,” Wenifas paused. “Your brother was telling me there are ways to bring about a peaceful death to those that are too far gone. Does he take the mushrooms?”

“No,” Scurra shook her head. “He takes the warrior’s path. He’s asked for the howling.”

“The what?”

“The howling,” Scurra said, a bit tight lipped, even for her brooding nature.

Although she wasn’t keen on surprises, Wenifas followed. The ladies arrived at the cottage where Komotz rested. The others were already there—and great multitude more. “They’ve begun,” Scurra noted, as several men carried the prone little brother on a plank over their shoulders. Those gathered slowly followed. The bearers carried Komotz along the path, through the large garden, past the family tree, while those that followed sang a mournful song. They walked a good mile or so up a ridge before they came to a cliff that overlooked a ravine, some two or three hundred feet down. The men that carried Komotz set the foot of the platform to rest on the ground and held him at an angle so he nearly stood. A line formed. The gathered people talked, touched, and kissed the pale young warrior; then stepped away, tears in their eyes. They gathered in tight knots, held each other, and cried as the line continued to kiss and whisper to the injured young man.

“I don’t understand,” Wenifas said as she followed Scurra into the line. “What am I to say to him?”

“Say goodbye,” Scurra told her softly.

“He doesn’t speak Ministrian.”

Scurra shrugged, “He knows why we’re here.”

Wenifas stepped closer and closer to Komotz and wondered what she could say. All too quickly she was in front of the guard, shocked to see the boisterous young guard reduced to a husk. Being no sort of healer and not particularly close to the guard, Wenifas had not seen him as he deteriorated, and so she was not expecting his wasted state. Before he seemed so carefree, full of youthful charm and directness. Now he was gaunt and sickly pale with a number of heavy bandages, half bloody and spoiled. His neck and the bit of his chest that she could see were purple and yellow with deep bruising. He labored to breathe. His pain was obvious and overwhelming. It hurt her just to look at him. It hurt even more when he recognized her and twisted his lips into a tortured smile.

A thought jumped into her head; at least death came quick for Claiten. Tears ran from her eyes. She brushed the young Trohl’s hair. She kissed him on his forehead, then kissed his lips. She tried to smile, but found herself moaning instead. Suddenly sobbing, she turned and stepped away.

The sister, Paye, gathered Wenifas in her arms and pulled her into a tight knot of strange women that hugged and cried. The priestess allowed them to gather her in and bawled as they rubbed sympathy into her back and arms. Scurra joined them with wet eyes, though she managed to stay silent.

Although not the last in line, Scurra was close. Only Andrus, Duboha, and Aim remained. They were slow as they said their goodbyes and wept openly in front of the guard—and then the line was done, and Wenifas couldn’t imagine what came next.

The others had backed away. Komotz leaned forward, then dropped to his hands and knees with an audible gasp. Wenifas took a step forward, so she might help the man, but a number of hands gabbed her and held her back.

“He will do this alone,” Scurra told her.

“Do what?” Wenifas asked. “Where does he go?”

Scurra ignored the question.

Komotz dropped to his stomach, then crawled his way to the edge of the cliff. Wide-eyed and on the verge of panic, Wenifas called to him. “No!” she shouted.

Scurra grabbed her, put her hand over her mouth, and shushed her.

Horrified, the priestess watched as the young militiaman pulled himself closer and closer to the precipice, then toppled over the edge. Then the others began to howl.

Wenifas jumped as these chill cries rose from the others. They poured their pain and grief at the uncaring sky in the manner of wolves, as the priestess wondered if they’d all gone mad. It was uncanny. It was eerie. It was unnerving.

The howling climaxed, then slowly died away. Wenifas stared at the edge of the cliff as several others stepped to the edge and glanced down. “Was there nothing else to be done? Nothing else to be tried?” She asked as she wondered at the waste of the young man’s life.

“What were his options?” Scurra shook her head.

“He could take the mushrooms,” Wenifas noted. “It would have been peaceful and painless.”

“Dead is dead,” Scurra began. “So how is that better?”

“Why not simply live?” Wenifas asked.

“For how long? In how much pain?” Scurra shrugged. “Instead, he took the warrior’s path, and now none will ever question the courage of Komotz.”

“It isn’t right!” Wenifas complained.

“Right or wrong, the point is moot,” Scurra replied. “It was his choice to make. That’s all that matters.”

“But...” Wenifas began, then stopped as she realized she didn’t really have a sound argument, only a lot of uneasiness. She realized there was no right answer, just a lot of wrong ones. With a defeated huff she hanged her head. “How often does this happen?”

“A howling? I hear of them once or twice a month.”

“What?!” Wenifas was shocked. That seemed like far too many.

Scurra lifted a hand. “It is a common custom, practiced by many of our people,” she shook her head. “It is not as many as you think.”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 19.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

(they don’t see Krumpus until Wenifas and Meu go to visit his cottage, when they discover him being mauled by Sephonie)

Two days later, the party found themselves camping near a more humble estate said to be on the very outskirts of Hearthstone. They met the lady Sephonie, now the shaman’s widow. All things considered, she took the news rather lightly. When Scurra pressed her about it, Sephonie noted, “the scoundrel hasn’t been around in years! Do you expect anything around will change?”

“There will be less money—,” Scurra began.

Sephonie cut her off, “Money was never my concern. I wanted was a constant man!” she snorted. “I wanted a father for my babies!”

Scurra had nothing to say to that. Her brother was forever captive to his wanderlust. Indeed, she was quite surprised he ever took a wife—though he produced several beautiful and brilliant children.

The kids were all in good health. They were mesmerized by the stories of adventure and took to showing the various members of the party around the farm. Indeed, they were the center of attention as they charged about and ordered the help around. Even Creigal was enamored with the youths as they peppered Carringten with embarrassing questions. How could they know that the color of his skin was something most people would not address, was indeed considered quite poor form? But from the mouths of babes…

Two days of relaxation gave to an early morning of excitement. The sun was barely up when the lady of the house screamed and cursed from the front yard. Used to unexpected dangers, the others gathered about as Sephonie wrestled a strange figure in the front yard. She twisted him about and struck repeatedly as she continued to swear and snap.

Baet threw up a hand and turned to his duke. “This don’t concern us,” he said as he walked back toward his tent. “It’s just a lover’s spat.”

Creigal realized that Sephonie sat on the shaman, his scarred face shocked by the woman’s outburst.

Scurra interfered. “Be gentle,” she said to her sister in law. “Do you not see the shape he’s in?”

Sephonie’s eyes went wide. “What did you do to your hands?!” she roared and struck his shoulder. “Your face is a mess?! You better not expect me to kiss you like that?!”

Creigal thought it was going to be trouble for the shaman—but later that night, he spied Sephonie and Krumpus nestled together in a grove of birch, kissing and rolling in the grass. Forever protective of her brother, Scurra snuck up on the duke. “It’s not your everyday romance,” she said with a shrug as she pulled Creigal away.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 17.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

(Krumpus Tells Wenifas that She’s Pregnant)

"This is a thing you tell me, that I will not be dangerous?" Wenifas asked.

Krumpus shook his head. You must be dangerous. The world is dangerous and you must be in it. I tell you that you know. I tell you that you will make your choices with open eyes. Black magic destroys the magician as much as it destroys the world around him. White magic heals the magician as much as it heals the world around him.

"And colored magic is the magic of necessity?" Wenifas asked.

Krumpus nodded. Do not think your magic must always be white. Are there not parts of you that should be destroyed? Are you so pure?

Wenifas shrugged. "Then I shall hope to know which color I need when the time comes to use it."

Might I ask that you use it to build a life worth living?

"Is magic so powerful that it might recreate a life?" Wenifas asked.

Magic is all. The shaman's eyes went wide. How does the sun shine?! How do the birds fly?! Are these things not magic?!

Wenifas frowned. “These things are pedestrian. Because I do not know how it happens does not mean there is special power in it. What does this have to do with a different life?”

Krumpus shook his head. Magic cannot give you a new life - but it can bring meaning to the life you have.

"Then you have discovered this secret: that I do not value my life as it is," Wenifas shrugged. "All that I know is behind me. I have lost my lover. I have lost my oldest child. I fear I smother the other. And now I am to live in a land I do not know, among strangers, with no one to help me?"

When have you been alone? Krumpus stared. Can strangers not become friends? Change your focus. Look at what builds, instead of what crumbles, and you will have things worth keeping.

"But they shall be swept up in the storm, destroyed like everything that came before!" Wenifas huffed. "It is an impotent magic to build sandcastles on the beach!"

Krumpus shook his head. All castles crumble. The earth itself shall one day perish. But much of what we build persists beyond our life. Those we leave behind will build upon the things we leave. So the question becomes, do we leave them poisoned spines, to corrupt their flesh, and speed them to their graves? Or do we leave them home and hearth, that they might raise a new generation, to value the things that nourished and kept us?

"Your white magic is slow if it requires the building of life to proceed."

Krumpus gave an emphatic nod. Black magic is fast, because it is selfish destruction. The colorful magics are death used to sustain life, and life raised to destroy. But white is most powerful. Without the slow build of life itself, there can be no meaningful death. There is nothing. There is just the gaping maw of the unquenchable abyss.

"There is always death," Wenifas sighed. "Black magic will not be denied."

Krumpus stared at Wenifas. Is it so bad? If man should ever find immortality in his own fashion, how shall their children ever be free? We must be forever shackled to the tyranny of our father's inaccuracies.

"What makes them wrong? Who is to say they do not have the right of it?"

You cannot escape death simply by serving it. Death shall claim us all. Beside, if life is not permanent, what does this say about death?

"That it is also not permanent?" Wenifas asked.

We must return that we might right our wrongs, Krumpus told her.

Wenifas frowned. "Again, you sound like the church. Only I know them to be hypocrites."

Krumpus shrugged. Even liars tell the truth from time to time—or else no one should ever believe them.

"And where are you wrong?" Wenifas snipped.

Now you learn. Krumpus gave her a big, toothy grin. And that is why you must go within—that you know what to believe. But you must know that you will get some parts of it wrong, and this is why you must always be patient and think of it as a game you play.

“I get a lot of it wrong,” Wenifas grinned.

And that is how you know you are ready, Krumpus nodded. So will you know the thing you do not know? Are you ready for everything to change? the shaman asked.

Wenifas nodded. “I think so.”

Slwoly, with a growing smile, Krumpus put his hand on the preistess’ belly. Can you feel it? He asked.

Wide-eyed, Wenifas shook her head. No! How?!”

Krumpus made a circle with his thumb and finger. He plunged the finger of his other hand through the ring in a lewd gesture, then shrugged.

Wenifas giggled at his joke. “I know how it is done!” she shot back at him. “I am a priestess after all!” She leaned in close. “I ask because I have not slept with anyone, not since...” Her eyes got wide and she covered her mouth. She stared over the months at the last man that slept with her, at his easy grin and his trusting eyes. “I shall have his baby,” she whispered. Tears of joy flowed. With a wide grin, she grabbed the shaman and wrapped him in a hug. “Blessed Naharahna! She has given me his child!” she whispered in his ear. “Do you not see?! Derris lives on within me!”

Move to 20

Tahoran Meets Crea, Andrus meets Tahoran

Cleaning the stables was never so terrible, mostly because Tahoran never let it get that bad. At the very least, it 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 some hard labor.

Today he was troubled. He leaned into each shovel of manure and thought of the strange news he was hearing about Solveny. , largely from Trysta, as he filled the cart. There were troubling rumors and too many people in fighting uniforms. Word from Gaurring was everything was calm and prosaic—but Tahoran didn’t see it staying that way. Not if he was reading the signs right. His next report home would include a dire warning, one that he hoped wasn’t too late.

It wasn’t long before Tahoran had the cart full and needed to take it out to the mill, where it would be mixed with chips and dust and left to rot, before being returned to the castle gardens as compost; but most of that was work for another day, and other people besides. He only trucked to manure.

“Horsewind!” the porter called into the stables. Tahoran grumbled so the boy might know where to find him. He didn’t mind the nickname—even encouraged it since it’s use made him seem stupid and weak, anything but a threat. Anything but what he really was. “Hey, Horsewind,” the porter smiled as he saw the kind and simple old man. “Denerowe wants you to stop by the blacksmith and pick up a shipment that was supposed to be done this morning.”

“Greb and Fetters?” Tahoran asked the young boy, thinking it’d be shoes and tack for the horses.

“No, Cole Fier’s place; just off Hedter’s Market,” the porter replied. “You know the place?”

Tahoran gave a nod and tried not to show his surprise at being asked to go by a blacksmith that provided weapons to the castle.

“And Denerowe said to clean out the cart real good, so… you know…” the porter stammered to an close.

Tahoran imagined the captain said so that the weapons didn’t get shit all over them—not that it’d be too much of a bother. Sometimes, he wondered if he didn’t do too good of a job convincing the locals of his simplicity. Still, that was far better than having their suspicion. Of course, none of this was Tahoran’s immediate concern. He was more interested in the weapons and increase in military activity among the Dunkels—and he thought he’d have plenty of time to think it over, but he was barely a block from the castle walls when he saw several soldiers at the far end of the alley harassing a fair young woman.

Normally, Tahoran 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. But this girl had a sword—and not just any weapon. She had a falchion of fine and specific crafting—a weapon he’d seen quite often in the hands of another. Even from a distance, Tahoran recognized the blade. He paused, and for a long second he considered the impossible. He thought perhaps it was time to burn his cover and return home after all.

Tahoran picked his shovel off the mounded manure in the back of his wagon and stepped into the alley. “Leave the woman alone!” he barked.

Alarmed the soldiers turned and stared at Tahoran. “It’s 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 stable sweep.

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

Tahoran stared back at the man as he leaned on his shovel.

“I said, git!” The soldier snapped, then swaggered toward Tahoran. He tried to grab the old man, and only when the youth was about to touch him, did Tahoran move—then he moved so fast the youth was uncertain exactly what had happened. He was simply back on his ass, his face stinging, as he cried out in pain.

The other two soldiers turned from the girl, and her wild thrusting, and stared at the older man, who was suddenly the greater threat despite only having a shovel. “Did he just…?” One of them asked the other.

“I said leave her alone,” Tahoran repeated.

The two uninjured soldiers stalked down alley, their hands on the hilts of their swords. “This don’t concern you!”

The first soldier started to get up, but stopped when Tahoran put the shovel to his chest. “Stay down, or I’ll really put a hurtin’ on you,” he said as he glared at the advancing toughs. Thankfully, they were pinched in by the walls of the alley and had to approach from the same side.

The two standing soldiers pulled their swords and rushed the stable sweep. Tahoran dodged the first swing and parried the second with the handle of his shovel. He spun and speared the first man in the chest with the tip of the spade, then caught the second man with the flat against his face—maybe a touch harder than he planned. The first soldier staggered back and the second crumbled altogether.

Tahoran stepped past them so he was now between the woman and the soldiers. “Go on, now,” he said as he brandished the shovel. “Git yourselves.”

The soldiers collected themselves, and staring bloody murder at the stable sweep, hobbled down the street.

Tahoran turned to the woman as she continued to wave the falchion about. “Those boys are gonna go get their friends, and they’re gonna be lookin’ for both of us, so although I need you to tell me about that fancy weapon of yours, first I’d like to get you clear of town, where we’re likely to have less trouble,” he stated.

“What concern is it of yours?” she replied. “Maybe you should just leave me alone before I’m forced to hurt you.”

Tahoran leaned on his shovel. “I just fought three soldiers that had you cornered without going to their weapons. You can’t fight me,” he noted. “On the plus side, I’m not out for a cheap thrill like those ruffians. All I want to know about is that sword.”

“Why do you care?” Crea asked.

“That sword belongs to my master,” Tahoran told her.

Remembering where she got the weapon, Crea shook her head. If this man’s master was a rapist, she wanted nothing to do with him.

With a heavy sigh, Tahoran 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!” she cried as she let go of the sword. She leaned heavily against the wall, dejected and miserable as tears came to her eyes. She hoped getting raped wouldn’t be as bad the second time.

But the old man just stared at her and frowned. “Got your attention now?” he finally asked.

Crea nodded , unsure of just what he wanted.

“Those boys are coming back just as soon as they find some of their friends. I won’t be able to take ‘em by surprise this time. We can’t be here when they return,” he told her. “I want your story and nothing else. You can even keep the sword,” he said and held the weapon out to her. “Finders, keepers,” he told her.

Surprised, Crea reached out and took the weapon, then sheathed it.

“Good. Now, if you’ll follow me, we’ll go somewhere safe and have us a talk, like civilized people. No waving weapons around and all that horseplay. I’m Tahoran,” he smiled and held out a hand.

“Crea,” she told him and put her hand in his.

“Well, Crea. Let’s get off these streets,” he kept her hand, turned, and pulled her up the alley. To her surprise, he left the horse, cart, and shovel as he pulled her along.

“Tahoran?” a voice called down the street.

The man stiffened as he turned. He faced two young Trohls, one male and one female. Despite the man’s sword, he did not seem that dangerous. “That’s a name you shouldn’t know,” Tahoran glared. “Speak your business, and speak it quick,” the thick-muscled man said.

The male Trohl gave a slight bow, “My name is Andrus. I have a message for you.”