PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

 

 

 

 

 

Stuart Staub

 

Chronicles of Hildegoth:

The First

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chronicles of Hildegoth: The First

 

Copyright © 2017 by Stuart Staub All rights reserved worldwide.

 

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are

products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to

actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

 

 

 

 

 

ISBN:  978-1-387-05658-3

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For my son and my brother

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Part 1 - Warriors and Angels

Prologue

 

                Oh, bloody hells and gods, Hildegoth was vast and beautiful and ancient and all that. In the west were the rich lands of Rualedd and Olda Sett, the barren stretches of sand that made up much of Chaal, and the deep and mysterious woodlands of Fruudosch. Other lands bordered these, and were as varied as the pebbles in a stream, and we will get to them eventually. For now, much of what will be told took place in the far west, and the far east in Erathai, the seat to the gleaming city of Tyniar where all fell under the rule of the High King. No one knows who settled here first, but all agree it was the humans who arrived last. The dwarves, reclining in their castles of stone buried in the mountains, insist that it was their ancestors who crawled from the mountains to lay claim to the lands. And, of course, the ageless elves in their gentle spires along the forests and rivers would say that they had always been here and had watched the dwarves slink from their holes into the light. The brilliant and eccentric gnomes toiling in their mechanized cities, well, they were never much for delving into the squabbles of the elder grumpy races.

The humans, the youngest, brashest, and most arrogant in their ignorance of the two-footed thinkers, did manage to succeed in one obscure area: They somehow managed to unite all of these unrelatable peoples under one tentative crown. Furthermore, they made it so that any human, dwarf, elf, gnome, or what have you could ascend to such a position. This position was known as the High King.

                The High King was and is the highest seat of power in Hildegoth. It has been held by many mortals of both endless integrity and indescribable malevolence, and its history stretches back a thousand years to when the warring kings of that age decided

amongst themselves that, though they would govern their own lands and their own peoples, an Oltim Sovrothi, a Great King, would have the final say in governance over them all. For some reason, slaughtering each other for a millennium did little to bring peace to lands that had known only poverty, war, and famine for generations. This concordance achieved it by making it clear that, for the most part, it was better to just sort of keep to themselves and not try to kill each other so much.

As the ages passed, its influence grew into a ruling entity that governed more than war and irreconcilable dispute as individual kings lost their kingdoms or passed away without an heir. Eventually, kingdoms became oligarchies and theocracies and

dozens of other governments, and reason and fear of losing what position they held

swayed these men and women and mankindred to continue fealty to the High King. Mutually agreed upon boundaries both real and imagined may never be enough to end conflict, but it could corral it nicely.

As for the throne itself, succession was by birth, but, in the event that a high king was deposed or died without a son or daughter, a new one was elected in an exhaustive process that limited itself to no one. This has come to pass occasionally in Hildegoth’s history, and those were turbulent times at best.

                There were dissenters of course. The savage orcs of Westenmarsh and the

untamable gangrel elves of the wildernesses of Margas Enudd would remain forever

beyond the High King's rule. Additionally, organizations within the kingdoms themselves have opposed it since its inception. Such institutions like the Ardett Marsai, whose crimson-robed officials dot royal courts to this day vied for their bizarre and dark agendas. Or theCircle of Toro, the foul garden in which a member grew to such a place of power he actually had the ear of High King Uredd the Red, who brought about The Great

Cleansing, the most despicable sanction in the history of Hildegoth. King Uredd eventually went mad and took his own life, leaving the seat vacant for nearly a decade – the longest in its history.

                The succeeding king, again chosen by his peers, was known as Merrett of

Marmalokk, a small mining village in northern Erathai. He was appointed by a passing noble of unknown origins and great influence at the Erathian High Courts who saw him leading a team of starving miners from the colliers where most of the laboring classes of those lands made their living. They had been trapped without food, water, or light, but Merrett, the youngest of three children and only thirteen years old at the time, had coaxed them on and led them out by convincing them that his nose could find fresh air. He had been lying of course, but their belief in his words and character was great enough to follow him nonetheless, where cool wit and a bit of luck led eventually to freedom. This so moved the noble that he demanded the young man accompany him back to the lands of Erathai so that he could be endorsed as High king. Investigation into the young man’s heritage eventually revealed that he was of an ancient line of warrior kings, dating back to the earliest settlements of Erathai. He was crowned almost immediately. He began drinking immediately after that.

                Many insist that Merrett’s ascension to the crown was the doing of the gods, for an immediate test of the young king’s mettle awaited him. The overwhelmed boy king found himself knee deep in the most trying times in recent memory: The Garull Wars.

                Vicious trollkin, hell-spawned and enhanced by the dreams and means of some foolish lord whose name has been lost to petty history, the garulls nearly toppled civilized life in the known lands. Only careful conspiracy between humans and mankindred – and the formation of the fighting Garulokai –vanquished them, though they were never truly eradicated.

                After the Garull Wars had seen their last days, the great armies of the High King saw themselves fall into disuse and then ruin. With no foe upon which to test their steel, many warriors of old either passed on as nature intended, or succumbed to the frailties of a peaceful life that has no place for their kind. Very few of them were at odds with such an existence.

                In only a few decades, the swamps and great redwood groves of the West fell back into the hands of the wild races, as the strongholds condensed and solidified into towering city states under the direct rule of their governing bodies and under peripheral (yet final) rule of the High King. Centralized and quite often self-sufficient, these protectorates paid their dues in taxes or materials according to the terms set down in the High King’s edicts, though most began to do so grudgingly. Some had argued their place in such matters. Their individual governing representatives claimed that peacetime and

distance from Erathai made such taxation unnecessary and difficult. The High King did his best to accommodate their demands, and, eventually, their instruments of warfare, both armory and soldier, withered and nearly vanished.

                Farmsteads grew in the footprints of battlefields. Grazing fields spread through tracts of ash that had once been villages. The vast flocks and packs of carrion eaters that were as commonplace as fleas and ticks for the last thirty years died off or scattered. The settled realms of Hildegoth became a land of green hills, peaceful roads, and infrequent strife. The vast unsettled lands between these kingdom cities fell under their appropriate rule, but enjoyed a life free from most constraints as long as outright anarchy or lawlessness did not take hold. It was a land for which a king could feel pride, despite its eccentricities. And, as the endless pattern demanded, the scale that had shifted and paused in favor of good, slowed, shuddered, and began to swing inexorably back to balance, but did not stop there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

                According to the edicts of the Ummonic beliefs, the incarnation of the collective faith of his followers and the creator of all the other gods is known as Ummon. The holy book of this greatest of gods, the Rand, dictates that he did not create Hildegoth nor any of its peoples, but he was in fact drawn to them by the power of their goodness and faithfulness.

Centuries ago, a bright burning light fell from the sky and all who witnessed it believed it to be a god come to deliver them from the arduous times that tormented them. This, the source of Ummon’s original power, was set upon by the pawns of evil that wallowed in the muddy pits of other mortals’ souls and a great battle unknown of in all but the most ancient of historic texts took place, but even then the power of good outweighed it and saw it defeated.

                As for Ummon himself, he has power beyond comprehension, but many scholars and clerics postulate that it may not be infinite, hence the creation of the greater gods.    

Their origins buried in myth and in some cases lost to the tongues of the long dead, many of the greater gods were chosen from exceptional mortals, while some were created outright from matter indicative of their spheres of influence. Given a spark of his power, these gods filled their own roles as need dictated and required. Connected through their vast warra to their respective elemental divergesses, they have performed their deeds for over two thousand years. However, they have lessened greatly of late, and it may very well be that even immortals tire of toil.

 

                Long, long ago, stirrings had begun in vast currents of malignant energy accumulating beyond the senses of normal folk. They had coalesced in great maelstroms near Erathai, the oldest seat of civilization in Hildegoth, where the humans of this land had dwelt the longest. After so many centuries of greed, hatred, and envy, that energy began to leech back into the waking world, affecting friend and foe alike. It had been held in check for a time by the hearts and efforts of beings such as High King Merrett the Good and his predecessors, but with these lodestones of emotion came the inevitable bloody filings of their ken. Peace had had her brief verse on the stage: sweet, soothing, and far too short. As these energies thickened, they began to draw even more of the same vein to itself. At first it was only sparks and threads, but slowly it became a great churning vortex that assimilated anything wicked that came near.

                Over the ages, simple similarity became need. Need became intent. Intent

eventually became mind, and its hunger was unimaginable. It reached out blindly, like

an infant seeking its mother, and its rancorous influence coaxed the very acts that provided its sustenance from even those of mild spite, that felt its touch. For many it

caused their violent, wicked end. For others, it caused flashes of insight on how to spread their own terrible acts, thus releasing more of what this vile amalgam craved. And for yet others, a precious few, it would stoke old embers of sin that would engender such unquenchable guilt that the only respite from it was oblivion.

Inspired by forces they could not understand, Ogres took up mace and club and sword and tapped on the shoulder their surly neighbors, suggesting that they work together on their hunts.

                The thin ranks of the garulls, only now beginning to fill gaps and reconnect

bloodlines, ventured out on mad rampages that even their savage minds could not

fathom. Their stomachs groaned with flesh to the point where they left great piles of

steaming, bloody meat behind them only to kill more and more to satisfy their manic

lust for death. It would pass, but a simmering drop would remain, enough to stir the creatures back up into another lunatic killing revelry, and then another, and then another. Such actions threatened their still reduced numbers, but their intrinsic survival instinct was swept aside by this madness.

                Simple folk watched in horror as goblins wandered down from their long

shut up dens to set fire to farms and cottages alike, only to stand, stupefied amongst

the flames, and be consumed along with them.

                A child of ill temper would suddenly flare and strike like a crazed animal,

ripping and tearing with his nails until they were ripped from his fingers, and biting

until his teeth bent from his mouth. He would just as suddenly cease as tears of pain

and confusion surrogated the inexplicable rage.

                An old man in a coastal town got up from his rocking chair, wandered down

to the docks, and dropped into the water. He would never emerge, and good-hearted

people who would attempt rescue would find his drowned, milky body nearly a

hundred feet from shore and thirty feet down, his hands locked in futile claws around

the partially buried handle of a chest. This chest yielded no treasure but for that of a skeleton, an old business associate he had killed and buried under the sands of the ocean floor fifty years past.

                The good looked on in confused terror, the balanced could tip either way, and even the slightly wicked would feel the tugging of something above the senses, something vile and cruel and irresistible. And acts were committed. And more acts. And more.

                Though not, as yet, consciously provoking these acts, the newly formed being whose very existence was responsible for their coalescence would look upon the works, and call them good, had it been able to see them. And it would grow, and learn, and Scheme for more in an endless lust for power and sustenance.

                There was a great shining bastion of good spiking the aether through Erathai’s heart in the form of its leaders and followers of the Ummonic faith, but it could not eradicate its antithesis, only combat it.

                And in Erathai, in the High King’s castle of Tyn Ianett, the High King himself

sits bolt upright with his hand at his chest and his breath bursting from him in hissing gasps. His hair and beard were a frantic, sweaty tangle. For the second time that turn, he had dreamt of his people clutching at his robes, only they are torn and tattered and the people are withered ghouls baring teeth through mouths pulled taut with desiccation. Beyond and all around him was the presence of a single malevolent horror that had no name.

As he leaned forward in a bed that had yet to find a queen, he calmed and reasoned. They seemed only dreams and he would repeat this to himself until he nearly believed it, but in his heart, he knew something moved in the world beyond what he could see with his eyes...

                …Something that had to be stopped.

 

Chapter 2

 

                Grannith, the god of earth and stone, is said to be not a golem of rock and dirt, but actually a rather plain looking fellow of young years whose eyes suggest a strength much beyond what his arms would suggest. Piecing together the legends of his origin, it seems he was the lone son of a farmer who had lost his wife and children only to succumb to sickness himself. His son, the boy who would be the god of earth, simply and quietly took on the monumental task of managing his father’s lands when selling them off would have seen him well off for the rest of his years. Some, like he, measure wealth in weights other than coin. Ummon, moved by the boy’s humility and determination offered the power of a god to him. The boy found the tasks of such a role enticing and accepted.

                His power is literally wherever there is earth in any of its forms. He is almost always underfoot and bestows some of the greatest challenges a mortal can face in the traverse of a mountain or the descent of a great canyon. Worshippers of this god remind us that even the most steadfast of us dream and doubt at times, only to stand triumphant when nothing more than resolve remains.

                He represents more than the stone and earth beneath one’s feet. He embodies the unrelenting, unwavering determination of the just and true, especially when a being of virtue holds to such beliefs when all else has fallen to ruin.

 

                King Merrett – Good King Merrett as he had been known for years – gazed

out of the open window of his stronghold that overlooked the outskirts of some tiny

farming village the name of which escaped him. The room he was in was sparsely

furnished, which was how he liked it. Of all the things of his station, what he abhorred the most was all the glittering foppery. In this blocky, foreboding structure of stone and iron, he found peace in simplicity.

                There was a large table in front of him and two pairs of chairs, all of which

were utilitarian in appearance and usage. A small end table topped with a bronze

sculpture of Ummon’s uplifted palms filled one corner of the room, and there was a

single large, paneless window on the east side, with its thick oak shutter swung open.

It was through this window the King looked.

                Not that there was anything particularly remarkable to see. The scene was one of typical east Erathian countryside: gentle rolling green populated by gossiping clutches of poplar and ewen trees. Far below where he stood, a small farming community from the village toiled away on a collection of community crops, no doubt enjoying the unusually warm Sanguinneth day. This time last year, when the season’s red leaves and smoky winds spoke only of the cold days of Surcease around the corner, the townspeople would be frantically tilling the soil for any last scraps from the planting season’s banquet. Today they milled about happily, greeting each other with warm words and many wishes of good fortune and bountiful harvest. He sternly recalled the events of his nightmares, causing icy fear to run through his stomach at the sight of their blameless lives. They seemed suddenly so very vulnerable.

                The not-very-tall, not-very-handsome king ran aging fingers through hair that was swiftly becoming not-very-thick. He stared long and hard at his poor ill-informed people, and then turned abruptly from the window as his nightmares came rushing back to the forefront of his mind where they were very unwelcome.

                “What?” King Merrett asked the tall, hawkish man behind him once again. It

was more greeting than question.

                The man said, “Twenty individual daggers worth of soldiers.” Without prompting from his king, who would have given pause over such a computation, he added, “A total of eighty men.”

                The King strode with his hands clasped behind his back, his casual robe of

gold trimmed navy rustling with every step. “How long has this been happening?”

                The tall, lean man looked to be in his early fifties. He had a grayed widow’s

peak seated high on a rounded forehead, and a long, thin, bird like nose arched over a

mouth that seemed to be crooked in a permanent scowl. Othis, was King Merrett's oldest

and most trusted advisor.

He had gently taken the king into his tutelage when he was a young lad, wide-eyed and terrified. He had schooled him in politics, etiquette, history, and warfare. He had been astounded by the young man’s quick wit and ability to function under unimaginable duress, but he had been even more impressed by young Merrett’s kind heart and selfless character. There had been no reason for him to be so. He simply was. It was for this reason alone that Othis had taken extra care to bend his mind and resources to hone and sharpen this young man into a benevolent and brilliant monarch. He had not been disappointed. At the moment, though, he was attempting to assuage his temper and impatience, two traits with which Good King Merrett was also well-stocked.

He inclined his hawk face toward a slightly yellowed sheet of parchment in his hands. “For approximately four turns, Sire. The Sword Commander –”

                King Merrett exploded, and his face flushed crimson. “– Is a doddering twit

who should have his head divorced from his neck!” He threw his hands in the air in

exasperation, and began walking in furious circles. “How do I do it, Othis? No matter

what I try, no matter what I think, no matter what I do, how is it that brain-optional

turnips keep ending up in charge of my military?”

                Amazingly, Othis’ lips curved even further downward in a flustered frown at

the king’s outburst. “Sire...”

                Merrett slumped into a large chair near the same window, his gaze once again settling on the hard working, innocent backs of his people. “How is it that I ever won a war?” He muttered mostly to himself, bitterly reminding himself that some of the most brilliant military tacticians in the kingdom were under his command. At the moment, though, he just wanted to be angry and do away with reason.

                Othis cleared his throat. “These incidents appear to be concentrated in the South. The Sword Commander understandably…” King Merrett glared briefly at him, “…believed that he could contain it. Unfortunately for him, it quickly became more than trivial, and he feared looking incompetent by coming to you for help so long after the problems had appeared.”

                The King grumbled. Othis cleared his throat again and continued. “Our spies

to the north in Margas Enudd report no such conflicts, and ambassadors in the western kingdoms recently returned, stating the same. Whatever these ‘occurrences’ may be, they seem to be contained in southeastern Hildegoth.”

                “Which are, of course, my lands.”

                “Yes Sire... as are the rest.”

                “Were there any witnesses? Who or what attacked these men?”

                The High Advisor’s features pinched for a moment. “There were several

witnesses, seeing that these daggers often guarded caravans and such. When they were attacked, they, more often than not, fled. Half of the time they were not swift enough and were killed along with the dagger, but the half that escaped returned with... well, returned with accounts of the incidents that were, ah, a bit difficult to absorb at first.”

                The King’s thin brow dented above his nose. “Yes? Well, out with it!”

                Othis shrugged and continued. “Several of the daggers fell to packs of garulls that hid in the southeastern woods. When the caravan and dagger would get too close, the things would charge the dagger, kill them, and then attack the caravan if they were dim enough to hang about.”

                King Merrett leaned forward on his knees, an incredulous look on his face. “There has not been a reported attack by garulls on a heavily trafficked road for years. Were they starving?”

                Othis shook his head once. “I do not believe so, Sire. They attacked swiftly and viciously, but left the corpses to rot in the open air. None of them were consumed.”

                Merrett unconsciously slapped a palm on his thigh. “That’s ridiculous, Othis.

Garulls have hardly more wit than a dull spoon, but they know better than to leave perfectly good food to waste away.”

                “Under normal circumstances Sire, I would tend to agree. However, these

circumstances can hardly be called 'normal'. The next few reports will no doubt lend a

bit of credence to this.”

                The King paused, and then bade him continue.

                “Other witnesses claim that they saw four ogres assault and kill several daggers in broad daylight with swords and armor. Of poor construction and badly in need of repair, but swords and armor nonetheless.”

                Ogres are night creatures, and were only seen as other than solitary when they were making their relative efforts to propagate their race – something most tried to avoid seeing. Furthermore, if they ever carried weapons, it was always either a large rock, or a large club. Sometimes, a genius amongst their kind would learn how to cap a few of their clubs with this metal culled from any number of sources. But they never, ever wore actual armor other than hides, or stolen bits of dead victims clothing poorly sewn together. They were simply too stupid and too arrogant as a race to resort to such things. The very image of an ogre armed with a sword was too disturbing to even contemplate, much less with three of its smelly brethren at its side. Merrett made no attempt to hide his shock at Othis’ words.

                “I can’t accept that,” He murmured.

                “Nor, at first, could I, but several completely unrelated sources corroborated the same stories. A quartet of ogres, both armed and armored, charged from a canyon and slaughtered the dagger and virtually all of the party under their protection until they finally fell behind the horses.”

                Ogres can match an average horse’s speed, though usually only for a few

seconds. Those few seconds, though, when put to good use by a twelve-foot tall, eight-foot wide monster swinging a ten-foot club, (or in this case a sword, gods help

their souls) could seem very, very long indeed.

                “As improbable as it may appear, Sire, I believe these accounts to be accurate. If you look at them each objectively and observe all of the facts, you will most likely agree as well.”

                “Explain.”

                “First of all, there is the dis-relation yet similarity of the reports. Some were told by small groups of survivors, who, though not appearing to be unduly bright, had their stories down perfectly, to each detail, without hesitation. Most were by sole survivors who related startlingly similar information with their own separate but identical experiences. These survivors did not know each other. Secondly, you could feel the fear spilling out their eyes as well as their mouths when they recalled these events.” He closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. “Trained actors could not simulate such emotion, my king. Thirdly, and most prominently, however, is that none of them had a single thing to gain by spreading lies of this nature. Nothing, that is, except a fine and sixty days in prison for falsifying information detrimental to the public peace.”

                “And what of some plot by our enemies? We have known peace since the Garull Wars, yet there are certainly circles that would want to see us pained. Westenmarsh, to name one, is not precisely our sternest supporter.”

                Othis inclined his head, granting the point. “A possibility Sire, yet it would be both an unconventional and improbable scheme. How could they accomplish such?

Warricking has its merits, but the ability needed to realize these deeds is both extreme in power and obscurity.” He paused, and the real concern he had been carefully veiling slipped through his features. “I have some knowledge of these schools, and I have never heard of such a practice in theory nor application.” He spread his hands briefly. “It seems of remote likelihood at best, my king. And these people, who have laid these tales of horror at our feet, have not shown the telltale improvement in lifestyle due to bribes nor have those agents attached to their heels reported anyone out of the ordinary contacting them.”

                Merrett had to acknowledge Othis’ seamless logic, despite his difficulty in doing so. He reclined in his chair, a pair of fingers thoughtfully stroking his lips.

                “Have someone get word to Canthus. I want him here within a turn.” The King proclaimed.

                Othis bowed without a word and left the room.

 

~*~

 

                A man sat astride a massive warhorse, his graying hair lifting every now and Then to a brief touch of wind. A cloak of travel-stained burgundy fell off his shoulders, revealing a set of thick, tanned arms cross-hatched with scars. He wore cracked and worn leather across his chest that had darkened with age to somewhere between black and crimson. At the rear of his saddle was an oddly shaped weapon: a black handle topped with a smooth sphere the size of a man’s head that gleamed like silver. Other than a small pack tucked behind his saddle, he had nothing else. He had no home, nor a place to call his own other than where he laid his head. It was not necessarily a good life, but it was one that suited him.

                He was watching a pair of children play in the field that began at the base of

the hill upon which he and his horse stood, and stretched East for miles to the mountains. To the West lay the tip of the dark and beautiful expanse of Graydon’s Wood. Two turns at a swift ride further in that direction would find you in the coastal city of Fremett. Facing the opposite direction, a thousand miles and more to the East lay the capital city of Tyniar, home to Good King What’s-His-Name. He had stopped keeping track of their monikers shortly after the bloody and disappointing reign of the last king, Uredd the Red, ended. He had met him once and he seemed all right yet clearly was not. Ah well. You never really know. Even after so many years.

                The children (a brother and sister) danced and raced and chased and tackled and tickled each other in the wild abandon that many who have passed up childhood long for after a time, but can never recover. Even those with minds unfettered by the dreary boundaries of adulthood who could run out and join them in their frolicking would realize that something has been lost with the advent of this adulthood, something that cannot be replaced – only observed and missed.

                Little did the boy and girl know, but three decades previously, one of the last

battles of the Garull Wars were fought at this very spot. Three hundred of the deadliest warriors of the High King’s elite forces, the Garulokai, squared off against nearly a thousand of the infernal creatures. Though each warrior had to fell three garulls to win the day, they stood fast and fought well. The skirmish lasted two days and two nights and every living thing but the two armies fled from the field. Not even vultures could be seen.

It was a horrendous rending, slashing, crushing exchange of primal forces that flattened the grass with corpses and blood. In the end, not a solitary garull was left alive. Even the ones fleeing to the woods were hunted down and extinguished. They had lost only twenty men. It was the memory of this battle that had drawn the old man, who had been wandering the countryside for a season, to this site. He smiled, not because of glory or wealth or bloodlust, but because he had been among the victors. He was among those who could recall what it felt like to stand back to back with some of the finest men and mankindred ever to lift blade, axe or hammer, especially the sword commander. He was the finest of all. He wondered if he was still alive.

                His thoughts drifting thus, he did not at first pay much heed when he saw the Boy trip over something unseen in the grass. He leaned over and pulled whatever it was out of the ground. His sister stood by, interested in what her brother had found. The old man, his attention shifting back to the pair when they stopped moving about, focused on what the boy had unearthed.

                It was two feet long and rusted to virtually nothing, but its identity was still easily apparent, even from so far away. The boy had found a broken short sword, no doubt a blade that slipped from lifeless fingers thirty years ago. Quite suddenly, the old man’s pleasant reminiscing was quelled and replaced with slowly boiling anger, and all thoughts of old comrades and victory over a relentless foe melted away.

                Patriotism and defending what is right, (whatever the hells that meant) aside, in the old man’s experience war tended to have more darkness to it than light. In his long years, wherever he fought or for what reason, its indelible aftermath would remain long after the last of its generation had gone to dust and bones. Whether locked away in a moldering trunk in the cellars of history, the minds of old generals or carelessly left in a child’s playground, war would forever leave its iron footprint, and beneath that footprint were dead people.

No matter the nobility, atrocity, or neutrality, in wars, people die. Good or evil, they are snuffed out. Ended unnaturally. Some would say that good’s sacrifice is evil’s demise, but you can never completely smother it. Good will always be here to defend the innocent and thwart evil’s heinous ambitions, and evil will always be here to ensure good’s future employment. Thus, war’s inevitable place will be in the coming chapters of the future, as it already dwells in the bloody volumes of the past, regardless of where they are shelved.

                Some would also say that war and justice can go hand in hand, and perhaps they

can, but the old warrior felt that the only thing blinder than justice is war. Despite any noble intentions, the innocent and the blameless will not only find themselves sucked into its groping, eyeless maw, they are often the first to be consumed, even children. It would seem a point of no contention that children should always be left out of the grim toils of battle, but, of course, they are not. In many ways they find themselves in the grips of it long after everyone else manages to slip free, from fatherless daughters to this young boy happening across a weapon he should never have the cause to see nor use.

                The old warrior turned his horse abruptly away, his quiet musings at the Children’s antics shattered and replaced with memories, that, as it turns out, he could long since do without. As he spurred the horse to a gallop, he could hear them laughing at their newfound toy.

 

Chapter 3

 

                Zephris was once a young woman who had chosen to take her own life only to seemingly and inexplicably walk away from this choice at the last moment. She talked to people who were not there, hardly wore clothes and then only a large sac with holes cut in it, and claimed that wild animals were actually distant kin. All of this was a ruse to make her family believe that she was mad so they could not marry her away against her wishes. Ummon, in wisdom and vision, saw the good spirit in her through her brilliant trickery, and offered her the mantle of the goddess of wind. She accepted readily.

                She is one of the most ill-interpreted gods of Ummon’s pantheon. Taken to be a deity of ephemeral emotion and unfounded intent, Zephris has been embraced by the flighty and aimless only to be disappointed by their deity again and again, wondering what it is that they had done to offend her. What they had actually done was grossly misunderstand their goddess. Zephris’ greatest strength is her ambiguity and underestimation. The wind, though apparently random and without purpose truly has many: the pushing of the seasons, the currents on which birds fly and ships sail, and the carrier of the weather, among others. True believers of this goddess are masters of misinterpretation and often are mistaken for dullards or haphazard souls wandering through life, when their true aims may only become apparent when they are intentionally revealed.

 

                Jerom was a prostitute. He had always been a prostitute. He could not remember his mother or father, or any siblings. Indeed, his earliest recollections were of whoring himself to whomever would pay for his amateur services. Of course, back then his youth was all the selling point he needed. Grown men and women lusted after his unsullied appearance in ways too terrible to mention, much less recall. Now in his twenties, the innocence of childhood had been replaced with the skills of one accustomed to years of honing his trade.

                Once, years ago, he had watched inwardly as the last light of goodness faded from his heart. He was not even fifteen years old, yet life on the docks of Fremett had sucked it all away. There was no single event, no isolated traumatic experience that stood out in the life of a young boy who sold his flesh on the streets that had snuffed this final spark. It was more like a constant draining that had finally drawn its last drop from him. He had given up loving anyone but himself. It seemed the only way he could survive.

                Now, ten or so years later, the hole that had one time held the potential for

goodness, hope, and love, had been deluged to overflowing with hatred, greed, and

arrogance. He had opened his heart to it, found its taste and presence nearly as sweet as the coin his services would accrue, and reveled in the twisted bliss such an existence provided.

                Tonight, he had crowned himself anew. He had murdered someone.

She was a pretty young thing, new to the oldest trade. A prospective client,

deciding his fancy for the evening, had nearly been hooked by Jerom’s silver tongue when the man’s eyes had fallen on the taut hardness of her pale thighs and the clench of her breasts as they pleasantly filled her bodice. The prospect had instantly lost interest in Jerom.

                She had not even intended the theft. She had just been passing by when the

gentleman spied her. But, theft it was to Jerom. After all, she had not refused his advances, did she? She could have just as easily made up some excuse, seeing clearly that Jerom had nearly closed the dark, unspoken contract between hooker and hookee, and been on her way. She had not done this of course, and it was just as if she had picked his pocket, as far as he was concerned. He refused to inwardly acknowledge the fact that he had stolen hundreds of prospects from the other prostitutes that lounged about the docks. Such admission would only cloud his judgment with doubt.

                So, he killed her. He waited for her to head to the washroom of a nearby inn,

pulled her by the throat into an alleyway that no street torch would illuminate, and shoved a long, thick wooden splinter into the base of her skull. She quivered and gurgled, then lay still. He then laid a small sign that read, “Complimentary” on her chest. He giggled when he looked at her corpse, with its wide eyes and open mouth. He was not certain why he made the sign. It had just felt appropriately disrespectful, a proper hawk and spit on her grave. He stood but then nearly fell over as a wave of euphoria tore through him. This was far better than any coupling. It was spiritual and mental in nature, a climax that could only be brought on by the ultimate power one creature could have over another: the power of taking life.

                She was found the following morning. No one could imagine why she was killed. She tended to bring a great deal of business into the docks, business that could always find a bedmate. A jealous ex-lover was the general murmured consensus. Jerom found that the will power needed to keep from laughing when he heard these things was nearly beyond him, but he managed to control himself.

                The next few days he did not accept any invitations from his clients, though

some of them begged for his company. He paid them no heed. He had plenty of hoarded wealth to live on, and plenty of time to brood over his sudden voracious appetite for blood.  One simple murder and he was hopelessly addicted. He needed to kill again, or he would go mad. His ability to bury himself in denial again saved him, this time from the notion that the desire to kill for the sheer pleasure of the act made one mad already.

                He spent that night in the modest accommodations of his suite near the docks. As he slept, he dreamt. He dreamt of hordes of men, women, and children falling before him as he tore them to pieces and devoured them. He heard and saw them plead for their lives, and they were like the surrendering gasps of reluctant lovers. Sometimes he would see himself pause and consider their words, causing a brief flicker of hope in their wavering gaze, only to make their grisly deaths that much sweeter as he ripped them apart and swallowed their flesh whole. As he committed these acts, he was wrapped in an undulating current of ecstasy that would build as they begged, peak as he destroyed their bodies, and wash away as they were eaten, only to build again as he snatched at more innocent souls.

                He writhed between the sheets, and then awoke suddenly. He was drenched with sweat, and he shuddered as a cool wind blew through a nearby window and pulled the moisture from his skin. He immediately dismissed away his thoughts as a dream, a wonderfully erotic dream of sensual death, when a soft, gentle voice touched his mind.

                “Yes, it was a dream. But it need not be.”

He held his breath as fear grabbed at his chest like a drowning child. He could not speak, but it seemed that speech was not necessary.             

“Do not be afraid. I have been searching for one such as you, one who derives such pleasure from such pain.”

                He nodded. He also fully admitted that he had lost his mind. He found the idea soothing, somehow.

                “Forget who you are, and who you were. Open yourself to me. Let me in. Such intrusion is nothing new to you, is it not?”

                He shook his head. No, this was nothing new at all. He sensed a dark presence prod at his soul. It was soft and gentle, like a kind lover who felt no need to injure him with his attentions. Insistent but not cruel. So, he relaxed. Something horrible and vast and foul filled him. It was like sucking in a chest full of boiling sewage. It fought with his mind, and then brutally tore it away.

                Much like the girl Jerom had dispatched, he quivered and gurgled, and lay still. His second to last sentient moment was of looking down at a filthy alleyway as someone shoved something sharp and wooden into the back of his head. He was living her death. His last thought was the realization that he did not even know her name.

                His soul was ripped from its seat and hurled towards the Hells where all manner of demons and their underlings awaited it gasping with delight and surprise. His mind was simply blanked, turned into an unmarred surface upon which a new library of thought would be etched, a library so removed from humanity and its ilk that anyone who knew of its origins would be astounded that it was birthed by it. That night Jerom died, and was replaced by something else, something that prowled the docks as before, but for a much larger and permanent clientele.

 

~*~

 

                A few days passed as the Sun and his pale sister changed hands at the table.

Morning had been crisp and damp, and had soon bloomed into a beautiful day. As

afternoon crept over the woods and deepened the palette of the fields, the children had

adopted an entirely new way to spend their play. Hide and seek and trap the goblin were no longer amongst their frolicking. Now, swordplay and wheat field conquests filled these delicate hours.

                Again, the grizzled fighter watched them, though he was at a loss as to why.

He no longer smiled. He no longer felt a desire to be young again, for the spectacle before him only reminded him of the atrocities of his youth. So many days drenched in blood. So many friends lost on the point of a blade, or torn open on the cruel barbs of a crossbow bolt. So many nights he wondered how many he would send to the ground the next day, and if one of them would send him. So many mornings greeted by the foul stench of the dead and the sticky fly encrusted bandages of the wounded. To this day, he harbored no great love for breakfast. To him, the beginning of a new day only brought an iron sledge down to shatter the dreams of peace and fellowship he had had the night before. Every night he would whisk himself away to some distant, benign place where no pain or death could touch him or anyone else. Every morning he opened his eyes and saw these fleeting visions smashed and swept away. Dawn merely meant that someone had an entire day to kill you. As the day bled away, it ended wherever you were able to rest a gore-smeared head on the lumpy, sodden folds of a traveling blanket.

                He tugged himself back to reality. The boy, a thin whip of a lad with a cap of

brown curls, had managed to dig up the iron circle of a shield, its wooden slats long gone to rot, and a rusted swatch of chain mail that he wore as a cowl, to complement the ruin of a short sword he carried at his waist. The girl, also thin but sporting a length of red curls down her back, had un-entombed an unstrung crossbow, and had fitted a crooked stick to its rusted draw. She was now pantomiming shooting her brother in the back.

                The old man closed his eyes, and tried to think back to something, anything about the war that he could find comforting. The victory? No, there had been far too much sacrifice for the victory to mean anything to anybody, except those who had not

spilled their blood on the trampled track of a battle. The thrill of the battle itself then?

His breath caught in a brief chuckle as he marveled at the very thought of considering

this notion. There was no thrill for him. The closest he ever managed was when he had been able to ward off a lethal strike he could see coming towards a friendly back. The shock on their faces as they realized what had nearly happened, followed by the always subtle nod of thanks brought something along the way of a thrill to him, but the berserker

sentiment that merely being in a bloodbath and hacking your way through it was the

epitome of excitement? This was simply not like him. He did not look down on those who felt otherwise, but neither could he find himself comfortable in sharing a watch

with a warrior of such tendencies. Death’s dogs had a knack for following at their boot heels.

                The old solder shook his head, batting away the thoughts like gossamer gnats. Little about death was worth remembering. He was amazed by his own naivete that he would expect little else by revisiting a place of such slaughter. He felt a sudden urge to turn his mount away and head somewhere where children had not yet been invented, when a soft tickle at the back of his neck stayed his reins. It was so slight, so gentle, almost imperceptible. A breath of sensation. He knew this sensation all too well.

                His eyes flashed to the children. No, they were utterly alone, mock slashing and feinting in an effort to theatrically disembowel one another. Though he knew it was not from where it would come, he glanced behind him. He tested the wind with his sensitive and trained nose: nothing. Where in the hells was it? He passed his gaze west several hundred yards, where the thick trees of Graydon’s Wood stood their ground. He suddenly felt his skin go cold. His eyes froze on a leafy entrance into those woods, where six men could walk through abreast. It was as clear as a diamond at the bottom of a still pond. The danger came from there.

                He looked back at the children. Should he call out to them? No. The two of them seeing his huge frame straddling the even larger frame of his horse would most likely just drive them toward the nearest haven they could find, which would be the very forest from which they needed to flee. He could not summon help either, for the town the children lived in was more than a mile away. Not very far, but far enough for them to be long dead when he returned with whatever help he could muster. As he furiously assaulted his mind with possibilities, they both stopped playing, and looked right at him. The little boy glanced quickly at his sister, then back to him. The little girl turned towards her brother and said something to which he quickly agreed. Without further hesitation, they both raised their weapons, and charged straight for him.

                Though alarmed at their lack of good judgment, the old man could not help but feel relief. Their playful “attack,” as it were, took them almost directly away from the woods. He could see their little faces: the boy’s mouth in a smiling war cry, the girl

giggling loudly enough for him to hear though they were still a quarter mile away.

Then, something came out of the woods.

                It shambled forward on powerful legs cabled with wiry muscle, its long, spindly arms brought up at the elbows so the wicked claws affixed at the ends of its knobby fingers would not drag in the dirt. The head was more mouth than anything else, and this mouth was filled with huge conical teeth created specifically for ripping flesh from bone. A pair of bright yellow eyes peered feverishly from concave sockets, and a mangled lock of black mane ran from between the pointed ears on top of its head to nearly its tailbone. Its skin was mottled brown and green, armored with bony knobs on every joint and virtually encrusting its spine and shoulders. JaBrawn’s eyes widened and his jaw clenched in shock. It had been thirty long years since he had seen this creature, one of a species that he had surely thought driven to extinction, yet here one was. It was a garull, and it was almost certainly not alone.

                Like a trackhound, JaBrawn searched the air again with his nose. He could find nothing other than the mild tang of the afternoon and the distant scent of the children. He could not tell how many more there were, but one was too many.

It lifted its stubby nose and tested the wind as JaBrawn had, though it was

seeking the scent of the succulent flesh it had detected moments earlier. Extended this way, the garull was half again as tall as a man. Moving its broad head in slow passes from left to right, it seemed unable to locate them. Then the wind shifted, and the scent flew into its nostrils. The smell nearly driving it mad, the creature howled a horrible, keening wail and, in a stooped gallop, charged with nightmarish speed towards the children. As if a hellish cage of them had suddenly overturned and spilled its contents, another half dozen of the things appeared from the woods and took off after it, their murderous appendages rending the ground beneath them.

                Yes, there definitely was more than one of them.

                The old man knew what would happen if he engaged the monsters. He knew how it would slow the gears of time for him and even begin to wind them backward, and this saddened him. He had grown so tired, so worn out, that he truly wanted somewhere quiet and peaceful to pass the rest of his years, somewhere where his past was simply that, and was locked away safely in his mind and seen only in dreams. Fate, however, shook the stillness of his solitude as it had so many times before.

There was no choice to be made here. The children had to be protected. Without a further thought he urged his old warhorse forward, the gigantic beast’s hooves gouging the ground as best as any of the monsters.

                The brother and sister stopped in their tracks, frozen with shock. From their innocent perspective, their prospective playmate had turned from a quiet, if somewhat uncomfortably large, old man into a raging bear thundering down the hill.

The old soldier careened past them, his passage whipping their hair about and leaving them stupefied and in wonder. Reaching behind him, the old man unhitched his mace, Silvermoon, from her perch on his saddle. The giant gleaming sphere hummed through the air atop its handle, sending a pleasant tingle through his hand despite the situation. The nearest garull, entirely unperturbed by the newcomer, turned towards the old man and charged, opening its gruesome hands into barbed fans. As the distance between the two whittled away to a few dozen feet, the warrior, leaning forward in his saddle, extended his weapon hand to his right, and Silvermoon’s handle jumped from two feet in length to five. Not comprehending the difference, the garull leapt an impossible distance into the air, intending to rend horse and rider alike.

                Blurring in a half circle, the enwarred mace struck the creature from below with horrible force, splitting its breastbone and almost dislodging its head. When the monster impacted the ground several yards away, it was dead.

                Pulling hard on the reins and veering to the right, the silvered veteran forced the remaining creatures to turn from a column six strong into a diagonal line one deep. Straightening out while closing in on the outermost garull, he brought his weapon up in a pillar of shimmering metal, smashing the thing under its chin. Its head snapped back with the brutal attack, and ended up looking behind itself, inverted. The one after that slashed through the air with it claws only to have its blow immovably blocked. Its arm splintered into several dozen pieces, causing it to yowl with pain. A fierce jab with the mace folded its skull in half, the inners of its brain erupting from eyes and ears. Twitching, it flopped to the ground.

The old warrior reined in his horse again, awaiting the actions of the remaining garulls. He was not even breathing hard. Though the creatures had the natural cunning shared by all predators, he also knew that they were as stupid as they were vicious – and they were very vicious.

                The remaining four broke into pairs, attempting to flank him and get to his rear.

This was what he expected, as senses honed by decades of fighting predicted their strike, and when they did, he spurred his mount towards to the right, the only gap in their noose.

                Though he did want them to be extremely close for his next maneuver, he admitted to himself that he had not expected any of them to crash into each other as the two in the rear did. They tumbled to the ground in a ripping, roaring tangle of armored limbs and snapping teeth. Shaking his head just slightly as thousands of memories idly poked at his mind about just how witless and ruthless garulls were, he raised Silvermoon over his head and, bidding her to return to him, flung it at the creature nearest him on the left.

                Like a stone cast by a god, Silvermoon streaked through the air and took its head completely off, disintegrating it like a puffed dandelion. The weapon continued on through the upper chest of the garull behind that one, sundering its torso. Though

appearing to have exhausted its attack, the gleaming mace amazingly reversed itself

and returned to the old soldier’s outstretched hand. He smiled grimly.

                It was unlikely that the two creatures who were once again upright could feel

outrage, as they were more animal than anything else, but the manner in which they launched themselves at him seemed to be fueled more by rage than anything else.

                Like a man swatting away cats, the old man brushed the creatures cruelly to the ground. The one that absorbed most of the impact had its lungs and several of its ribs crushed, and died in agonized helplessness in the grass. The other was more stunned than anything else. It stood to engage the warrior yet again. Before it reached its full height however, its head suddenly sported the ugly and very distinct impression of a horseshoe above its eyes. Dropping like a stone, the garull joined its cooling mate in the grass, the thick green blood of its kind oozing out its ears.

The old man yanked on the reins, pulling Grendel in a short, harsh circle. He  took deep cleansing breaths of the changing wind in through his nose, trying to find something other than blood and death and battle in the air’s fingers.

                There was none. Smiling grimly to himself, the old man patted the horse’s broad, scarred neck.

                “Thank you, Grendel.” The horse nickered a response. “Yes, that was a foolish attack. You could have seen it coming a mile away.” The response was a grunting whinny. The irritation was quite clear. “Of course. You did see it coming a mile away.”

                He pulled a rag from his meager saddlebags, and wiped the gore from Silvermoon’s unmarred surface and ebony handle. After a quick word of gratitude to his weapon, he returned her to her place behind him and reined Grendel back towards the hill, ready to leave the children to the gods’ devices, whatever they may be.

                “You can talk to animals?” asked a thin, reedy voice.

                Hesitation gripped him. He should not answer. He should nudge Grendel into a canter, then a trot, and then open into a gallop when he was far enough away. That would be the good decision – the wise decision. Every time he involved himself in the doings of the mundane world, he found himself regretting it immediately after. He had done his good deed, and it was now time to remove himself.

                Instead, he looked behind him. The question had come from the little girl, her eyes squinting up at him. Her brother stood to her side, an identical look on his face. They were apparently unmoved by the gruesome spectacle they must have surely witnessed, nor by the grisly corpses now littering the field. Old garull blood wetted with new.

                More stunned by their complacent demeanor than with the brutal slayings he had just rendered, the old man blinked at them. “What?” he asked.

                “We saw you talking to your horse. Can he understand you?”

                He became quite irritated. “Yes, he understands me. What are your names, and why are you so far from home?”

                As unperturbed with his manner as they were with the battle, the girl answered the first question. “Wendonel,” she said clearly. She gestured towards her brother. “Favius. And we were playing.”

                Again, he balked. “Do your parents know where you are?”

                Wendonel shrugged. “I doubt our father knows where we are, but he wouldn’t mind if he did.” She bit her lip slightly. “Well, not very much anyway. He knows we’re not dumb.”

                The boy nodded his compliance. The warrior shook his head. “If I were your

father...” and then caught his tongue. They were, after all, just children, and the language he was about to loose on them would have been construed by most as inappropriate. “Let us just say you’d be sleeping on your stomachs for some time.”

                They did not seem to fathom what he was implying. “Our father knows we can take care of each other,” she said. “He really has had no choice since our mother died. With his work at the town hall taking up a lot of his day, he is hardly ever home.”

                His countenance softened slightly at her words. “What does your father do,

little one?”

                “Don’t call me that! And as for what he does, well, he is one of the town

Magistrate’s personal guardsmen.” She puffed up slightly as she pronounced this.

                The old man sighed. Protecting some bloated self-important minnow in a

puddle of a town surrounded by sea serpents would leave little time to raise younglings. “When do you expect him back?”

                The little girl shrugged. “He usually stops by our cottage on Thirday, but sometimes he shows up out of nowhere.” She beamed with a smile. “Last time he stayed home for almost two days!”

                His visage reverted, as Thirday was nearly an entire turn away. “Who cares for you while he is away?”

                Wendonel glanced at her brother, a quick sparkle of pride in her eyes. “We take care of each other!” She said, repeating an earlier statement, but with entirely new emphasis.

                He sat back in his saddle with a resigned grunt. The way children were being

raised these days was completely baffling to him. Wendonel hardly looked out of her tenth year, her brother one less than that. Children of such tender age should not be left completely unattended for a handful of hours, much less days at a time.

                “How long has he been away?” he asked, fearing the answer.

                “Only half a turn this time. He brought me a new pouch the last time he visited,” and she patted a furred herb pouch hanging from the bit of rope she was using for a belt.

                The grizzled man’s patience fractured. “Five days?”

                The girl gave her now characteristic shrug. “That’s just how it is. He works often and sees us rarely. Thank you for saving our lives, by the way.” Favius enthusiastically nodded his assent.

                The child was snapping his mind back and forth like a mancat worrying a snake. After looking at her for a few moments, he finally replied. “You’re welcome.”

She smiled and returned his look. “You look different,” she said.

                His brow furrowed. “Different from when? You’ve never seen me before.”

                She nodded. “Yes we have. You’ve been watching us play every now and then for a few days now. It made us feel safe. And you look different now than you did then.”

                He believed that he should still be angry, but the emotion would not return. He simply answered her smile with his distinctive half-twitch variety. He leaned over his saddle, his hands crossed at the wrist over the horn. “I do, do I?”

She and her brother nodded and beamed at him. “You look kind of younger.

Your hair is browner, and your face is smoother.”

He nodded. “Yes. Fighting does that with my kind.”

This time her little brow furrowed. “What kind are you?”

“Never mind about that,” and he extended his hand to help them up to Grendel’s massive back. They grasped his fingers and took their proffered spots behind him without a moment’s hesitation. If the mean old horse noticed the added weight, he gave no sign of it. Favius was grinning ear to ear, looking in all directions. He was obviously very excited.

                “I know, Favius! Fun, huh!” Wendonel said through a smile. Favius vigorously nodded his agreement.

                The old man looked back at him. “Does he talk at all?”

                She shook her head. “Not since Mum died. And this is his first time on a horse. Father has his own, but he’s the only one who rides her.”

                He again felt a pang in his heart, as he further understood their odd and unfortunate plight. Their father was away all the time trying to keep food in their bellies, with no mother to care for them during his absence. He reached down into himself to try and find some thoughts of comfort with which to console her, but could only discover painful memories of his past. He had never been that skilled with words to begin with, and decided to keep his tongue silent lest he hurt them further or make a fool of himself. He faced forward, and talked Grendel into a quick trot.

                Wendonel tapped him on his broad shoulder. “What’s your name?”

                The man turned to look at her, her pixie-like features, now much closer, were

at once tiny and helpless looking, yet defiant and full of spirit. “My name is JaBrawn.

JaBrawn Marshada.” And his mouth quirked into his half-smile again.

                She turned away slightly and nodded, as if he had answered the question correctly. Then, looking back at him as he turned forward again, she said, “You know,

you should try smiling all the way. It might make you all the way happy.”

                His face frozen for lack of reply, JaBrawn locked his eyes on the path before

them, stumped yet again. He swore that that would be the last time he would be taken

by surprise by the little brat.

                However, there was a bit of a ride back to town.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 4

 

                The goddess of death was once a teacher. Unable to have children of her own, she instead spent her life showing children the first few real steps to take in life up until the day of her death. Ummon reasoned that someone as well-versed as she in the simple intricacies of life would be the perfect goddess of death, Cessara. Not a cold, heartless specter who reminds us with an empty socketed glare that we will all someday be maggot fodder, but a gentle guide to show us where life leads after it ends.

 

                A slurred, harsh lisp split the air.

                “Well, lookee here! It’s Jerom! The scummiest rat tha’ ever slept in its own

filth! How many sailors have ‘ya peddled yerself to lately, Jerry-boy?”

                The grubby blacksmith’s comments raised a raucous slew of laughter from his drunken tablemates. Jerom, standing just outside the door, sheathed in the skirts of the night and barely visible, merely turned eyes like a pair of needles on them, and smiled. It was a smile that both chided and beckoned. It was not what the blacksmith had been expecting. He instantly sprang to his feet, fists clenched. He was a huge trunk of a man, his arms chorded and bulging from a lifetime of twisting metal into shapes nature never intended.

                “I tolja, ya little freak, I aren’t interested in that skinny ‘lil backside ‘a yers,

unless ‘ya need it beat, eh?”

                The night was overcast and full of muggy anxiety. Nearly midnight, the bar had all but emptied, save for the blacksmith’s table. Jerom had been walking by on a strip of dock on which he had often frequented his wares. The crude man's threat normally would have sent him scurrying for a hole in which to find safety. Instead he stopped and stared at the hulking man. He smiled again and took a step forward without a trace of fear. The blacksmith, unbelieving and enraged with his audacity, drew a wicked looking knife from his belt.

                “What a turn ‘uv events, eh lads? Jerry the spit-licker’s found a spark ‘a man

inside ‘a him that ‘ain’t been buggered out yet,” and he waved the knife in a fluid series of arcs that spoke of a skilled knife fighter.

                His friends laughed and cheered for Jerom to take him on. The blacksmith edged a couple of steps toward the young man. The barkeep, having had too good a day for it to end badly, simply closed off the window that allowed him access to patrons and vanished into the back.

                Jerom watched the man as he moved in measured steps to close the distance

between them. He showed not a trace of fear or anger. In fact his face was still twisted

into a grin. The smith had seen this look before, but could not recall when or where until he was an arm’s length away from him. His appearance then became clear, and was all the more horrible because of this clarity.

                Jerom’s skin was inert and leathery. The black hair on his head was knotted and unkempt. His lips were dry and withered, and he appeared as though he had gone without water for days. The blacksmith was beginning to have doubts about his choice now. Had the little prostitute’s line of work found him with some horrible malady? He looked up at his eyes, wondering if they were glazed with madness, and a terrible fear gripped his belly. The man’s eyes were the only aspect of his form that showed true life. They were lit from within by an unholy light that made them appear as flakes of emerald shot hrough with frozen lightning.

                He suddenly remembered what the condition of Jerom’s body resembled: that of a corpse that had been left to the mercy of the sun. He had seen similar sorts floating in on a schooner that had been caught in a squall in deep waters and broken its main sail. After a few days, the crew had exhausted its supplies of food and water. Hailed and boarded long after the last seaman had perished, the cadavers, far from any carrion eaters, looked like clothed leather skeletons with teeth and shoes. Only this one, now, stepping from the murky shadows, was moving. The smith felt a scream rising from his belly. Jerom smiled once more, his lips splitting far wider than a man’s possibly could, showing black gums and teeth like old bones.

                Like a snapping tether his hand flashed out, knocking the blade from the larger man’s hand and splintering his wrist. Now the smith really did scream, a high – pitched shriek that seemed utterly unmarriable to the man who had produced it. The others stood at the table behind him, looks of confusion and rage painted on their faces.

                Jerom then grasped the smith by his underarms, and quite simply tore the front of the man’s chest off. A bucket’s worth of blood splashed the flooring, and the blacksmith’s eyes rolled into his head. Collapsing like a net loosed from a hook, he fell to the ground.

                The other sailors’ faces quickly melted into terror as they saw the diminutive dock whore standing in the doorway with a broad belt of still dripping human flesh in his hands, grinning from ear to ear. He spread his hands, tearing the piece of meat in two, and spoke to the other men in a voice as smooth and unblemished as a sheet of crystal at the bottom of a spring stream.

                “Would you die?” He asked the others at the table. Their fear locked away any answer they might have had tight in their throats. The monstrosity casually advanced a handful of steps. “Would you die?” again passed its lips.

                The closest of them, a thin and pockmarked seaman let slip a strangled wail of despair and terror as he locked eyes with it. The thing that once was Jerom nodded and held out its hand. The sailor, seemingly against his will, stared at the outstretched fingers that looked like old cowhide and stumbled forward, his own hand reaching out and clasping it. As if sustaining a blow to the face, the filthy man jerked in place, his eyes wide and his features peeled back with fear. Then, like a cloud cloaking the moon, his face relaxed. The other two men, still frozen with shock at the spectacle before them, gaped at their former shipmate. His flesh seemed to wilt as if bathed in great heat, though it did not catch flame. His hair fell in clumps to the floor, and his clothing began to drape over his shrunken form like a large cloak on a small child, and then it contracted to a stretched and wrinkled covering that seemed to barely conceal the form beneath it that it once did naturally. He stood, leaning slightly from side to side, facing Jerom.

                One of the others finally found his voice, choked and stricken thought it was.

“W-what are you? What in the hells are you?!”

                Jerom released its victim’s hand, and both he and the newly formed monstrosity faced the remaining two. The sailor’s eyes were like that of Jerom’s now, sparkling motes of green hate, though not nearly as bright. The hand that had gripped Jerom’s and had changed him thus was a withered claw, dry except for the nails, which dripped an amber fluid. His mouth parted in an obscene smile. With a voice unlike his master’s, a voice like broken pottery scraped across ice, he addressed his former mates.

                “Would you die?”

                They knew then that it was not a warning but an invitation, and that the stick like simulacrum of humanity that had smiled at them with an impossible smile was not Jerom at all.

Passersby were few and drunk, but even these muddled shufflers felt their senses prick and their wits sharpen at the gurgling screams cut short that poured forth from the confines of the foul little tavern.

 

~*~

 

                Several hours later, the diseased flock of followers had grown considerably. They slipped through the shadowy blankets of darkness that lay behind every shop, every inn, every warehouse, and every brothel. Near these establishments were more wasted souls that ripe for the plucking. Each new member was added in the same manner as the one that preceded it, and not one was able to resist his hideous temptation. All fell with equal effort, which was hardly any at all.

                The creatures shambled restlessly yet quietly through the night, embracing more into their grotesque fellowship, killing some outright, and avoiding others. Large groups of armed members were still too mighty to fall easily to their wiles.

                “Soon,” the once-Jerom would croon to them, “soon, my little ones.”

                A few hours before dawn they all went to ground near a reeking stretch of beach where the stench of dead fish and sodden seaweed was strong enough to gag even an old sailor. No one would bother them there. The gathered ones, beyond mortal but still limited, needed rest, but their creator did not. It lay there, eyes parted in the sand, thinking, brooding, and plotting. This was hardly the first shuffle of the first step, but it had finally begun. And the world awaited.

 

 

 

 

~*~

 

                The town was not very large, as he had expected. It lay partially shrouded under the fringes of an old oak forest, though the farmhouses were on relatively flat land near a small river, where pulley systems lifted water from it to their crops. It was a quiet, comforting scene, one with which JaBrawn was nearly alien.

                People stared at him with unabashed curiosity that for some reason bordered on scornful. He sauntered Grendel along, fairly used to the odd looks he and his ugly old horse received, but this seems excessive. He abandoned such thoughts when Wendonel waved and called out by name to some of the townspeople. Mostly her greetings were met with a nervous nod or nothing at all. One even dropped what he was doing and ran to a nearby cottage. So, it was not he who was causing the volatile glares, or, at least, not solely: It was the children as well. It was all very, very odd.

                He asked softly, “What town is this, anyway?”

                “This is Camdur, and this is our house,” she said suddenly.

                JaBrawn pulled back on the reins and Grendel obeyed with only a small huff of complaint at the abrupt halt. Wendonel hopped off without his help. Favius was not so certain. The old warrior got off his horse and lifted him down to the ground as if he weighed nothing. He beamed up at him. There was a flash, and JaBrawn was staring down at another boy child, his face smudged with dirt and there were two front teeth

absent from his smile, making it that much more precious. “Hurry home Dada!” The

straw-haired youth mouthed to him, though he couldn’t hear the words. He reached a hand out to muss his hair, a gesture that was familiar and long lost.

                A loud shout erupted from behind him. “Wendonel! Favius!”

                That strand to the distant past was snapped instantly. He caught himself with his hand half raised towards Favius’ head, who had shown no fear at such an action. He lowered it quickly, for the shout had to have been the father, returned early from whatever current service his employ with the magistrate entailed. He turned to face him, attempting to put on a friendly smile.

                A bearded man nearly as large as he, clad in thick mail covered over with a dull red tunic, stomped up to him. Obviously unperturbed by confrontation, the man barked a demand. “Who the hells are you, and what are you doing with my daughter and son?”

                JaBrawn clenched his jaw, but remained calm. “A traveler. I found your

children out near Graydon’s Wood.” The man’s eyes broadened slightly. “They told me where they were from, so I decided that it would be best to bring them home.”

                Wendonel stared at the side of his head, wondering why JaBrawn had not told her father about the mean looking monster things. She wanted to voice her curiosity, but decided against it.

                The man’s bullish demeanor drained away. He sighed and stepped back, looking rather abashed at his outburst. “Graydon’s Wood. By the gods, you two are impossible to contain.” They giggled and ran to him, throwing their arms around his waist. He chuckled back to them.

                JaBrawn, a bit put off by the man’s acceptance of their misbehavior, silently

reminded himself that it had been many, many years since he had been a father. It did not seem appropriate for him to judge this man. Still. He seemed far too accommodating to the little devils. The man broke away from his children and extended a gnarled, callused hand. Appreciating this at least, JaBrawn took it and shook firmly.

“My apologies for my little outburst. I am Derrig Thresher. And you my friend?”

                He tried to avoid giving his name out too often, but he could not give a false one since he had already told the children. At least the fellow seemed well meaning.

                “JaBrawn Marshada. An honor, Derrig.”

                The man shook his head and closed his eyes briefly. “No, JaBrawn. The honor and pleasure are mine. My thanks are yours.” He released JaBrawn’s hand and glared at his offspring with mock fury. “My thanks for tending to my two hellions who, though they can read better than a priest, can amazingly forget their boundaries as if they were as sharp-witted as upside down fenceposts.” They giggled. JaBrawn did not. “Why don’t you come in JaBrawn? I’d love to hear of any tales your travels have learned you. What do you say?”

                Without waiting for an answer, he turned and headed for his cottage. It was a respectably sizeable structure of whitewashed mud plaster and timber, and roofed with neat fired clay slates. The nearby stand of oaks cast shade over most of it and the neighboring houses, but unbroken sunlight struck to the South where a patch of fenced in ground enclosed the even rows of a large vegetable garden. Along the furthest fence were three small trees, each bearing different fruit.

                At the corner nearest the house was a tall roofed well, with a trough running from its lip to a delicately tiered garden. Buckets of water could be drawn from its recesses and dumped down the trough, where it would wind its way around the vegetables. It was all in all a clever setup. JaBrawn murmured quietly for Grendel to stay nearby. The horse chuffed a response and wandered over to a nearby patch of thick, succulent grass.

                As the old warrior neared the door he noticed that other than a riding horse, there was not a single animal to be seen on the Thresher homestead, unlike the other farmhouses. Some farms did keep animals for what they could produce other than their meat, such as chickens for eggs and cows or goats for milk. This little family had neither. He smiled a bit at the thought. He had forsaken meat decades ago, for its taste could stir something in his soul that he would prefer remained dormant. It seemed odd to him that here he was, a vegetarian, invited in to a household where meat must be, at least, a rarity. Perhaps it was dependent upon the guest.

                The inside of the cottage was nondescript, but pretty in its minimal way. There was a thick fired clay and stone hearth blackened with years of use against the wall pposite the door. Along another wall ran a low set of bookshelves, crammed with tomes and texts and all other manner of reading materials. Near it was a writing desk with lead styluses, quills, inkpots, and a small stack of paper. The main living area showed a low table at its center, with a small sofa on one side and a large stuffed leather chair on the other. In one corner of the room was a wooden chair, most likely for guests. Derrig motioned towards the larger one, a gesture of very considerate kindness, as it was obviously the head of the household’s. JaBrawn accepted it graciously. He got a nod and a friendly smile in return.

Wendonel and Favius sat on the sofa. They both maintained perfect posture, despite being in the comforts of their own home. Going back the many years to his childhood, JaBrawn admitted to himself that he could not recall being that well-mannered.

                Derrig went through the right door of two along the southern wall. JaBrawn

took a deep breath, folded his arms across his chest, and pondered. He really wasn’t the social type. He could appreciate all the trappings and goings-on of civilized life, but only in a distant, observational sense. He had given up his part in it long ago. He felt out of place in everywhere but nowhere, even in a home nearly empty of everything but family, and even when that family welcomed him in.

                He must have started scowling, because Wendonel suddenly piped in, “What

are you thinking of when you do that?” She asked.

                He shook his attention away from his broodings. “What?”

                “You heard me,” she managed to reply without a trace of insolence. Besides, she was right.

                He shrugged. “Nothing, really.”

                He had hardly closed his mouth when she said, “If it’s nothing then why do

you get so mad when you think about it?”

                “You ask a lot of questions,” he muttered out the corner of his mouth.

                “And you don’t give very good answers,” she said sweetly. Just then Derrig

returned. JaBrawn felt literally rescued.

                “Maybe it’s because he does not like to, Wendy. Did you think of that?” He said this as he placed a large wooden tray laden with fresh fruits and vegetables on the table. JaBrawn’s mouth watered. “Help yourself, my friend. There is plenty more.”

                “Thank you, Derrig. You are very kind.” He reached for a plump tomato nearly the size of his fist.

                Derrig chuckled again. “And you are very patient. You must be.” He inclined his head towards his children. “They’re still alive.”

                “Aye, they are a bit of a handful.”

                “They are a bit of two handfuls.”

                Wendonel and Favius giggled and munched on carrots and radishes.

                JaBrawn took a bite of the tomato and found it delicious. It was lightly coated with a tasty oil glaze that was peppery and garlicky and sweet all at once. He raised his eyes in question to Derrig.

                “A very simple oil and seasoning glaze that my wife used to make,” his host said. “It takes only moments to prepare, and will keep indefinitely. Or until it’s gone.”

                JaBrawn nodded as he took another bite of the sumptuous fruit and looked

around again with both his eyes and his nose. The room was full of smells that were new but rapidly becoming familiar as he acclimated. His eyes found a small painting hanging on the wall over the hearth. It was of a very slender woman, so thin she almost looked sickly, yet she was absolutely lovely. She had Wendonel’s nose and Favius’ lips, or, rather, they had hers. It could only have been their mother. JaBrawn indicated the painting with a small nod. “Your wife?” He asked.

                He smiled and reached for a radish. “Yes, her name was Aria. She died.”

                “Your children told me.” JaBrawn said quietly.

                Derrig nodded. “Yes. They have had to become quite reliant on each other. With me spending days at a time guarding the magistrate on this or that important outing, my time at home has been spotty at best. I had in fact been relieved early by my replacement and only just returned home when you rode up.” He chewed slowly, and was quiet for a moment. Then his eyes perked up. “I think we need drink to go with this fine meal. JaBrawn, I take it you would appreciate a fresh ale?”

                The broad old warrior nodded and grinned. “Absolutely.”

                Derrig approved. “As would I. Fave, Wendy, draw us each a flagon, would you? And get yourself something as well.”

                They both hopped to their feet and rushed to the kitchen. JaBrawn and Derrig continued to munch on the heaping platter.

                “I notice that you do not ask why I serve no meat.” Derrig commented.

                JaBrawn shrugged. “A man’s house is run the way he sees fit. It would be unseemly to question your tastes at any table, much less your own.”

                “There is a reason, you know.”

                “I am certain that it is a good one, Sir.” JaBrawn replied, attempting to imply

that Derrig need not explain anything.

                “It is. You are too polite to ask, so I’ll go ahead and tell you.” He turned and

looked at the painting of his wife. “It was Aria, really. She died of some sort of family

malady associated with the eating of meat of any kind. It causes an infection in the stomach that literally makes them waste away to nothing. By the time its presence was discovered, the damage it had done to her body was irreversible.”

                JaBrawn listened with a slightly unsettled feeling. This fellow certainly was quick at becoming comfortable with strangers. He was sympathetic, but it was difficult to let this be known, especially to another man.

                Derrig continued. “I had simply thought that she was frail in health. She had looked thin for as long I’d known her.” He looked down, and plucked a celery stalk from the platter. “As it turns out, Wendonel is afflicted with the same illness. Favius might be As well, but I am not sure. I dare not risk his health for the satisfaction of mere curiosity. Regardless, there has not been a sliver of meat in this house for six years.” He peered away at nothing. “Ever since she died.”

                JaBrawn swallowed hard. “Wendonel? Is she -?”

                Derrig shook his head. “It was caught very early. She is in perfect health and will remain so as long as she sticks to her vegetarian diet. She was so young when I made the transition that she hardly remembers what eating meat was like.”

                JaBrawn said, “She seems very happy. So does the boy, despite his inability to talk.”

                Again, Derrig shook his head. “It is not an inability. He simply chooses not to speak. The night Aria died, she told him, ‘Let no words of regret pass these lips.’ He was only three, but he has hardly uttered a word since. I think he believes that nothing but repentance will fall from his lips if he were to speak, so he keeps silent.” He briefly raised one hand, palm up, and then dropped it in his lap. “I really do not know. The only one who does is he.”

                JaBrawn took a slow, quiet breath, taking this all in. After all his gloomy

recollections of war and its atrocities, he had quite neatly forgotten that pain and loss

touches everyone everywhere, even here, in this loving father’s and widower’s home. “Derrig… you may have already noticed that I am not very good with words as well, though it is much more a clumsiness with them than anything else. All I can really think to say is that I am sorry for what you have lost. And I mean more than your wife.” He opened his mouth as if to continue, but could not think of anything more to say, so he went back to eating.

                Derrig’s eyes turned into tiny mirrors in which JaBrawn could plainly see

himself. “Kinder words have not been said to me in quite some time, JaBrawn.” He

smiled thinly, in a manner that showed a tired, lonely man who had made the best of the world with which he had been left, and had done quite well with it. Then the children returned. He cleared his throat, took a large mug of ale lightly from his daughter while planting a kiss on her cheek for her efforts, and then regaled JaBrawn with an enthusiasm that shattered the awkward, melancholy moment. “Enough with this sappy horse scat. What tales of the world have you brought to our fire tonight, O man of the open road?”

                They all shared a laugh, the men’s baritones mingling with Wendonel’s and

Favius’ tinkling silver giggles. Then, slowly and dramatically, Favius pointed at the hearth.

                There was no fire.

                They laughed again, even louder this time.

                The old, war weary JaBrawn felt a warmth bloom in his heart that had not been there since a time that was more than a man’s life ago. It was an existence so delicately shelved in his memory that he had, at times, been uncertain that he had even taken part in it. It was an existence where he, too, had been a father and a husband, more than three hundred years ago.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 5

 

                Blayzrai is unique amongst the greater pantheon of Ummon, as he is the only god of an element than mortals can create. It is through him that all fires burn, from the touch of flint to tinder, to the burning warra channeled by warricks, to the broiling furnaces that fuel a dragon’s breath.

True worshippers of Blayzrai are not those obsessed with the destruction of all things by fire. They pay tribute to their deity by following his example with their gift. Fire is to be used as a tool, whether to cook meals, warm hands, or light catapult pitch ablaze, control is necessary for this ravenous beast lest it devour all in its path. Abusers of this gift, whether they claim allegiance to the god of fire or not, can be amongst the most destructive creatures to walk the face of Hildegoth.

                No history of this god’s past exists in mortal hands, but of the few who have seen him, his visage ranges from a tall, thin, lanky fellow crowned with a flowing mane of hair the hue of his element’s namesake, to a towering titan composed of flame with eyes of white hot pits that can set stone afire with a glance.

                Perhaps he, like his element, is never truly known. Perhaps he is simply depended upon and feared.

 

                The aging, slender fellow waved off his friends, one new and one old, and sat back in his chair. It was a pleasant enough day, and recent efforts had proven both wise and fruitful. The results of these efforts had yet to play out, but he was confident that all the best choices had been made.

                He smiled at the way life can hand you its veiled offerings. They were either gems or offal, and you would not know which until you unwrapped the paper to inspect for gleam or grime. As he peered through a window and down the street, he pondered whether or not the gleam of some was covered with a coat or two of grime. This thought had not quite faded when there was a sudden pounding on his door. He made a noise that was a combination of sigh, groan, and curse, and made his way towards the noise. Deciding not to engage in any prestidigitation, he simply opened it. A young man, his chest heaving, stood just outside. He had obviously been running for some time. He handed the silvered gentleman a roll of parchment stoppered with wax. Close inspection revealed an enwarred sigil that told the handlers of said document that something rather nasty would happen if anyone other than for whom it was intended tried to open it.

                “Well, I certainly hope that it’s for me then,” he said, and pulled the stopper out. A puff of green smoke and light, and the parchment unrolled. He read the contents carefully, his face straight and emotionless.

                At first the young messenger simply waited for his recipient to read his letter, but in due time and between breaths, he said, “The High King wishes for you to send word back, Sir.”

                The old fellow turned to look at him. “Does he now? Very well. Tell him

that I will be there before you are even halfway back.”

                The boy blinked. “Uh… begging your pardon, Mr. Canthus, but… how would you go about doing that?” He blinked. “Uh… Sir.”

                Canthus smiled a very elvish smile. “By employing one of the many tricks I have up my sleeve, young man. Tricks that I’ve been perfecting for the last, oh, thousand years or so.” He waved him off. “Now off with you. I have to decide on something.”

                The boy, taken aback at Canthus’ millennial reference, stood where he was,

unmoving. “Decide, Sir?”

                Canthus nodded vigorously and a little impatiently. “Yes, yes, I have to decide if the air temperature and time of year will mean flight is faster for a raven, or a hawk.” He paused. “A hawk probably, but I might look a bit odd. Ravens, though, tend to be harbingers of ill tidings. Oh, bother it all.”

                The messenger made a postulation. “Aren’t drakes or dragons the fastest?”

                Canthus regarded him coldly. “Oh, dear lad, have you not a wit in your head?

Of course they’re the fastest, but they are hardly a covert means of travel, now are they? In a half dozen wing strokes I’d have every man-at-arms, mercenary, and noble knight on the bloody continent trying to shoot me out of the sky, wanting to make names for themselves. No. I think…” He snapped his fingers. “Perfect! A meadowlark. Inconsequential, and quite swift. How does that sound?”

                The boy shrugged. “Sounds perfect, Sir.”

                “Excellent! Now, off you go. And don’t forget to shut the door!”

                He did not.

 

~*~

 

                Later that night, after many simple yet heartfelt tales of where JaBrawn’s recent wanderings had taken him, after the children had sat there wide-eyed until they quite literally collapsed with excitement-induced exhaustion, after JaBrawn had sat and watched Derrig clutch his two most precious possessions to his chest and carry them, one in each arm, to bed, after all these things, JaBrawn told Derrig in quick, hushed strokes about the garulls. He mentioned their number and that he had killed one of them, and the rest had fled back into the woods. He did not want to mention that he had dispatched the lot of the creatures, for fear of sounding unbelievable or inhuman. The deception did not sit well with him, but a boast would probably be ignored at exactly the wrong time by exactly the right person. If it was believed, then too many eyes would be on him, and how, most likely, no ordinary man could have done so. Derrig held his face in his hands as a horrible, unspoken list of possibilities played across his mind. “JaBrawn, I must offer my heartfelt thanks once more, as well as my lifelong service. If you had not been there…” he peered at him intently. “If you had not been there…” he repeated softly.

                JaBrawn stood resolutely, uncomfortable with the situation, but sympathetic with Derrig’s fear of what could have happened – a fruitless but unavoidable union of the thinking mind and the loving heart. “I did what anybody would have done. You owe me nothing.”

                Derrig took a long breath and idly ran his fingers through his beard. “Your

humility becomes you, traveler, but you simply do not understand. The people of this town would have watched them die. Some would have even been pleased by the idea.” He ground his teeth in disgust. JaBrawn could tell there was more hiding in this statement

but did not press it. Derrig continued. “I would, quite simply, be nothing without my children. After losing Aria, they have become the center of my life, my heart, my soul.”

JaBrawn’s brow furrowed. Derrig read his question right off of his features.

“I know, I know. If I care so deeply for them, why let them wander so far? Well, to be honest, I forbid them to wander much beyond the town boundaries. I will have a good, long talk with the both of them on the morrow. When they misbehave they are reprimanded, but I take all care in making certain that I do not let anger or irritation affect my judgment. I always make certain that the punishment befits the crime. In all else, however, I want them to live free and happy, to have as full a life as our little Camdur can provide.”

                He stood and filled his mug again from the ale barrel, which he had moved into the living room earlier. Standing, he took a deep pull from it. “If either of them decide to move on later in life it will pain me, but not nearly as much as the thought of quelling their lives in even the smallest fashion. If they want to trek on to Greann, Tallo, Fremett or even Tyniar for all I know, they may go with the knowledge that their father blesses them with all his heart and good wishes.”

JaBrawn still felt grumbly and at odds with his ways of child rearing, but his

reasoning now seemed rather hollow and old fashioned when he really looked at it. Both of Derrig’s children were educated, clean, well-fed, and well-mannered, if a little too curious. However, he was open minded enough to see that that may simply be his sensitivity to prying questions more than anything else.

Finally, he said, “I think more parents should let their hearts and their minds guide their actions with their children.”

                Derrig raised his mug and nodded. “And I wish there were more people as

willing as you, to take a step back and see things for what they are.”

                JaBrawn again saw something hidden in his statement, though he did raise

his flagon as well. “There are people here who do not?”

                Derrig sighed and shook his head rather sadly. “There always are, are there

not?” He made his way to his room, where a window peeked out over the small piece

of land between his cottage and the one nearest it to the North. Here there were yet

more books, piled at the nightstand and arranged precariously about a worn desk. The

man was clearly self-educated, and it did him and his children credit. He beckoned

JaBrawn near, and pointed toward the lighted window of his neighbor.

                He could plainly see an old man and woman peering from this window, one of them with a looking glass. He pinched his features in annoyance. “Spies?”

                Derrig chuckled lightly, but there was some concern in it. “A bit more than that. The fellow is called Unger Whitley. He was a high-ranking captain in the old militia. He is one of three such old soldiers left, and he has the magistrate’s and the town council spokesman’s ear.” He leaned on the sill, eyeing his two observers as they passed the spyglass back and forth. He and JaBrawn were in complete darkness, so the espionage would reveal nothing.

                “A few turns before Aria died, he came to me demanding that I have my wife brought to the village warrick to cleanse her soul of demons before she expired. I tried to explain to him the causes behind her illness, but then he simply accused me of being in league with whatever malevolent forces had taken over my wife’s body.”

                JaBrawn growled low in his throat. He caught himself before the sound took

on too much of a bestial quality. “I have… encountered such fools myself.”

                Derrig snorted. “I think we all have. Even so, I asked him what possible

reasoning he had behind his accusations. He said that he saw Aria reading to the children out of a book that he did not recognize, a book with a black cover. I told him that I did not know of any such book, which was true (I cared not a whit by the way) but nonetheless, that was hardly proof enough to level a charge of demon possession against someone.”

                JaBrawn agreed with a grunt.

                “He said that if it wasn’t, then it must merely ‘be a piece of a larger puzzle.’

When I asked him what in all the hells he meant by that, he claims he saw Wendonel speaking to a squirrel, out near the large twisted oak tree between our properties. He said she told it to do things, tricks and such, and it did them.” He waggled his fingers mock menacingly. “Utter nonsense.”

                JaBrawn stiffened slightly. Wendonel had shown passing interest in the fact that he had spoken to his warhorse. He wondered now if perhaps the reason she seemed more pleased than impressed was because such abilities were nothing new to her.

                Derrig continued. “I called him a bothersome sneak with nothing better to do than to spy on little girls. He stomped off in a huff. Two days afterward my wife received a summons from the town magistrate’s aide, who doubles as constable. She was to stand trial for demon possession.” He sighed harshly. “The crusty old bastard had probably gone straight to the magistrate, or his little toady, Salett, a self-appointed aide who is some sort of disgraced royal champion in exile, and had demanded that it take place. Being the loved old war hero that he was, the magistrate ordered it immediately.”

                JaBrawn stared at the side of Derrig’s face. “She was ordered to stand trial in her condition?”

                Derrig nodded slowly. “Aye. But it really didn’t matter. She died a day before the date of her inquiry.”

                JaBrawn closed his eyes. “Barbaric.”

                “Yes. It was. I sent letter after letter to the town council about her condition and how it was caused. Several very expensive warricks hired by her family and well-versed in her condition backed up my claims.” He smirked. “I have yet to hear back. Even when I happen across them at the town hall, they are always ‘far too busy.’”

                They were both silent a moment. Then JaBrawn said, “So your neighbor’s been after you ever since?”

                “In a manner of speaking. He mostly just wants to look important and powerful. Rumor has it he knows a bit of warricking, so maybe he’s looking to replace the one we already have. She’s kind of an idiot.”

                JaBrawn smiled. “So, he spies on you in hopes of catching… what, exactly?”

                “Oh, in hopes of catching me and my children in the midst of one of our sinister demonic incantations. Maybe he thinks I conjured up that ugly scab of a horse eating my grass by the fence.”

                JaBrawn forced an offended look to his face. “Hey… that horse has been the

only companion I’ve had for the last six years.”

                Derrig donned a look of mild alarm.

                “Oh, by the gods,” JaBrawn muttered. “Tripped headfirst into that one, now didn’t I?”

                Both men shared another bout of barely stifled laughter, tilting back their drinks in a manner that males have made synonymous with camaraderie for as long as there has been drinking and men.

                JaBrawn said, “Were you working for the magistrate at the time all this happened?”

                “Oh yes. I doubt that I would have been able to secure the job afterward. Even so, there have been over the shoulder mutterings and narrow glances abounding. The magistrate is a good enough man, but he tends to lean towards the quickest route to whatever will keep the peace. Sometimes that’s a good thing.” He shrugged and took another pull from his mug. “And sometimes not.”

                “Have you thought of leaving? Moving from here to another town?”

                Derrig sighed softly. “Constantly, but… I cannot. The children love it here, and so do I, really. The few friends I have are very good friends, and I honestly can’t make myself tuck my tail between my legs and run.” He leaned on the sill. “Aria would want me to stay and fight. I just know it.”

                Both men drank quietly and saying little, though an occasional muffled laugh escaped their lips as they watched Mr. Whitley and his wife watch them. The old curmudgeons continued their important observations long after JaBrawn and Derrig had given up and went to bed, and were either unaware or uncaring that, back-lit in their window, they were quite neatly silhouetted against the night and looked completely ridiculous.

 

~*~

 

                JaBrawn had, for as far back as he could remember, found it difficult to sleep

under a roof. It was not exactly a phobia of any real sort. It was more like he found the scene of the sky a comforting thing to rest his eyes on before sleep finally overtook him, whether it was a dusting of stars or rolling storm clouds. Musing at such, he lost himself in the twilight heavens.

                There was a full moon that night.

                JaBrawn was far too old for the night’s luminary watchman to force the change, but he felt the all too familiar slight tug at his soul, to bring out the beast and hunt. He tapped it away with hardly a thought. He far preferred the human tendency to just gaze at it and wonder.

                Wendonel was sleeping quietly in her bed through the window nearest to him. Every few minutes he would glance at her silently resting form, and that almost-a-smile twitch of his lips would wriggle to his mouth with far stronger insistence than the beast in his heart. He knew that her brother was in his own visit to slumber a few feet from her bed. He could clearly hear him snoring, though the sound would have been slight to human ears. He had not slept soundly enough to snore for longer than he could remember.

                It was so odd. His resiliency to death was bettered by few, yet, when he learned of his handful of weaknesses, the possibility of being attacked while he rested kept him at odds with sleep far more often than when he had been mortal and could sleep in the middle of a battle with only a single, wounded friend standing watch over him.

                He looked out again at the moon. It seemed to return his gaze. No longer a thing for him to fear, it was more like a wrongly maligned companion that had waited all these years to show him that all it ever wanted to give him was a few hours of peace during the night. He almost regretted the decades he spent hiding from it, despite its previously uncontrollable effects over him.

                He felt remorse for the past.

                He felt wonder for the night.

                He felt good about himself for the first time since he had crushed the life out

of a garull to save the neck of a friend three decades ago. For a few moments, he wondered if any of his old comrades were still alive. Perhaps someday he would seek

them out.

                He smiled at the thought, this time all the way.

 

~*~

 

                JaBrawn awoke before the first fingers of the sun chased away the gray stillness of predawn. He sat up, feeling well rested and alert and smiled in subtle approval as he met Derrig coming out the front door, already scrubbed and dressed in his guardsmen tunic and mail. He smelled the dusky sweat of three horses coming down the path well before they actually arrived.

                After a few seconds the pounding of hooves became clearly audible. Derrig put his hands on his hips as they rounded the bend. Two men clad as in mail like he, rode escort to a third, who was draped in a flowing tunic of an absurdly bright blue. The curve of a large crossbow was outlined under this man’s cloak.

                “Good Morning,” JaBrawn said to Derrig as he strapped on his leather vest and tied back his hair. “Who are they?”

                “Good morning.” Derrig snorted. “Two of them are friends. One is not.”

                It was not very difficult to discern which was which, for as the blue-garbed rider drew near, JaBrawn could see a clear look of disdain on his pockmarked face, one that deepened when he and the others drew their mounts to a halt.

                He nodded sourly. “Good morrow, Derrig.” It was an archaic, slightly stilted manner of greeting.

                Derrig returned it curtly. “Good morrow, Salett.”

                JaBrawn recalled his brief mention of him the previous night. He had only said his name once, but it stuck in his head as someone unpleasant. He lifted his chin slightly in JaBrawn’s direction. “’Morrow,” he said simply.

                JaBrawn stood impassively and folded arms that looked as broad as Salett’s waist across his chest. “Morning,” he muttered through the corner of his mouth.

                The cratered visage fixed on him for a good long moment, then looked away. “Who is this man, Derrig? I have never seen him before.”

                “He is a recent acquaintance, a traveler that quite literally saved my children’s lives. He brings fearful news with him, as well.”

                Salett hopped down from his horse. The crossbow on the back of his horse was covered in a leather case and clearly massive. It seemed all the larger as Salett himself was not a man of much stature. He strode over to them in a strutting, overly regal manner, as the men-at-arms assigned to him followed, though they seemed to do so a bit grudgingly. He drew up to JaBrawn and peered at his face from a foot beneath it.

                “What provident happenstance, then, that you were in the area, Lord…” He leaned over slightly, extending his right leg in almost a curtsy, and offered his hand.

                JaBrawn took it firmly. The little man’s grip was like a bag of matchsticks.

“JaBrawn. And yes, it was lucky that I was where I was.”

                Salett stared up at him. JaBrawn stared back.

                Derrig said, “Salett, why exactly are you here?”

Salett released his hand and looked at Derrig. “Last night you were seen conversing with an unknown fellow,” he glanced back at JaBrawn, “until far past what would be considered a respectable hour for one of the magistrate’s personal guard.”

                Derrig smirked. “How absolutely hedonistic of me. Staying up past my bed time.” He looked over at JaBrawn. “With an unknown fellow, no less.” He nodded,

looking serious. “Shall you execute me here, or… would you prefer to take me into the village square to make a public spectacle out of me?”

                Salett frowned. “These are serious times, Derrig…”

                “Yes, they are.” Derrig strode towards the aide to the magistrate, towering over him as well. With JaBrawn at his side, they outmassed him four-fold.  “And I wonder, you repugnant little toad, when you and that dried up old excuse for a soldier,” he jerked his head in Whitley’s direction, “will become aware of just how serious these times are? Perhaps sometime after you are through pestering me and my family?”

                Salett, impressively, had stood his ground without so much as a flinch, even at the insult. He indulged Derrig with a greasy smile. “I do not understand. What are you saying?”

                “JaBrawn has seen a pack of garulls hardly a mile from here.” He held his hand up as Salett opened his mouth to speak. “I realize that it is extremely uncommon for these creatures to come so close to our town, but I believe what he says. My children can corroborate it.”

                Salett snorted. “Your children? Ah.” He nodded slowly. “I wonder, Thresher, is their word as golden as their mother’s is?” Derrig’s jaw muscles rippled visibly even beneath his beard. “Or was, rather?”

                The big farmer and guardsman appeared perfectly calm, but one hand slowly

moved to a wicked hand ax, one of two, that he had at his waist.

                A sudden shout came from behind Salett. “Derrig! Hold your hand!” Derrig glanced to the other guardsmen, whom he knew well, and called friend. The man spoke softly but clearly. “Keep your fingers away from your splitters, friend. Please.”

                Derrig, fuming, did as he was asked.

                The aide sneered. The other guardsman continued. “And you, Salett. Whether or not you truly believe this mule spit about Derrig’s wife being infested with demons, I would think you would at least have the wit to not insult a man who can part another man’s skull in two from fifty feet away.”

                Salett spat over his shoulder without turning. “Might I remind you, commoner, that you are here at my pleasure to protect me against this peasant, not defend him? If he were to attack, it is your duty to take the blow.”

                The other guardsman clucked. “Oh Salett, come off it. If you were half as

important as you thought you were, The High King himself would have his nose buried so deep in your backside, so often, you’d never need escort because you’d be unable to go anywhere without dragging the Good King behind you.”

                There was a brief rumble of barely muffled laughter from all but JaBrawn and Salett at this. The latter of course, did not find any humor in it for obvious reasons. JaBrawn, however, was reminded of a man too young to be in command and who knew nothing of what being in command entailed. He sent wave after wave of men to die, all of them needlessly, simply because he would not admit his thinking was faulty. He was short, covered with the cratered scars of ruptured boils, and as self-righteous as a monk in a tavern brawl. It could not possibly be the same man, but the similarities were bothersome. Then the memory slipped away.

                As the laughter died down, Salett reached into a fold of his robe and brought

forth a folded parchment. He handed it to Derrig with his mouth clamped shut on his words, turned, and stomped over to his horse. He mounted quickly and rode back the way he had come with hardly a backward glance. His two escorts waved grimly, and then took their time to catch up as the aide disappeared around the bend.

                JaBrawn’s scowl was not alone. One formed on Derrig’s face that could have been its twin as he unrolled the message and read it silently. “What is it?” He asked.

                “A council inquiry.”

                JaBrawn blinked. “You’re to be tried?”

                His friend shook his head. “Not exactly. It’s more like a trial to see if there needs to be a trial.”

                “That’s ridiculous.”

                Derrig sighed. “Well yes, it is, but that is the way we do things in Camdur.”

                JaBrawn found the children’s scent on the air. They were waking. “Does the High King know of this? I am not completely clear on his mandates for outlying kingdoms, but I don’t think he’d approve of such treatment.”

                Derrig laughed derisively – a harsh, abrupt bark. “If the rumors and tales of

his kindness are true, then I am sure he would not, but he governs what: a dozen kingdoms? More? And that statement doesn’t really appreciate Erathai, the largest of

them all. I somehow doubt he could find the time to correct a few civic discrepancies in our backwards little village, my friend.”

                JaBrawn’s cheek twitched in irritation. “These are more than discrepancies Derrig, and you damn well know it.”

                Derrig nodded slowly. “I know JaBrawn, but to men with as much power and as little time as Good King Merrett, they would only be labeled as ‘discrepancies’ if he were even made aware of it.”

                “Daddy?” Wendonel asked as she wandered out of the front of their cottage, her hair a tangled mess and her eyes puffy with sleep. “What’s going on? Why are the red men laughing at you?”

                “Wendy, hush!” Derrig snapped.

                JaBrawn’s looked at her, confused. “Redmen? You mean the guardsmen?”

                She shook her head.

                “Wendonel, go inside and fix your brother some breakfast.” Derrig snapped.

                She took a few backwards steps. “But… what about you?”

                “I will be fine. Go now!”

                She stared at him, confused, then dutifully turned tail and went back into the

house.

                JaBrawn put the same question to Derrig. “Who are the red men?”

                He waved it away. “She is a very imaginative girl. She often dreams of fairies with red skin and wings. She calls them the Redmen. She must have heard everyone laughing and put that sound to her dreams.”

                JaBrawn looked at him incredulously. Again, he was hiding something. There was the tang of discomfort that was nearly fear in his scent. This was common with deception. He did not press the issue.

                Derrig folded the parchment abruptly and shoved it in his tunic. “You may stay here as long as you like, JaBrawn. Wendonel and Favius obviously like you, and so do I. I will no doubt be dealing with this inquiry for a day or so, during which the children would normally have to fend for themselves.”

                JaBrawn chewed the inside of his cheek. He knew what was coming, and headed it off. “I will look after them for as long as you need, but would it not be better if I came with you?”

                Derrig scowled in thought. “I would welcome the company, but no. Your presence would most likely stir the pot of dissent that Unger and Salett have placed before the magistrate.” He shook his head. “They shan't do anything drastic at a preliminary inquiry. I will see what they claim at the very least. Perhaps I can even stopper it up before it spills its nonsense over everything.” His lips pulled into a taut, grim, line. “Well and good then.”

                His previous manner of jovial sarcasm had been uprooted and supplanted with cynical, simmering anger. He went into the house, kissed and held his children, and told them that business would have to keep him away for a few days more.

                “But you’ve only just returned,” Wendonel said over a sad frown.

                “I know, little petal,” he said brushing a finger down her nose. “But this can’t wait. I wish it could.” He kissed her cheek and then tousled Favius’ hair, whose face was locked into a rictus of bothered melancholy. “I tell you this much, though: At least this time you’ll have someone to watch you, and to keep you out of trouble.” He winked. It almost worked.

                He stood, and clasped JaBrawn’s hand strongly. “My friend. Though saving the lives of my children has made me eternally indebted to you, I am certain that I would have sensed your honor even if you had done nothing more than pass through town.”

                JaBrawn shook his hand solemnly. “You are too kind, Derrig. Though if I were you, I’d cover that worm Salett with curdled milk and then toss him into a pit of wild boars. You really should not have to endure this.” He tilted his head slightly towards the children. “Nor should they.”

                Derrig shook his head. “No, we should not. However, I am a man who has sworn to uphold our laws. As such, I cannot say that I, alone, am above them, can I?”

                JaBrawn could always find holes in such thinking, but realized that this was neither the time nor the place to discuss it. Besides, it probably would not change this man’s mind. “No, I suppose not.”

                They released hands, and Derrig said, “A day then. Three at the most.”

                The grizzled old soldier nodded. “I’ll be here.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 6

 

                Deluzha, somewhat like her sister, Zephris, is sometimes taken to be a deity of undirected force, though of a much higher magnitude. Also, much like her sister, her actions are never without aim or purpose. Though all the gods are interconnected, the goddess of water and the goddess of wind work in concert often, from the currents of the seas and the winds that blow across them to the protean yet cool and sometimes devastating cycles of the weather.

                Deluzsha herself reigns over water in all its manifestations. Perhaps the simplest element of them all, yet without it, no mortal life would find a hold on this world, rendering the governing of all other elements meaningless.

                Deluzha had been a child when she drowned in a small stream near her home. Her father and mother, praying to any power of good that existed, asked that their daughter simply live, no matter her form. Ummon,his ear tuned to the heartfelt pleas of his yet unknowing followers, caught her spirit in the divergess Extiris Aquanie, the elemental plane of water. He wiped her mind of the horrible and tragic moments of her death, but let the fact that it happened and the respect garnered from it remain. He asked her if she was frightened of the element that had killed her. She told him that it was not the water that killed her. It was the fact that she could not breathe in it. Finding her humility and her logic to be perfect counterparts for such an outwardly chaotic force, he mantled her with the responsibilities of its governance.

                The millennia have matured her, but she remains in the guise of a pale girl child with eyes the deepest, darkest blue of the ocean’s depths.

 

                The once-Jerom had been mulling over a new name for itself in its dark, broiling imagination. The moment it had infested and dissolved Jerom’s mind, it had become more than human. As it spread its influence amongst its flock, its power grew as did theirs. They were now twice the might of any man, and it was twice that and growing stronger, though it lacked something it felt was essential: a true identity. It had no real label to affix to its intellect that it could call its own. Over the millennia it had grown from the simple mote of dark, hateful energy that the first sin loosed into the universe, into a being that had finally become aware of its own existence. And, once aware, had become fixated on only one thing: to feed. The misty coils of hate and evil that it had been consuming for the last ten thousand years had long since become less than satisfactory. It needed a richer source of nourishment. It needed to draw it straight from the source. This incredibly difficult task of crossing from the voids in which it had been gestated had been achieved. This first step had been taken. So, now that its endeavors had begun, what should it call itself?

                What?

                Ahhhh…

                Yes, of course.

                It mouthed it silently with lips that had turned from withered gray to black over the past few days. It slipped this appellation into the dull minds of its followers, and they all hissed their acceptance.

It had gathered enough for its flock, for now. Its power ebbed as it forced away the minds and essences of each of its victims, for its creatures were but vessels to do so, but it would return even greater once it drew from their combined fortitude. Within each decrepit underling was a spark of its own being, and each spark would slowly become a flame. This flame, when fed by its foul acts, would pour out the sustenance it needed to survive, to grow.

                It was time to find its first real prize, its first serious step in securing its delicious future. Though stronger than perhaps any single being in the docks and streets of Fremett, they were still vulnerable and mortal now if assaulted by a stalwart enough foe. It had been very careful to select only those members of its dank avenues that would not be missed, those members whose absence would, at times, even be pleasant.

                Now it and its children needed a new home. It bothered it somewhat, but they needed a better place to hide their appearance and intentions than the sand until such needs were moot. It rifled through the fractured memories that remained in the meat of Jerom’s mind, and found a man amongst his upper clientele that could provide the means to house them for some time, and in plain sight no less. Excellent.

It stood and its flock did the same, rivulets of stinking, clinging sand falling from their emaciated bodies. Indulging in a small bit of ego which it had only recently developed before taking physical form, it spoke in its seamless voice. “My creatures, my…” it grinned wide, “…children, the time has come to go to our new home. We will embrace more of our family soon enough. These souls, though hardier than those we have encountered, are still only lightly anchored and will fall easily. In time when enough have been taken into our fold, any who do not succumb or surrender will simply become food for those who do.”

                They murmured their agreement in a horrible dissonance of hisses and gnashing teeth.

                “Excellent my creations. Now: Who is your master?”

                The collection of vile undead said its name in a drawn out, vile pronunciation.

                The Once Jerom smiled softly.

 

                And a terrified watcher amongst the piers, not intending to spy on anything much less an army of undead, viewed all of this in mute terror, and then slipped as quietly away as her respectable talents allowed. She could not decide whether to disclose the nightmare she saw rise from the sands, or find the nearest horse and get the hells out of town.

                She decided to do both, as quickly as possible.

 

~*~

 

                “There are three possibilities,” the tall, thin elf remarked, his hands interlocked under his chin except for the index fingers, which were steepled under his nose. “It is a natural phenomenon, it is an unnatural phenomenon, or it was engineered to happen.”

                Good King Merrett nodded, smiling bitterly. “Hmm. Interesting. Now, could you explain to me what in the hells you mean by that?”

                The elf was only too happy to clarify. “Explaining the recent goings-on through natural phenomena: Suppose some millennial cycle caused all the creatures to come out of hiding and behave strangely, not unlike the mentality involved in a mass migration that does not bind itself to any one species and with obvious behavioral differences. If we have no previous record of such an event, then it would certainly appear strange, despite how natural it may be.

                “An unnatural phenomenon would be, oh, some cosmic body streaking across the heavens and throwing off gods know what kinds of energy in its wake that scrambles up the brains of certain creatures, whilst leaving others completely alone.

                “And, of course, the engineered explanation would be the most disturbing of the three. Somewhere, somehow, for whatever reason, someone would be causing this to happen.” He spread his hands and then interlaced them again, proclaiming his piece, for now, concluded.

                The King leaned out of an open window in the same stony block of a keep that  was his residence in this area, sucking in a smoky breath through his nose of evening Sanguinneth air. He looked down, towards several great tables laden with a portion of the year’s unheard of harvest. A good one hundred fifty of the nearby townspeople were celebrating this eve, honoring his name as the benefactor of their fortune. He pretended with great aplomb to be honored and proud to receive such praise when they toasted him from below. What he felt inside, however, was shame. He and his vast kingdom were, quite simply, ill-equipped on every level for the ramifications of what was happening in the world, whether natural, unnatural, or engineered. It had been years since there had been any kind of serious uprising, and decades since any sort of war. He was utterly unprepared for conflict.

                He turned and looked at the old elf, the pain of realizing one’s own failures

brimming his eyes. In a series of abrupt, discordant confessions, he divulged the horror of his nightmares to the elf. He described how he could feel the leathery fingers and calloused claws of thousands of people tugging at him, whether for salvation or starvation he could not discern.

                “Truly that was the worst of it. It was like I absolutely must or absolutely must not sacrifice everything I was to them. Canthus, What am I to do?”

                The elf peered at him with honest sympathy and then stood with the casual grace that only an elf can. “I think the only solution is a simple one, my king. Protect your people. Raise and train an army, maybe. Prepare for whatever these events entail, whether good, ill, or neither.”

                Good King Merrett glanced back out the window. A little girl, just learning the intricacies of walking, looked up at him, and grinned a pearly grin through blond curls and blue eyes. He looked back at the elf Canthus, and nodded. Whether or not his worst fears had been realized, there was a great deal of work to do.

 

~*~

 

                “Why do you get up so early?” Wendonel asked JaBrawn as she pulled herself from her bed at an hour on which she was obviously not used to rising.

                “I like getting up a bit before dawn.” JaBrawn said idly, as he gathered wood for the hearth from a stack just outside the house.

                Favius stumbled into the living room in his nightshirt. The top of his hair stood perfectly on end. The remainder seemed determined to do the opposite.

                JaBrawn chuckled. “That’s quite a head of hair you have there, boy.” The little fellow gave him a silly looking smile and blinked the sleep from his eyes. JaBrawn looked over at Wendonel. “What do you two normally do in the morning?”

                She sat on the edge of the sofa. “We normally sleep until about eight or nine of the clock. Then we wash up, make breakfast, and practice our letters and numbers. Then we do chores.”

                JaBrawn nodded his approval. “You really have done well for yourselves while your father is away.” He bit his lip momentarily, measuring his words. “You know he is very proud of you.”

                She screwed her face up in annoyance, as if he had just said something ncredibly dim-witted. “Well of course he is, silly. We’re great children.”

                Not really expecting that but still not as surprised as he used to be at her off-center notions, JaBrawn merely paused for a moment, and then continued piling split logs on to his arms.

                “You’re strong,” Wendonel said. “Dada could lift that much wood, but his face turns kind of red and he makes these huffing noises.”

                JaBrawn shrugged.

                “Is this something else about your kind?”

                He was not yet certain if he should be honest about this part of him, but for some reason, that part of him felt that it was not only safe, but that it was a wise idea. He looked at her levelly. “Yes. It is.”

                “You never did tell me what kind you are,” she replied as she rubbed her puffy eyes.

                “That’s true,” he commented, getting up and heading into the cottage. “And I

think I will continue to not tell you for now.”

                She nodded. “Okay. Can you answer me at least one question?”

                He set the pile down, and then turned towards her again. “Actually Wendonel, I’ve answered all your questions.”

                She opened her mouth to speak, but then broke into a grin that spread across her entire face, marveling at the cleverness of what he had said. “That’s right, you did! You just didn’t really tell me anything!” She hopped up and down, and clapped her hands once.

                JaBrawn didn’t even try to stifle his smile, but busied himself with stacking wood in the hearth so as to not make his reaction the center of his presence at the moment. “You are a very smart girl.”

                She squatted near him, watching him work. When he looked up at her, she handed him a handful of kindling. “Not really. I’m smart, but not really, really smart.” She indicated Favius with a nod. He was sitting on the sofa kicking his feet back and forth in midair, staring at nothing. He had seized his bottom lip with his upper teeth, causing him to have a rather rodent-like look on his face. “He is though.”

                JaBrawn peered at him for a moment. “I am certain you’re right.”

                She nodded again. “I usually am. When I’m wrong though, hooooo boy!” She grinned again. “Anyway, will you answer one question with an answer that does really tell me something?”

                He grabbed a few corkscrews of wood shavings from a small crate to the side of the hearth, and set them in a pile at the base of the fire, on which he set an interlocking stack of kindling. He then pulled a flint box from a small iron box on a nearby shelf, and struck a large spark from its surface. It disappeared into the wood shavings, which began to smolder. This stretched into a flickering tongue that licked at the tiers of kindling. With a puff, the flame sputtered then began spread. “I might.” He puffed twice more, and the fire caught in earnest. “Depends on the question.”

                She shook her head. “That’s not fair, that way you can just answer it any way you like.”

                He smirked. “That’s the idea.”

                “Oh, fine then,” she said, raising her voice to the highest level he had yet heard, which was not much at all. “Here it is: Why didn’t you tell my father what had really happened with the monsters? That you killed them all and saved us?”

                He shut the grate on the hearth. “If you promise not to tell your father until I feel the time is right, I will tell you.” She nodded. Favius’ vote, of course, was not needed, though he did appear compliant. He continued, though hesitatingly. “I am not exactly what you could call… ehhh… human. I used to be.” He caught the corner of his mouth briefly with his teeth. This was awkward. “I’m not now.”

                She interrupted briefly. “What changed you?”

                He shook his head. “It was more like realizing that I was always the same. More than that I won’t go into. Not now. Probably not ever.” He knelt on one knee near the hearth, bracing an elbow up on one leg. “Anyway. No normal man could have killed those garulls like I did. Not a boast, just the truth. As strong as your dada is, I’m probably about ten times stronger.”

                She blanched for a moment. Saying such a thing to a child about their father will usually result in a comparative father prowess argument, but Wendonel (and Favius, for that matter, though he did not look nearly as surprised) just seemed to sense somehow that JaBrawn was telling the truth. They were there when he had killed the garulls after all, and had seen everything. They were about as worldly as kittens, but what they saw this great bearded old warrior do could very well be construed as beyond human ability.

                “What else?” She asked quietly.

                His brow furrowed slightly. Wendonel noticed that they looked kind of like two great fuzzy iron caterpillars kissing. “What do you mean?” He asked in reply.

                “What else can your kind do?”

                He hesitated a moment, then a tiny voice in him said, Why not? You’ve been

hiding everything for thirty years now. Of all the people to confess to, a child is probably better than most. He cleared his throat. “Well, I can heal very quickly. Small wounds heal in a few seconds. Most bad ones, including ones that would kill a man instantly, would take a handful of minutes or so. Um… I can smell things that men can’t. Kind of like a trackhound, only a bit better I think. Oh. And the one thing you first asked about, uh…” he distractedly rubbed the back of his neck, “I will eventually die of old age if I never involve myself in battle of any kind. If I do, well, the results vary, but that scuffle with the garulls took a couple years off my hide, I think. That’s about it.” He was rambling and he knew it, but it did not seem to matter.

                Wendonel stood there, not moving, not talking. She looked over at her brother. He sat silently and returned the look. There were tears in both children’s eyes. He suddenly felt foolish, awful, and cold-hearted. He had frightened the poor things mute (well even more muteness for the lad) and now they were just too stunned with the abomination that he was to so much as tremble a lip, and…

                …And then Wendonel lifted a hand and laid it against his cheek. The hand was tiny, cool, and innocent. It was an inconsequential action and sensation, but there was a gentle power in her touch that struck him to his core and pried open something that he had long ago fused shut. Her hand became like a bandage, one that had been soaked in an icy stream and then placed on a steaming, hurting wound.

                Favius slipped from the sofa and walked over to them. At the same time, both brother and sister embraced the scarred old warrior, their tiny frames wrapped around his vast bulk. He could not understand why this simple gesture moved him so, but he felt the slow filling of his chest with cool surrender, of surrender to grief that he had not faced in years. He had shouldered this burden for so long now, that even considering the idea of setting it down at the behest of someone else was something he had not done since time immemorial.

                He did not know how long he knelt there, but throughout it Wendonel and Favius held him. They held him as softly and tenderly as his own mother had when he was a child, though she was dust in a grave thousands of miles away. He mused inwardly that the fact he was kneeling seemed very appropriate to these two noble little souls.

                After it had passed, he gently extricated himself from their little embrace. He meant to ask them what they had done, but it was instantly clear. Somehow, their little gesture had let him free his pain, a pain that had burrowed deep into his heart and poisoned his soul for centuries. It was a pain that only grew as he tried to swallow it down and squelch it out, and every friend that died on the battlefield, every loved one that fell to the tireless walk of age while he stayed youthful, fed it to the point where it defined him more than anything else, or at least, he had convinced himself that it had. All that he loved would die around him because he was a monstrosity, and he could tell no one.

                Except that here, in this little hovel, he had, and now it was beaten. It was still there, but more as a nicked and battered bookshelf of memories and knowledge, rather than a malignant keep of anguish, like a ragged scar, but no longer a wound.

                He sat for several seconds, breathing heavily, his hands resting lightly on their shoulders. Finally, he found his voice. “Children… I have not felt emotion such as that for… well, for a very long time. I had it under keyless lock for many, many years. How did you do that?”

                “We didn’t do it, really,” Wendonel said. “We just turned your eyes towards a mess in you that you needed to clean up.” This was logical enough. She stepped back now, and peered into his earth and emerald eyes. “It was the least we could do for you, because we know what you are, JaBrawn. We know!” Her voice rose to an excited squeal.

                He could not help but smile. It felt as if a great blotch of tar had been scrubbed from his soul. “And what am I?”

                She took his face in her tiny hands. “You’re the answer to our prayers!”

                JaBrawn looked in surprise from Wendonel to Favius who was nodding vigorously, causing his great mane of disheveled hair to bob up and down like a rooster comb.

 

~*~

 

                The Town Hall was a long squat building made from row upon row of crude clay bricks. It was the first structure made after the huts were torn down ages ago, and had stood strong and immovable ever since. Much of the surrounding township, especially the older inns, shops and warehouses, followed a similar cut. This noble trait had been twisted by most of the elder council members into a backwards, naïve stubbornness that tended to push logic out of the way of saving face. Derrig had known this since he was a boy felling redwoods with his father.

                He had accompanied his father to an inquiry against him, when he had refused to pay taxes that had nearly doubled since the year before with no appreciable difference in public services. The board would hear nothing of his concerns, and threatened to have his house annexed by the magistrate. The magistrate, though a sterner man than he who held that title today, refused to involve himself. His father had had no choice. He paid the difference, plus a penalty. Those councilmen had since gone to their graves, though their replacements were no better. Some who were old enough to remember both would say even worse.

                Derrig reined in his horse as he neared the hall. He dismounted in one fluid

movement, and then fettered the reins to a row of hitches near the entrance. There was a respectable amount of commotion at that hour in town, but this was not really all that unusual. Logging towns tend to rise early, as cutting trees is the kind of work that one wants to do when it is reasonably cool, and prepping the timber into lumber is a large, time-consuming industry.

Derrig approached the main doors of the hall, which was flanked by two guardsmen. These men not only knew him well, they were under his command in the magistrate’s personal guard. They both looked grim and uncomfortable at the situation. As one they turned and faced each other at attention, allowing him entrance.

                Derrig stopped just before them. “Here now, lads. Just because we serve the magistrate together does not mean any of us, including myself, are above the rules he makes. Now, by the book, please.”

                The guard on his left sighed deeply, but nodded his acceptance. “State your

business then.”

                Derrig nodded. “Sergeant Derrig Thresher of His Magistrate’s Guardsmen,

reporting as commanded by the Camdur High Council for an official inquiry.”

                The same guard held out a reluctant gauntleted hand. “Your papers and weapons, please.” Derrig handed both to him.

The speaking guardsman handed his pair of throwing axes to his partner and then silently read Derrig’s summons. After a moment he nodded through a frown. “You may pass, Sergeant.”

                “Thank you, Sergeant.”

                Official business dealt with, Derrig entered the hall and descended a staircase, as the entire structure was partially underground, bespeaking its age as all the oldest buildings were constructed this way when the town was founded. There were several benches lining its redwood-lined belly, facing the rear of two podiums that in turned faced the wide, high bench of dark oak behind which the five councilmen sat. The council spokesperson, Gar Serbis, a somewhat deceptively disheveled and unkempt man who was actually as sharp as a falcon, sat unperturbed at its center. The other four were seated in pairs on either side of him. Derrig approached until his distance from them was halved, awaiting his official recognition by the council.

                “Approach your podium Sergeant,” Serbis said with a hand gesture and a smile.

                Saying nothing, Derrig walked the remainder of the distance to the podium on his left. He stood impassively, staring at a spot that was almost directly in front of him but in truth did not exist at all. He was thinking of his wife, and how much he missed her. O how she would have liked to stay alive long enough to have testified here, in front of these cranky old muck-wallowers.

                Behind him, he heard the door click open and shut. Someone with an audible

(and most likely exaggerated) limp made his way to that same halfway point, and, as

Derrig had, awaited permission to continue.

                “Approach your podium, Captain,” Serbis said.

                Derrig smirked slightly. So, they were still calling Unger Whitley, windowsill

spy extraordinaire, by his retired rank? How touching.

                The guardsmen by the door followed behind Whitley and took places behind both he and Derrig. He could not see either of them, but he knew that they had their hands on their weapons as protocol decreed.

                As soon as Whitley had taken his place, Serbis stood. His hair was uneven and greasy, his tunic and vest rumpled, and his face unshaven. Both Unger and Derrig knew this to be a ruse, but if that knowledge were truly some sort of advantage, it was a small one.

                “You are here, Sergeant Derrig Thresher, because of concerns brought to the

council’s attention by Mr. Unger Whitley, your caring and observant neighbor...” Unger lifted his chin and nodded shortly. Serbis continued, “...who is interested in nothing other than the well-being of both your soul and mind, and the same of your two children. Do you understand all that I have said?”

                Derrig scowled in his mind. Concern? The nerve of the old vulture! He comprehended the words, but not the thinking. “I understand what you have said,” Derrig said carefully.

                Serbis nodded abruptly and took his seat. “Excellent. As long as everyone present keeps in mind that this entire inquiry is taking place with intentions that are more to keep safe and sound a broken family than to break it further,” he hovered briefly over these words, “then its inevitable conclusion will no doubt be reached that much sooner.” He cleared his throat and lifted a hand towards Whitley. “Captain Whitley? Your presentations, please.”

                Unger glared briefly at Derrig whilst pulling a rough roll of brown parchment from his inside coat pocket. He was quite a sight, really, with his tufts of wild white hair standing up like errant goose down attracted to a feather grabbing lodestone, his lips cinched tight into a wrinkled purse, and his eyes accusatory lumps of coal. Oh yes, filled to the brim with concern and loving, neighborly care, this one.

                “Councilman Serbis, and all you other esteemed councilmen... of the council,” Derrig stifled something that was half groan half chuckle. Whitley was oblivious. “Please allow me to present the findings that my lovely and appropriate wife, Irga, and myself observed this past night, on the day of Freeday, on the eighth turn of the season of Sanguinneth, High King’s year of 1721…” His fumbling words worked no small effect on the council. Most men with hearts and senses of humor would have found it difficult to listen to such lingual buggery without biting back a laugh. The council, however, wore faces showing various stages of what appeared to be nausea.

                Serbis said, “Continue, good Captain.”

                Whitley began reading off an account of what he saw and at what time, from the

evening of JaBrawn’s arrival. It was an exhaustive effort in which he no doubt took great pride and care, for it took him the better part of fifteen minutes to prattle it off. He had apparently begun it at the time of his rising that morning.

                Amazingly, every last councilman sat completely still and with no complaint either verbal or inferred. In fact, they appeared quite fascinated with Whitley’s account of when Favius and Wendonel lay out in the sun and giggled when an oak leaf drifted from its tree and settled on Favius’ nose. They grumbled and clucked when he recanted how, not an hour later, they left on their own to places unknown and beyond the safe confines of the town limits. Then, with great fervor and while staring directly at Derrig, Whitley barked off an entry that signified the beginning of his true concern.

                “18 and 20 of the clock: Thresher is already home when a very large man riding atop an even more larger warhorse covered with a great lot of scars and with an obvious foul and ill temperament rides up from the West with Thresher’s children in his custody.” He paused for what he thought was effect. “The fellow was as broad as two men with a face that has no doubt seen nothing but pain and suffering. There is a strange weapon strapped to the back of his saddle. It looks to be a footman’s mace.” Here he again paused to give a lengthy description of the characteristics of a footman’s mace, including several popular methods by which they are employed. Once, a councilman cleared his throat with the beginnings of impatience. Whitley continued. “The thing that was an obvious weapon had the handle of a footman’s mace, but the striking end was a huge shiny sphere the likes of which I have never seen.” The fact that he had never seen its like was said with the same impact as would a master vintner who had sampled a grape from a vineyard with which he was completely unfamiliar.

                Serbis pursed his lips. “Is that all good Captain?”

                Whitley shook his head dramatically. “No sir, I fear it is not.”

                Serbis nodded. “Continue then.”

                Derrig rolled his eyes. “By the gods Serbis, how much more must you hear before you realize that this dried up old blowhard is doing nothing but bellowing a furnace that isn’t lit?”

                Serbis clucked at him. “Sergeant, you will be given relevant allowance for rebuttal. Now please, remain at peace. At that time, which will come I assure you, I would additionally remind you that you are to refer to myself and my esteemed peers by our titles or not at all. Do you understand?”

                Derrig, of course, expected nothing other. He had just hoped that there was some flicker of common sense that would supersede all of this nonsense and reveal its foundation: Nothing. He nodded resignedly.

                “Excellent.” Serbis looked back at Whitley who was staring at Derrig with his arms crossed. “Continue, good Captain.”

                “Thank you, Councilman Serbis. As I was saying, the man had a look of just

unspeakable malice and evil. His garments were all dark and patched up, no doubt from years of use and wear doing the gods know what sorts of deeds. When he pulled up to the Thresher farmstead, he spoke something to the horse, and it trotted off without hesitation as if it understood completely.”

                Serbis held up a hand to silence him briefly, and then turned his attention to

Derrig. “Sergeant, were you aware of this?”

                Derrig shook his head. “No, Councilman, I was not. Then again, if Mr. Whitley can be taught how to speak, it would not be unreasonable for a horse –”

                “Sergeant,” Serbis muttered, closing his eyes as Whitley let loose a strangled

gasp, “I have known you since you were a boy, have I not?”

                Derrig nodded grudgingly. “Yes, Councilman.”

                “I have watched you grow and fall in love and marry and have children, and have approved. Believe it or not, yes, I do approve of you and your family. I also grieved when you lost your wife.” Derrig stiffened. “However, I also know you to be hot-tempered and confrontational.” Serbis glared at him. “Despite my fondness for you, Sergeant, one more outburst like that and your case will be presented, weighed, and decided upon whilst you wait in chains in the cell house. Do I make myself clear?”

                Derrig took a long breath in and out through his nose. “Yes, Councilman, perfectly clear. I will rein in my temper.”

                Serbis relaxed into his seat. “Very well then.” He bade Whitley continue.

                And continue he did. Listed in neat chronological order were any and all events which had transpired at the Thresher household that Whitley or his wife could observe from their window.

                Of recurring note was JaBrawn’s horse. “It was never tethered, yet it stayed near the house throughout the evening and into the morning. Such behavior for an animal is unheard of,” he preached. “Horses wander away, even well-trained ones. It is their nature.”

                He finally put away his notes and took a deep, dramatic breath. “It is the

opinion of I, Unger Whitley, retired from the Camdur militia with the rank of Captain,

servant to our town in war and peace, and a member of its community that wishes to see no harm befall her or any of her residents, no matter how unseemly they might be,” he shot a look over at Derrig who blithely ignored him, “that Sergeant Derrig Thresher and his children be separated and remanded to the care of our warrick for spiritual investigation, and that the stranger be asked kindly to leave our town. If he resists, we should reply with whatever force is needed, as such resistance would admit guilt as clearly as if he had said as much with his own lips.” And he was finished. Eyeing the Council confidently, he awaited their response to his masterpiece of observation.

                “Are your concerns leveled in their totality then, Captain?” Serbis asked.

                Whitley nodded. “That they are, Councilman Serbis.” The look on his face

showed unspeakable pride and self-gratifying smugness. It was disgusting.

                Serbis tilted his head in Derrig’s direction. “You may, within reason, relevance, and respect, rebut, Sergeant.”

                Derrig cleared his throat. “Thank you, Councilman. As you very well know, I lost my wife Aria some six ardens back. She was to stand at a board of inquiry such as this but her health failed immediately beforehand. Her ailment, strange as it was, stood as a stigma of sorts to our little community. People react to the unknown with fear, and to fear with anger.” He clenched his jaw. “Anger breeds thoughts that result in nothing more than destruction, either physical, mental, or spiritual. With my dearly departed wife, it was all three.” He looked up, directly into Serbis’ eyes. “I take it you still have all the letters I sent you concerning her malady? The notes and reports from both her family and a much esteemed panel of warricks all the way from the royal city?”

                Serbis said and did nothing for several seconds, letting the direct, unavoidable question hang in the air. Finally, he nodded gravely. “Yes, Sergeant. I do.”

                Derrig inhaled sharply through his nose. He was not expecting such a

straightforward answer. “I never did hear back from you, Councilman. Did these documents avail her standing with you and the Council?”

                Serbis paused again, weighing his answer carefully. “They did to us personally, Sergeant, but…she passed away before her inquiry. We found it an extraneous expenditure of time and resources to posthumously pass an official ruling either for or against the accusations of possession.”

                Derrig stood silently. “All these years, I had thought there were different reasons for your ruling... or lack of ruling, that is.”

                Serbis was unreadable. “Your thoughts are, of course, free to go where they may. Please continue.”

                Derrig wasted not a second. “I had thought that you had deigned not to rule

because you were afraid of the implications associated with either verdict. If you ruled that she was under the wiles of a demon, then you risk the reputation of the entire town. If you ruled that she was not, you risk the ire of the townspeople themselves, for their own personal fears, however unfounded, would demand closure.” He laid his eyes on Serbis, while his face remained impassive. “And it would not have done much to foster trust amongst your subordinates and the townspeople at large, after having been so very wrong about one of our citizens. A precedent would have been set.”

                Serbis pursed his lips while the other councilmen fell into a small symphony of throat clearing. “It was, then, of very timely general occurrence, however personally unfortunate, that she passed when she did.”

                Derrig felt his stomach plummet at the cold presentation of Serbis’ statement. The logic, however, was clear. “In this single sense, yes.”

                Serbis inclined his head. “Please go on.”

                Derrig’s soul quaked, but he tapped into a dwindling store of resolve and calmed his voice. “Yes, of course.” He took a quick breath and pressed on. “After her death, I noticed that the people of Camdur began to regard me and my children with discomfort and outright avoidance in some cases. I believe that Mr. Whitley’s participation in my wife’s investigation had some part in it, though I have no direct proof.”

                “Then its mention is of no consequence,” Serbis interrupted. “Continue.”

                Derrig bristled at this idle dismissal but pushed past it. “My children do not have any real friends because of all this. They can only really entertain themselves, which most likely explains the event with the squirrel. Wendonel has been outside playing with woodland creatures for the past two or so years. They’re nothing more than cleverly tutored pets. Mr. Whitley insists on maintaining his ridiculous vigil on both me and my children in desperate hopes that he will witness any unusual situation, however trivial, to transform into a dire community emergency, and all to puff up his own sagging ego.” He looked at Whitley, who was staring at some spot on the floor, though the tip of his nose and his ears were glowing crimson.

                Serbis leaned forward. “Your proof for these claims?”

                Derrig shrugged. “Just look at the facts, Councilman. He brings charges of

demonic possession against Aria with silly evidence, however, the stigma of mere

accusation is enough to effectively ostracize us from the rest of the town. After Aria’s

death, he continues with new pointless accusations against my own children.” Derrig

ground his teeth together. “And he sees nothing but opportunity when a stranger rides

into Camdur with my children on his horse’s back, and who had just saved their lives.”

                The councilman’s thin eyebrows lifted. “Did he now? Under what circumstances?”

                Derrig inwardly swore an oath. He had hoped to bring this information in a bit more gently than this. “They were out playing in the fields near Graydon’s Wood. Yes, I know that is very far from town for two young children to wander, and I will deal with their discipline in due time. In any case, JaBrawn Marshada, this gentleman traveler who is to be vilified by the number of patches on his tunic,” he shot Whitley a barbed gaze that was very poorly returned, “snatched my daughter and son from being killed by a pack of garulls.”

                The council, even Serbis, reacted with shock in varying degrees. Serbis, of course, recovered the quickest, throwing his hands out to his sides. “Quiet. I said quiet!” They silenced. “Sergeant, to whose believability do you adhere this account? This… Marshada’s?”

                He nodded. “Yes, Councilman. His and my children’s.”

                Serbis frowned with one side of his mouth. “What makes you think that they

weren’t lying?”

                “My children would never lie to me, Councilman. And JaBrawn, well, he

neither came off as the lying sort, nor did he have any reason to lie. In fact, he was

reluctant to tell me about it, but he felt it was in the best interests of my family’s, and our town’s to do so.”

                “Yet you had never met the man before?”

                “No, Councilman. I had not.”

                “And it was with this man that Captain Whitley saw you speaking late into the night?”

                “It would seem so.”

                “It would also seem that he made quite an impression on you, Sergeant.”

                “A kindly stranger who rescues my children from monsters and then extends this

kindness with good conversation and polite company? Yes. I would guess he would leave similar impressions on just about anyone.”

                Serbis nodded. “I have heard enough. Thank you both for your testimonies.”

                Derrig’s mouth fell open. “Enough? Councilman, I have yet to declare my

presentation completely, please hear…”

                Serbis cut him off sharply. “Please do not presume to tell me or my associates how to do our judicial duties, Sergeant. I had said that you may level any relevant testimony, and you have. We have enough information to render a judgment. Return to your homes. I will send word to both of you concerning our decision.”

                Derrig pointed angrily at Whitley, his composure slipping. “You went out of your way to make certain that he had said all he wanted to say! Why am I not afforded the same measure of - ”

                Serbis quite nearly leapt to his feet. “Sergeant Thresher, this council has

spoken!”

                And that was it. Gar Serbis and his cohorts turned and hastily exited out two

doors behind them, where yet another chamber awaited, a chamber where lives are decided for or against, bolstered up, or shattered. Derrig stared at their backs, stunned

into silence. It was absolutely clear then what this entire thing had been.

                A ruse. A technicality. A going-through-the-motions.

                He snapped his mouth shut and turned without another word, storming past

Whitley who recoiled and glared at him.

                Shoving at the entrance door, the two guardsmen both drew weapons in reaction to Derrig’s sudden appearance. He paid attention to neither of them, who, once seeing who he was, sheathed their weapons dutifully and returned to their posts. He wrenched his axes from their places in the safe box, and then fairly raced to his horse. He leapt on her back, yanked on her reins, and pointed her towards home. She panicked slightly, but obeyed and trotted off. Once clear of the nearest buildings, he spurred the horse into a gallop, which was forbidden within town limits.

                He did not care.

                He remembered pointedly what he had said to JaBrawn right before his departure and to the guardsmen upon his arrival, about being a man of the law and so

eternally bound to it, but here and now, he denounced such thinking. To the hells with

ordinances and charters and regulations. They were supposed to protect the innocent, but in the end laws only bind those who are willingly bound by them. To those in power who cared not a whit, they were hardly an inconvenience. If they could not be circumvented or altered, they were simply ignored.

                He wanted to get home, to hold his daughter and son and tell them how much he loved and cherished them, to tell them how happy a father they had made him. He knew now that everything had been stacked against him from the outset. His and his children’s fates had been decided long ago.

                What a hopeful fool he had been.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 7

 

                Ummon at first intended to create his own gods of the seasons, when strange

happenings began to take shape of their own volition. Barely formed entities harboring only the vaguest sense of their own existence began to evolve awareness in the aether between realms of reality. They too were formed from the wishes and whims of mortals, but only in the tiniest sense. The great majority withered away into oblivion, but a very few, with enough faith or following, came into being as an orphaned cadre of lesser gods. Ummon marveled. Some were of less than reputable origins, but none were truly evil. Their very existence was a testament to the same desires that created him. There was only one true difference between him and them, and that difference seemed to pale when he realized that will alone could cause such a phenomenon.

                The application of this will is often as simple as someone in dire straits praying to whatever god will liste, but many times one will be invented either in jest or seriousness and knowledge of it will pass on to others. Whether intentional or not, even rumor can sprout divine existence when enough attention and desire are bent to it for a long enough period of time. At first it is almost invariably a primal, childish force, and can dissipate quickly when left to its own antics as a barely sentient being, but under the right circumstances it can mature.

                As its self-awareness grows, a need for an identity will often move it to choose a name and gender and make this known to a follower. However, occasionally a follower has already given it a name that they find pleasing and summarily adopt. Some of these gods are: Perrequin, the goddess of wealth, Nimblek, the god of trickery and thieves, Harrowis, the god of the harvest, and Zertana, the goddess of archery.

                Deeming these lesser gods as gifts of providence rather than things to be reviled, Ummon embraced four child-like gods that had materialized after a century of prayer for each season had birthed them. He then named them after the four seasons: Surcease, Rebirth, Arden, and Sanguinneth. All they needed was a father to keep them cooperative and bolstering of one another.

                A dying old man, his children married and wealthy in ways far beyond coin due to his upbringing, made a prayer to Ummon seconds before his death. He thanked his god for his gifts, and if he could be granted a single wish, it would be to have the honor of being a father all over again.

                Ummon was so moved by this selfless, noble yearning, he granted the dying man’s wish beyond any expectations he could have had. He gave him back his youth, gave him final say other than his own in any matters involving the influence of the seasons, and gave him a new name: Tesseroch.

               

                “You will find out when you’re supposed to find out. Right now, you’re not

supposed to find out.”

                JaBrawn scowled and came close to demanding some answers when a notion struck him. “You don’t even know, do you?”

                Wendonel and Favius looked at each other and then back to him. Then they both shook their heads. “No, we don’t. We just know it’s true. Isn’t it wonderful?”

                He sighed sharply. “Yes, I’m sure it is. I’m also sure that both you and your brother are more than you appear to be.”

                She looked at him curiously. “Whatever do you mean?”

                “Well, over the years I’ve encountered different kinds of beings from all walks of life. Some of them are simply more gifted than others.”

                “Gifted how? Like taller or smarter than other people?”

                “Well… that can be part of it, but that’s not exactly what I mean. What I do mean is that they can do things or make things happen that most other people can’t.”

                “Oh!” Wendonel exclaimed. “Like Mother!”

                JaBrawn’s features pinched with curiosity. “Perhaps. What did she do?”

                “She could do all kinds of things: things that she said Favius and I could learn how to do eventually. She could heal with her hands, she could talk to animals, she could even call to them without making any noise. She could start a fire with a look, she could see into the future, kind of, she could make it rain (well she couldn’t exactly make it rain, she said that when the time was right she could talk the clouds into making rain fall), she could sometimes make people change their minds or read their minds though she hated doing that, and she taught Fave and I how to see the Redmen…”

                JaBrawn, exasperated, raised a hand. “She could do all of these things? Are you sure?” They nodded enthusiastically. “Was she a warrick?”

                They both shook their heads just as enthusiastically. “No. She says that warricks have to use their spirit to call on power that’s around them for their warra to work. Some have louder voices than others, and that’s what makes some warricks more powerful than others. The people that Mother came from used warra that was inside them to make things happen. And the more you practiced using it, the stronger it got, like your muscles.” She said this with a grin as Favius curled both arms up in a flexing pose.

                JaBrawn had heard of such people in his travels, but only in the context of ancient history or even myths. And like a suddenly still pond, he could clearly see why Whitley had been such an ass. Most closed-minded people would view even the smallest example of what Wendonel had described with fear.

                Wendonel’s smile faded. “She died before she could tell us what her people were. She did say that we’d find out eventually. We’d know when the time was right.”

                JaBrawn snorted. “Somewhat like when I’ll know why I am to be ‘the answer to your prayers’?”

                She beamed at him. “JaBrawn you are so clever! Yes, it will be exactly like that! It may even be at the same time!”

                She and Favius collapsed in fits of giggles. JaBrawn did not feel so inclined.

“What prayers were you making?”

                The children abruptly ceased their tittering and Wendonel sat up, her happy

demeanor replaced with a look of grim solemnity. She looked at Favius who nodded

seriously. “Favius and I started having the same dream about a year ago. Something

horrible will happen here, something that would kill everyone here and destroy the town. This something will not stop here nor will it start here. It will simply reach here at some point.” Her eyes fell to her lap, where they glazed over a bit. “When they started, Fave and I had them about four or five times. Then it went to once every two turns, then one turn, then three days, and then every night, until last night.” Favius’ chin was set in a manner that showed nothing but strength, even for his tender years, but there was weariness in his eyes.

                “Have you told your father this?”

                She shook her head. “No, it would only worry him. Either we are both mad and need to be locked up, or we are right and everything we know and love will end.”

                JaBrawn blinked in disbelief. “How, by the breath of my forefathers, am I the answer to your prayers?”

                The two children slyly looked at each other, then back to him. “Well…ever since that first night of the dreams, we have been praying to Ummon that he will send someone to deliver us from this terrible fate. Someone big and strong, stronger than the strongest warrior here, and… well, last night we had the same dream, but there was more in it. We dreamt that we were looking up at a big bright hole in the sky. Mother and Father were sitting at a golden table and waving at us, smiling. I don’t know why we weren’t there, but…” she shrugged.

                JaBrawn was moved by her touching story, but his question had yet to be fully answered. “That’s a nice dream Wendonel, but again, why is it that you think I am the answer to these prayers of yours?”

                She looked at him as if he had just turned purple and sprouted a cauliflower out of both ears. “Well last night was the first night you stayed with us. You had already saved us from the garulls, though they are not really what the problem is. And you said you’re really strong. And just now, when we showed you the mess inside your heart? Favius looked into your future. He can do that when he touches someone, sometimes. I can see the past, but I have to be staring at something pretty.”

                JaBrawn blinked at her.

                “Of course, you can’t hear him say anything.” She continued. “I’m the only one who can. Anyway, in your future, he saw you standing at the entrance to our town with a bunch of other people looking all mad like you usually do, only a lot more.” She grinned widely and clapped her hands. “There was no doubt about it. Whatever is going to attack is going to have to go through you first, and there is no way they are going to do that.”

                JaBrawn leaned forward, holding his great shaggy head in his hands. “So…

allow me to sort things a bit: You have been having nightmares about losing the entire

town and everyone in it?”

                “Yes.”

                “You have been having these nightmares for a year, and they have become more and more frequent until you and your brother have them every night?”

                “Yes.”

                “Then, I rescue your foolish little hides from a pack of garulls and spirit you away home, and that night you not only have the same nightmares, but they now are added to by another dream where you see your mother and father sitting at a golden table through a hole in the sky…”

                “Yes.”

                This struck a chord of memory in him. “Does your family belong to the Ummonic faith?”

                She again gave that look of stupefaction at his idiocy. “You don’t have to belong to it. It just is.”

                JaBrawn nodded. “Right. And you have interpreted from your brother who can’t speak…”

                “Who chooses not to speak.”

                “...Right, who chooses not to speak, that because I am standing in front of your town looking agitated, that I am going to save everyone and everything?”

                “Yes!” Wendonel exclaimed. Even Favius was bouncing up and down on the sofa and making little happy noises.

                “Even if all I’m going to do is be stomped into a puddle by a dragon?”

                They both shook their heads the instant the question was out of his mouth. “That’s not going to happen. We can’t see the outcome, but we know you’re not going to fall.”

                He scowled at them both, his arms folded across his chest.

                Wendonel’s smile suddenly became strained. “JaBrawn, you can’t fall! You just can’t!”

                His heart plunged. They did not know after all, though there was no doubt in his mind that these children had some sort of gift with predicting the future and glimpsing the past – most likely amongst several other gifts. He did not know what to say to them. Shortly it did not matter anyway, for just then their father came galloping up as if pursued by demons.

 

Chapter 8

 

                Darkness and Light, the opposite brother and sister gods that embody these

starkest perceptions of reality, keep their respective spheres free of confusion,

misinterpretation, and threat of obliteration. Darkness does not limit itself to simply the opposite of light. It is the world of shadow and concealed intent, including evil but not limiting itself to it. The Dark Warricks wield warra spun through the elemental sphere of darkness. To what ends this power is used lies in their hands. The Warricks of Light likewise would wield their warra through their respective sphere, though they are just as unhindered as to their true motives. The healing of flesh and the abolishment of ailment and curse are just as useful to those of evil persuasion as they are those of good.

                Above it all are the Brother of Darkness, Shadrian, and his Sister of Light, Raymia. Though they squabble and bicker, they are decent beings at their core, aware of their charge of lording over their divergesses, and know that one truly cannot exist without the other, and each a constant reminder to the other that even in total darkness a spark can light the way.

 

                Alvis, the Ummonic High Priest of Fremett, was not a very nice man. In the

deepest depths of his heart and on the surface of his manner he meant well. Everything between these two layers was questionable. He believed in the teachings of the Ummonic holy book of the Rand, and he strove to follow them as closely as he felt was reasonable, but he was only human after all. Humans fail. They succumb. They sin.

                This turn’s tithes totaled a bit more than 3000 dracos in various coin. The

amount that went to the ruling classes and special interests went into one pile. The amount that went into his coffers went into a second pile. The amount that remained, some 430 dracos, went towards the various charities and orphanages throughout Fremett, and the church itself. It was enough to keep them going and to keep the bellies that they served full, but only barely. This fact was enough to quiet his morals. The meager coin did what it was meant to do. Never mind that most of it went to people who were already rich and that a significant portion of it lined his holdings, which had long since become more than respectable. It was a tough life, serving Ummon. He deserved it. He also deserved the golden hemmed robes he wore on Fasday Worship, the large estate overlooking his vineyards, the full serving staff, the stables with four pricey horses that pulled his coach, and the prostitute that would be visiting him at his home this evening. It was the only way to wholly control debauchery: Give into it once in a while. Deflate the pressures in your soul so that they do not rule you.

                He shoveled the coin into their respective steel boxes and placed them against the wall of the strong room at the back of the church. Hefting himself to his feet, he shuffled his substantial bulk out the door, locked all of the locks, and made his way to his carriage. He barked an order at his driver, who was lounging about at an open-air aleworks across from the church (a placement of brilliant marketing strategy) and was

soon inside its cozy confines and off to home. He wanted to have a quick meal, pretty

himself up, and get nice and drunk by the time his favorite evening wares vendor arrived, so that it would take that much longer for him to be satisfied. When he was sober he was both paranoid and overly excited and the task was over and done with far too soon for his money. Yes, he would make certain that at least a night of it would be made.

                Perhaps even a morning as well.

 

~*~

 

                “Children! Gather your things, we are leaving at once!” Derrig bellowed as he leapt off his horse like a man half his age.

                JaBrawn leaned out the doorway, alarmed. “What has happened?”

                “Madness!” Derrig growled, his eyes wild, his face flushed with anger. “Complete and utter madness! The Camdur Town Council is a gathering of crowd-pleasing cowards who want to put me and my children away for the rest of our lives,

while painting a benevolent, kind-hearted portrait over top of the whole thing! Pfah!”

He stomped into his cottage, shoving the door inward so hard it nearly jumped from its hinges.

                JaBrawn gingerly followed him. “What did they say?”

                He pushed his question aside for the moment. “Favius! Wendonel! Collect as many possessions as you think you will need! Hurry now!” He pulled open a cupboard where a large sack of woven roughcloth lay folded. “What did they say? Nothing! Nothing at all!”

                JaBrawn had seen men and women get angered to the point where even

reasonable questions, in fact, especially reasonable questions, did nothing more than

puff on a flame that was substantial already. “Derrig, forgive me, but I have a stupid

question: What sort of nothing are you talking about?”

                Derrig threw his hands up in the air. “The entire ordeal was a book of smoke, a ruse, a set of procedures that had to be followed to the letter but not to the spirit! They had already decided our fate before I even stepped foot in the meeting hall! To the hells with fighting this place! We are leaving!”

                Wendonel and Favius appeared, each carrying a small sack of belongings. The boy’s eyes were rimmed with tears. Wendonel’s were not, though she appeared on the verge of them. “Dada,” she said with a wavering voice, “what’s going on?”

                He turned and looked at his son and daughter. In hardly a moment his rage deflated like a punctured bellows. Kneeling, he gently grasped her shoulders. “Oh, little fire fairy.” He smiled over at his son, tousling his hair like he always did. This time no smile came from it. “And my little frown slayer. We are leaving this godsforsaken place once and for all. We’ll start over where there aren’t so many narrow-sighted people. How does that sound?”

                The children cast a quick glance at each other, and then back to their father.

At once, they grew even more tearful, making their nearly luminescent blue eyes sparkle like crystal. “We can’t leave, Dada.” She sucked back a sob that made her little form shake. “I’m so sorry, but we can’t. Not right now.”

                His forced smile faded. “You can’t... what in the world do you mean?”

                She paused as another snuffling shudder overtook her. “We can’t…” she lifted one hand in frustration and then slapped it down on her hip. “…We can’t tell you.”

                “I don’t understand, why can’t you tell me? I thought there were never any

secrets between us, eh?” He smiled again, his dark beard splitting almost comically, though anger simmered beneath the show. When he saw their unchanged faces, as if

they had both put on masks of misery, his smile drained away again. He turned to

JaBrawn, scowling. “Do you know what’s going on? What they’re talking about?”

                JaBrawn hesitated and then nodded solemnly. “And I think they might even be right.”

                He peered from JaBrawn to his children and then back again, baffled and

frustrated. “Why won’t they tell me?”

                JaBrawn sighed miserably. He did not want to be in the middle of this. “I think it’s because they’re afraid you won’t believe them.”

                Wendonel glared at him with an ugly look. “JaBrawn, that’s not so and you know it!”

                JaBrawn sent a much, much uglier look in return. “Wendonel, you swore that this would not be told until the time was right.”

                The girl began to shake.

                Derrig stood and stared at JaBrawn. “What oath is this you have taken with my

children, JaBrawn?”

                JaBrawn lifted his hands in what he hoped was a calming gesture. “Derrig, all of this would have been revealed to you, I just didn’t want you to worry about it at the time.”

                “All of what, exactly?” Derrig hissed between clenched teeth at him. “What

did you not want me to worry about, and what secret do you and my children share?”

                Favius sprinted over to his father and grabbed him by his tunic, his mouth wide open in a soundless scream, and his eyes pinched. He tugged and tugged at him. Derrig lifted him and gently set him to the side, all the while staring directly into JaBrawn’s eyes. “What sort of man makes secrets with them that he does not share with their father?”

                This had gotten so bitterly complicated that JaBrawn resisted a sudden urge to turn and bolt for the door and Grendel’s back. Instead he said, “Derrig, I swear on my honor I have nothing but virtuous intentions, it’s just that… well… please, give me a moment to explain.”

                Derrig heard none of it and blurted out in a short, derisive laugh. “And here I

was saying to myself over and over, ‘You’ve only known him a night and yet you leave your children with him. What kind of father are you?’ But you seemed so damned trustworthy, JaBrawn! Tell me,” and in a flash, his two axes were in his hands, “was this marvelous sense I had about your worth reliable, or have I made yet another mistake in judgement?”

                JaBrawn’s blood pounded in his head at such an accusation. He felt a spark of anger strike in his heart, but he smothered it. Derrig had obviously had a very bad day with the council, and was not thinking clearly. He focused his keen nose on Derrig’s axes and found no scent of warra on them, but they would still hurt plenty and frighten the children. He backed up towards the door.

                “Derrig, calm yourself. Your sense of me is sound. There is just more to me than I had at first let on, about who I am and where I came from. Your children, in their, I have come to realize, rather strange way, discovered this. I have committed no evil here, I promise you.”

                He attempted to look as unthreatening as his six-and-a-half-foot frame would allow, all the time realizing how silly such an attempt must seem. Yet, somehow, it seemed to be working, for his new and very angry friend paused, his weapons wavering.

                “I find what you say as believable as it is odd, for some reason, though this could just as easily be that same silver tongue dancing like an expensive whore. My mind says cut out your heart, yet my heart wishes to accept as true – and even wise – what you say, as I did when you said that you were an honorable man, JaBrawn. Are you?”

                JaBrawn looked at him, exasperated. “Yes, you stubborn idiot, yes!”

                The two men stared at each other for several seconds. The children were mute statues in the background behind Derrig, who finally calmed down altogether. He peered into this huge, burly savior of his flesh and blood’s eyes and found truth there, somehow. There was something else there as well, something deep and cold, but not evil. He slipped his axes into their loops on his belt. Wendonel and Favius rushed to his embrace.

                “He has done nothing, Dada, other than take care of us like you asked him to.” Wendonel said, burying her face in his tunic. “He’s not a bad man at all, he’s just kind of always grumpy, you’ll see, I promise!”

                Derrig clutched them to him fiercely, as a sudden feeling of foolishness gripped him. He looked up at the old warrior. “Forgive me, JaBrawn. I have had a pretty ugly day, and I daresay it shows.”

                JaBrawn shook his head sardonically. “Have you now? I never would have

guessed.”

                Derrig gave a short laugh, and then turned serious again. “I feel that I have

misunderstood your intentions, but I still mislike what you have done. Know this as truth, traveler: If you in any way harm my children or, through cowardice or intent, allow them to come to harm, I will kill you where you stand, friend or no.”

                JaBrawn diplomatically said, “Understood, but understand this right back at you: It will never come to that, Derrig. I promise you. Now, what in the name of my grandfather’s beard happened today?”

                Derrig’s face suddenly went tight with panic. “Oh gods, I’ve been such a fool wasting seconds with my tantrum! I haven’t the time to tell you, they might take all day to deliberate or they may only need an hour. In any case, we must leave immediately or…” he paused as he saw the look on JaBrawn’s face, as well as the slight twitching of his nose, like he was sniffing the air.

                Derrig's mouth parted in question, but then he heard them.

                Horses.

 

~*~

 

                Ummonic High Priest Alvis was plumped and primped and primed for the night’s events. He had set out a very fine set of silk sheets, several different kinds of drink, and enough mind-altering herbs and potions and powders to fell a mountain giant. He liked those sorts of things.

                While he was wandering around making certain that all was perfect, he passed his maidservant in the hallway dusting furniture. “That will be all for now, Merva. You may take the rest of the night off.”

                Merva, a stout woman in her fifties who was not nearly as stupid as her master hoped she was, bowed reverently. “Thank you, Your Eminence. Leave whatever messes may be made. I shall tend to them in the morning.” She smiled in a friendly manner, but there was something sly rolled in it, something mocking.

                He dismissed it. “Thank you and good night then, Merva.”

                She bowed again, backing towards the door to her quarters. “Good night,

Your Eminence.”

                Shortly after she retired, there was a knock at the door. The High Priest cleared his throat, checked his pudgy complexion in a floor to ceiling silver mirror near the doorway that was worth enough to rebuild his church from the ground up, and then headed for the front of his mansion where his guest awaited just outside.

                As soon as his back was turned, Merva changed course and ducked into a dark alcove a few steps before her room. It was cloaked in blackness so thick you would not have been able to see her if you were a foot from her face. She tiptoed to the rear of the space, and, cloaked safely in darkness, peered from its confines at the door. She was accustomed to the High Priest’s eccentricities, and found them to be exquisite material when trading gossip at the neighborhood market with the other ladies.            The door opened, and Alvis sighed with a sound that was both relief and lust. Merva heard a soft voice say, “Is my timing favorable?”

                The High Priest chuckled. “When is it not, my beautiful, beautiful Jerom?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 9

 

                Jeroth, the God of War, is reputed in myth to have been molded from the skeleton of an old unnamed soldier, the earth on which he died, and the melted and remade implements of his trade. Generals in their dreams sometimes see him the night before a great battle, and even more commonly by soldiers who have spent their blood on the battlefield and move from this world to the next. He is said to appear as a towering hulk of an old human man, his face shrouded by a great white mane and beard and creased with scars and fear and worry, and his hands knotted with bony calluses.

                A great sword as long as he and half as broad is often with him, and he at times will draw it when warding off other spirits who would see a necessary battle thwarted, or an unnecessary one begun.

                To see him is neither a boon for defeat or victory, but a certain kind of vigor is imparted upon those who do see him, as his very presence means that the battle is

guarded, regardless of the outcome.

 

                JaBrawn rushed to the open window near the door and looked out across the

yard. Six armored guardsmen draped in flashing red thundered down the road, followed by one in blue that had to be Salett. The smells of the sweating horses were masking theirs at this distance. He scowled grimly. “Six riders, all armed. A seventh is with them.” He craned his neck to look at Derrig who seemed to be frozen in shock. “It’s Salett.”

                “Dada, what’s going on this time?” Wendonel asked her father, clinging to him desperately. Favius was a sobbing heap pressed against his father’s chest. He gently pulled away from them and strode over to JaBrawn, his hands on his hips.

                “Their treachery runs even deeper than I thought, though the fact that I didn’t

expect as much shames my soul!”

                “What do you mean?” JaBrawn asked.

                He shook his head, his mouth twisting with bitterness. “There is no way they could have mustered up the men, much less Salett with them, in the time that has passed since I fled the town square. They simply would not have known in time.”

                JaBrawn’s frown deepened. “They knew you were going to flee. Or at the very least, they prepared for the possibility.”

                Derrig grumbled deep in his throat. “Right. Which means they either didn’t

deliberate at all and simply watched me leave, or they left orders with the guardsmen

to follow me if I fled.”

                The armed men reined up several steps from Derrig’s front door. Salett murmured a few orders to them as he clambered down awkwardly from his horse. Whatever royal vesting he had once enjoyed, it apparently did not involve much riding. They all nodded at his words, and pulled their mounts into a semicircle as Salett approached the door. JaBrawn and Derrig looked at each other.

                And then came a knocking.

 

~*~

 

                Merva watched in barely suppressed glee from her enclosure. The skinny little dockwhore slipped in through the door, and, much to the horror of his client, was wearing nothing more than a threadbare tunic and a filthy pair of breeches. His soiled feet were bare. Normally Jerom was clad in his best overcoat, vest, shirt and leggings, often accentuated with gold-buckled shoes. His face would be shaved clean, and his hair scented and tied back to make the beauty of his face all the more apparent. None of that was in place this time, which she thought extremely odd. Apparently, so did the High Priest.

                “What in the name of... What has happened to you? Why are you dressed like that?”

                Jerom smiled brightly, his eyes binding some undefined presence in their depths. “Something wonderful has happened, oh devout one. Something you must see.”

                He walked past Alvis who turned to follow Jerom’s thin form as he passed across the thick carpet soundlessly. “I… I hope you don’t expect your full rate this time, Jerom. I have become accustomed to your normal look, this is hardly acceptable.”

                Merva watched as the young man, who seemed even paler and more drawn than he usually did, turned and regarded the holy man with coy eyes. “Oh you gaudy simpleton, look at you: All glittery on the outside while a core as dark and as deep as any tree trunk rotted with parasites resides within.”

                Merva’s delight flickered somewhat. This was odd to the point of being a little disturbing. Was the fellow drunk?

                Alvis’ eyebrows met and his mouth dropped open. “H-How dare you! You have no right to talk to me like that you… you…” he assailed his limited vocabulary of curses, “…whore! You filthy, sinning whore!” He shuffled towards the young man, and then, thinking better of it, went back to the door, seized the handle and wrenched it open. “Get out, g-get out this instant!”

                Jerom snickered and sauntered to his side. When his face was so near the old priest’s that he could feel his slightest breath, he whispered, “Is that really what you want? You want me to step back into cold kiss of the sea’s wind?”

                Alvis felt something cold slither up from his bowels and wrap itself around his spine. He swallowed a dry swallow and burst out in a sweat. Despite this, his desire to see Jerom depart melted away. “No…I do not.”

                Jerom smiled. “You’d like me to stay?”

Alvis nodded dumbly. “Yes… please, stay”

                Merva’s nagging doubt had given way to concern and now finally slipped into the chilly grip of fear. She felt her hand rise unbidden to cover her mouth, trying to quiet her breathing which had become ragged. What disturbed her most was that she did not know from whence this fear came, or why she knew so clearly that it was perfectly founded, but in her heart, she knew this to be true.

                Jerom lifted a hand and ran his fingertips down the side of the High Priest’s face, leaving four trails of murky, swamp-colored fluid. “You poor deluded old buffoon,” he said through a soft smile, his voice deepening far past what it was only moments ago. “So many years draped in all this pious dignity, so many years pretending you were something that you were not. How lonely you must be.”

                The High Priest’s face, at first drawn and featureless, twisted horribly with grief. A gurgling sob lifted from his chest.

                Jerom continued. “To think that you actually believed you were doing what

was right, with your foolish notions of purging yourself of what you call sin by

immersing in it.” He chuckled. “Rolling in mud to stay clean!”

                “I’m sorry!” Alvis blurted out, huge greasy tears bubbling up at the corners of his eyes and then rolling down his pudgy cheeks. Then in a pathetic torrent as he grasped Jerom’s tunic, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He fell to his knees, weeping like a child.

                Jerom folded his arms and smiled down at the back of his head. “You have fallen farther than I have seen many people fall – and I have seen many people fall.”

                The broken holy man looked up at him, his eyes swimming with tears and mucous. “What are you? How do you know these things? How am I to atone?” His face reddened and he shook his fists feebly. “Why do you hound me so?”

                Jerom dropped one hand and cupped Alvis’ chin, pulling him back to his feet. “Do not make yourself more a fool than you’ve already become. You know the answer to every question you have just asked me, Hemerek Alvis. You have for many, many years.”

                Alvis stared at the abomination, and his eyes went wide as recognition dawned on him. He saw Jerom for what he really was with a knowledge that every sentient being has, for all sentient beings with a soul will know evil when they truly look on its face. Not a second later his bladder betrayed him. A warm circle formed on his robes while what could not be absorbed dribbled to the floor.

                Merva desperately wanted to leave but feared for her safety to attempt it. She was getting on in years and was not confident enough in her ability to quietly slip away. Besides, for some reason she could not fathom she knew the foul creature would sense her if she moved. She tried at least to look away, and found even that small action futile. Whatever was to transpire, her eyes would drink deeply of it.

                Alvis wept openly again, but it was the resigned weeping of a man who had surrendered himself, a man who had realized that he had been beaten and broken and had given up resisting it. Jerom shifted his grip from the old priest’s chin to the collar of his robes, clenching them in his fist and lifting him, who massed twice as much and more than he, into the air like a man would lift a coat off a hook. Alvis’ sobs became choked gargles, but he gave no other sign of distress, so buried was he in his capitulation.

                Merva barely smothered a gasp as she watched Jerom’s face melt into a

blackened mask of dark leather flesh stretched tautly over a death’s head grin. Its eyes

were sparks of emerald, and its hair a brittle mass of oily wire. It whispered in a voice

so soft it was nothing short of seductive. “May I now, truly, come in?” Alvis, his face bulging and purple, merely nodded as best he could. Jerom’s grin spread awfully. “Welcome home then, puppet of sin.”

                It opened its mouth impossibly wide and a mass of roiling tendrils and carapace the blackish green color of rot and putrescent corruption erupted from its thorax and entered Alvis through his face, while the High Priest made a sound that a man might make if he were drowning in mud. As this happened, Jerom’s body convulsed and shook and deflated, its fortitude finally and forever dissolved after the enormous strain of holding the evil entity’s spirit and power for so long finally departed. After a moment it collapsed to the carpet in a steaming, glistening pile of bone and wrinkled skin, as the last of the foulness it once housed rushed into Alvis with a splatter of sickly fluid and twisted, glutinous flesh.

                The stained soul that was once Ummonic High Priest Hemerek Alvis was shoved from its dwelling and cast towards the thousand hells as were all the others Jerom and his entourage had taken under wing. The simple demons waiting there, appreciative of the entity’s offerings as they were, cared not a blink as to their origins. Does a dog care from what bone a tasty morsel is stripped? With the new flesh of a new face, the entity smiled knowingly, relishing a private thought. The demons’ place in the scheme of things would become evident soon enough.

                After a brief examination in the mirror where it expressed a look of comic disdain at how much uglier this face was than the last it had stolen, it turned to the door and threw it wide, hinging open its newly stolen jaw in a nearly silent, hushed summons. Rising from every piece of shadow the night offered in the dim expanse of the street, its children shambled into street and then into the former High Priest’s home. They would be safe here.

                As they entered, Merva watched with petrified horror. She had no way to label what she had just seen, no way to rationalize it or even to truly comprehend it. Nothing in all the holy reading she had done described anything remotely like what she had just observed. All she could do was wait for a moment to make her escape, and, until then, to sit absolutely still and make not a sound.

                The other monstrosities filed in dutifully, lining the main hallway and spilling into the adjoining smoking room and pantry until they formed a lilting, shifting regiment of undead. The once Alvis lifted its hands reverently. The creatures sank to their knees in the thick carpeting, staining it with their decaying filth. As one they said its name. It lowered its arms and hissed in approval. As if a single mind, the creatures limped off toward the cellar of the mansion, one of them idly grabbing the husk that its master once wore. Seconds later they were gone, and the wearer of the priest’s flesh groaned as it basked in the new power it possessed. Lifting its arms again, it harnessed a splinter of this power and rose in the air toward the second tier of the house where Alvis’ master bedroom, the one he never used because of the effort involved in climbing the stairs, awaited. There it would while away a few hours, languishing as it contemplated its next task.

                Merva heard what the rotting conglomeration had called it, and silently mouthed the name so as to never forget it, though she said to herself in a panicky joking sort of way that there was very little chance of ever forgetting even the minutest detail of this horrifying night. Once the vile thing that wore the face of the man who once employed her disappeared over her head, she quietly slipped from the alcove into her room, the door opening silently on hinges oiled just this morning, thank Ummon, and then, grabbing her overcoat, a cloak, and as much coin as she could stuff in her purse, she slipped out the back door and into the night, hoping against hope that there would not be any more of the unholy things waiting in the alley.

                She carefully, fearfully, peered into the darkness, her eyes adjusting slowly. If there were more of them, they were either dormant or uninterested in making themselves known. Stepping on to the street, she resolved that she had to tell someone about this and make him or her believe her. She knew not who she could truly trust, but she could not give up until she had found this person. Alvis had not been a good man, had not a personality to speak of, and had given sermons on tenets and values that he had only barely practiced himself, but he was not so evil that he deserved to perish the way that he did.

                Honestly, she could not think of any who did. She trotted off into the night as fast as she could manage, looking for a light in the blackness.

 

~*~

 

                “I’ll deal with this,” Derrig muttered, and walked to the door.

                JaBrawn ground his teeth warily. He noticed that the two guardsmen who had accompanied Salett earlier were not among them, so men who probably did not share their disdain for their immediate leader outnumbered them. In the end, that made very little difference to him. He could kill them all with little chance of reprisal, but he afforded that immunity alone. Derrig and his children would not be able to drop everything and move on as easily as he could.

                Wendonel moved near him and took his hand. He looked down and lifted it

slightly. She pushed against him, holding his rough palm to her face, which was still

damp with tears. Something had to be done. This simply was not right.

                Derrig grabbed the handle and pulled the door open. Salett stood just outside,

his pitted face drawn in a façade of solemnity. “Derrig, I am afraid that I have a most

unpleasant duty.”

                “You have to bathe your mother?” Derrig spat out in instant reprisal.

                There was a strained handful of seconds between his comment and Salett’s,

who looked at him with watery black eyes. “I hope that sense of humor remains intact

after the town warrick has peeled back every last layer of your mind for cleansing.”

                “You will have to do better than that to ruffle my tail, Salett. You know as well as I that such warra cannot be performed without the permission of whoever is to be subjected to it.”

                Salett smiled and slowly shook his head. “That used to be the law, yes. The council has drawn up a clause to it. It cannot be performed on an individual without their permission, unless said individual can be proven to be a liability or danger to the town.”

                Derrig’s face twitched. “There is no such law…”

                “Not yet. The magistrate is looking over it as we speak, however.”

                Derrig’s chest seemed to squeeze the breath out of him. “And, I am sure, his

assessment will be completed by the time my sentencing has been determined?”

                Salett sneered. “I would wager you are right. Oh, and I am certain that you will not be surprised at his decision.”

                Derrig’s voice was a harsh whisper, filtered as it was between clenched teeth. “Did you know about all of this? The insidious plotting behind it? How far back does it go? To my wife’s death? Before even?” Salett continued to smile at him, though it grew wider by a fraction of an inch. “And I suppose,” Derrig continued, his voice now fairly shaking with rage, “that my children are included in this ‘liability’?”

                Salett did nothing for a moment, and then slowly shrugged, his grin bigger

than ever.

                Derrig felt a guttural howl rising from his throat and would have throttled the

bastard right then and there, except he felt JaBrawn’s hand on his shoulder. There was

immense strength there, but it was not to subdue or to restrain. It was a simple, clear,

message: Wait. He gently pulled Derrig aside, and filled the doorway. Derrig was nearly JaBrawn’s height and build, but the scarred old warrior was appreciably larger, with a more hardened look to him.

                Salett involuntarily swallowed a mouthful of saliva that had suddenly filled his mouth. JaBrawn leaned over slightly to compensate for the entire foot of difference between his height and Salett’s and said softly, “Derrig and his children will be leaving shortly. There will be no treatment of any kind by any warrick unless they wish it.” Salett blinked. JaBrawn carried on. “They will not be harmed, bothered, or in any way inconvenienced by anyone in this town, or they will answer to me.” He then straightened, his proposal neatly completed.

                Salett looked up at him. “Stranger, I have no clue as to why you think you can make such an insolent request –”

                “It was not a request,” JaBrawn said quietly.

                Salett blubbered on as if he had not spoken. “You have no word here, you have nothing to stand on, you’re just some… freak visitor from the woods who has thrown our entire town into turmoil!”

                JaBrawn smirked at him. And then he slowly shrugged.

                Salett stood huffing and puffing, his lips shiny with spittle. He wiped one sleeve across his mouth, and then turned towards the guardsmen. “Arrest Thresher and the children. Kill the stranger.”

 

~*~

 

                Merva was out of breath after only a block of running. She had not attempted such effort since before her husband had died, and now, when she called on it, her wind failed her far too quickly. She resigned to a sort of uneven trot, walking when her reserves wavered, quickening to almost a jog when she got her wind back. So far there had been only a few languishing night owls on the streets, people who looked so dark of purpose she felt that calling for their assistance would only open herself up for abuse.

                She was becoming desperate, the panic drawing from her stamina rather than

bolstering it. She could only do this a few minutes more, and when she could not drag

her feet another step, what then? Collapse to the ground? Hope that some kind soul

happened by to whom she could blurt out the entire outlandish tale? She felt herself giving in to the growing desire to just surrender to the aches in her legs and the burn in her chest. Rest a moment and then move on. Leave the hypocritical holy man behind her to whatever malevolent forces his soul had succumbed.

                And then a tall, lightly built man stepped from the shadows directly in her path with so little sound and with such graceful speed that she cried out. The man held his hands up to show that he meant no harm.

                “I noticed you only moments ago Madam, and it is clear that you are in some distress. Are you being pursued?”

                After only a moment’s hesitation she fell into his arms, feeling foolish for she must certainly outweigh the fellow. With surprising strength, he embraced her to keep her from falling. She felt tears come to her eyes. At first, she had thought him just another rat of a man scurrying around the skirts of the light seeking nothing other than easy prey. As she peered up at him through blurred vision, she saw a gentle-faced young man, with a soft smile and warm eyes.

                “Please, Madam, let me help you.”

 

 

 

Chapter 10

 

                That exclusive mortal emotion, Love, would seem beyond the ken of even a god, but Ummon knew that it, too, would need its herald, as an icon to foster its own existence if nothing else. He needed a creature so beautiful and precious that simple prayer or adoration to the emotion could spark its existence.

                He found her in the mortal world, of course, for it is the mortals that have taught the immortals the ways of love. A kind gangrel elf druid, her warra used for healing and guidance, had become so beloved amongst those whose lives she touched, they began to pay homage to her as if she were a goddess already. Struck by such a spectacle, Ummon showed her how she could spread her intrinsic qualities to all who saw her face or felt her touch in the gentlest and darkest of moments, from the first time a baby truly sees its mother, to an enemy pulling the killing blow simply because the love of life outweighed the need for death.          

According to myth, she was reluctant at first, and Ummon had to show his true love for mortals by giving the gift of marriage to the mortal priests as a sacrament to bestow to their fellow mortals instead of divine providence, a divination often misinterpreted anyway. Knowing that such a demand only cemented her as the choice, he granted it, and she assumed the role of Haley the Goddess of Love immediately after.

                Whether it is the night of the union of true love, the moment a child created of this love is conceived, the moment it is brought into this world, or when a comrade steps in front of a blow simply for goodness’ sake, these are all moments when her presence can be felt.

 

                The six guardsmen pulled their faces down in stoic lines. JaBrawn coolly

confronted them, his arms folded lightly.

                “Kill him! Kill the filthy bastard!” Salett shouted, leveling a wavering finger at him.

                Derrig stepped from behind his friend, an ax in each hand. JaBrawn looked over to him and shook his head. “No. I will handle them.”

                Derrig hissed out the corner of his mouth. “I will not let you defend my own

home, JaBrawn. Now stand aside!”

                JaBrawn frowned. “Forgive me then, my friend.” He turned slightly, and snapped his right hand into Derrig’s face, his palm striking him squarely between the eyes. He dropped like a stone. The approaching men-at-arms stopped in their tracks, passing surprised looks from JaBrawn, to Derrig’s unconscious body, and then to Salett.

                Salett himself looked stunned for a moment. “This changes nothing,” he finally said. “We’ll throw him over his own horse if we must. As for this man’s actions,” he peered through squinting eyes at JaBrawn who had turned away briefly to whisper to the children (who no doubt were wondering why their new friend had just incapacitated their father) to find someplace to hide. “We will simply add a charge of assaulting a Camdurian citizen to his list of crimes. Killing him is perfectly justified, now.”

                JaBrawn raised his brows. “Ah, so it was not before, then?”

                Salett merely shrugged again. “We do whatever it takes to safeguard the peace of our town, stranger. Even if that means twisting a law every now and then.”

                JaBrawn snorted. “Or making one up entirely.”

                The guardsmen had been listening quietly, but now, as one, they pulled their

weapons, each bearing a none-too-pretty but perfectly capable looking long sword.

                JaBrawn sighed tiredly, running a hand over his face. “So, I am to be killed then, eh? Just like that, no trial, inquiry, or whatever other soothing name you political types call it?”

                Salett moved back to his horse, and climbed up into the saddle. “Those are for townsfolk. You’re not townsfolk.”

                JaBrawn took a step forward, causing all the guardsmen to freeze in their tracks and bring up their weapons. “Have you considered just asking me to leave?”

                Salett chuckled. “Yes, it was considered. And it was found to be far too temporary.”

                “I see.” JaBrawn said. “So I am sentenced to die simply because there is the

possibility that I am some sort of conjured demon servant, is this true?”

                Salett leaned over the horn of his saddle. “Yes, that. Or some travelling brigand schooled in dark, destructive arts. Or some wandering brigand with a silver tongue. Something like that is what will go down in the town archives.”

                JaBrawn blinked. “So there is a true reason other than that. What is it?”

                Salett paused only a moment. “Aria was an escaped slave. Powers beyond

Camdur wanted her and all her kin slain in punishment. You are a now a witness. Do

I need to elaborate further?”

                The words struck JaBrawn to his bones, but he would not show it. He had

suspected something sinister hidden in the lunacy of it all, but nothing like this. He was amazed at how easily fools’ tongues were loosed when they were showing off to people whom they thought were as good as dead. JaBrawn had seen this time and time again, and it rarely worked out in their favor.

                The guardsmen froze and stared at Salett. They all shared the same look of

disgust and disdain, both for Salett and his casual admission. The one nearest the aide,

a wiry fellow with cropped black hair spoke up. “Salett, do you speak the truth?”

                Salett glared at him in admonishment. “What matter is it to you, servant? Now complete the task I have set forth for you, or your ashes will be scattered over his!”

                JaBrawn smiled coldly. “It would seem you have a half dozen new witnesses, Salett. Are they to be treated the same?”

                “Oh by the gods!” The guardsman swore, but retook his defensive posture.

He really had no choice, as the others did not.

                The blue robed aide to the magistrate reined his horse around. “I would stay

and watch, but I find it more useful to be unable to render testament to something I didn’t see.” He grinned in his slimy little way and kicked his horse into a trot. In moments, he was far down the road, and the guardsmen formed a semi-circle around the big old warrior.

The largest of them, an older fellow with a thin, grizzled beard and a great head of red hair said quietly, “Peace there, stranger. This can go hard, or it can go easy. We don’t much care for the likes of that rump-kisser any more than you do, but we have a duty to do and we will do it.”

                JaBrawn nodded. “I understand.” He said simply. “I am sorry you are in such a position.”

                The cropped guardsman spat. “This is horse spit. Let’s just let him go. We can say that we killed him, drug him into the woods and burned his body. Besides, you heard him. No witnesses.” He glanced around at his comrades. “You all look like witnesses to me.”

                The red-headed fellow looked at him crossly. “Not only would that not work, but we would be betraying what we all swore allegiance to. And Salett, as vile as he is, can’t just go around murdering everyone who has seen him do his dirty work. The town would be empty.”

                JaBrawn lowered his hands to his sides. He then made a quick hissing exhalation. One of his reluctant executioners glanced at him, but paid no other mind.

                “Then what we have sworn to is a mountain of dung!” The cropped fellow said.

                “Quiet, both of you,” ordered a stocky man towards the middle. “Let my words decide. Any and all who do not follow through with the Aide to the Magistrate’s orders will personally be turned in by me to be summarily executed for treason. Is this clear?”

                There was no argument. They held their swords pointed up at waist level and

advanced another step.

                Grendel, responding to JaBrawn’s quiet summons, stepped quietly into view thirty feet away at their flanks. “Well then, my good fellows,” JaBrawn said, smiling and lifting his left hand. “I should think that this is the end, then.”

                “Yes,” the stocky fellow said, “and, like he said… nothing personal.” He grinned a bit too enthusiastically.

                “Likewise,” JaBrawn said.

                Silvermoon detached from her hook on Grendel’s saddle and streaked through the air. A twist of JaBrawn’s hand turned her murderous straight-on approach to a horizontal one. The older guardsman had begun to figure out that JaBrawn was up to something just as her handle struck him solidly in the ribs, throwing him into his

neighbor and the next into his neighbor and so on until the entire group was tumbling in the dirt. Silvermoon rushed by, righted herself, and flew straight and true into JaBrawn’s waiting hand. Twirling the immense weapon in his palm, he waited for the first of the group to attempt to get back to his feet. To JaBrawn’s surprise, it was the first one knocked to the ground, the old fighter who had taken the worst of the impact. He lifted his sword breathlessly, his vision and attentiveness clearly swimming between light and darkness. JaBrawn flicked Silvermoon towards the sword, knocking the blade from his hand and sending it spinning into the trees fifty feet away. The jarring was enough so that the poor old guardsman was thrown off his feet again, this time not to rise for some time.

                The next was the stocky man, who had a look that fought between disbelief and fury. He swung his blade towards JaBrawn’s face with such might that it would have topped a goodly sized tree. The scarred old Garulokai lifted his weapon and parried it soundly, the force ripping the blade from the guardsman’s stinging hands. Stepping forward lightly, JaBrawn lashed out with one fist and thumped him soundly between the eyes, much like he had done with Derrig not even minutes previous. He flopped over like a fish stood on its tail. Hopefully the blow would not inflict much more than a headache.

                The dark-haired cropped fellow thrust forward with the tip of his blade,

reasoning that slashes and chops were not a good idea. JaBrawn neatly side-stepped it

with surprising grace for a man of his size, caught the man’s left wrist, pulled him into the air, flipped him about, and then slammed him to the ground, driving the breath from him.

                The remaining three charged him at the same time, a wise move seeing as how half of their number had already been dispatched coming at him singly. JaBrawn, completely abandoning all semblance of humanity, leaped completely over them. They stared up at him, completely stunned and frozen in place because of it. Rotating his body in midair so that he landed facing their backs, he grabbed the ones on either side of the lad in the middle, lifted them completely into the air, and then smartly knocked all three of their heads together. They crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

                He pulled them all into as comfortable of positions as he could muster in the

thick lawn by Derrig’s fence, figuring that they would feel horrid enough when

consciousness drug them from whatever little hole he had just shoved them into. With

that in mind, they might as well be given as many accommodations as possible. There now was a pile of snoring bodies lying sprawled in the grass. He smiled thinly at his handiwork, and then looked up as Grendel nickered a question at him.

                Something… behind him?

                A crossbow bolt fitted with an armor-piercing tip buried itself in his back

just to the right of his left scapula. He fell to one knee, gritting his teeth against the

shout of pain that had jumped up his throat and bounced off the backs of his teeth. He turned, and saw Salett at the corner of the road about a hundred feet away, standing near his horse and cradling the broad crescent of a siege man’s crossbow, a weapon used to puncture knight’s armor like paper – the same weapon that he had seen under the toady's cloak the other day. The worthless exile had either changed his mind and returned, or had never left – most likely to make certain that the guardsmen had done what they had claimed they were going to do. Seeing that JaBrawn had not fallen, he pulled another bolt from under his saddle and braced his foot against the massive crossbow’s draw, as the catch would require a hundred pounds to pull back.

                JaBrawn reached behind himself, grasped the shaft of the bolt, and pulled it loose at an agonizingly awkward angle. If he had the density of a normal man, the bolt would have passed right through him and continued on into the ground. Honestly, that would have been less painful. He chanced a look at the aide, noting with satisfaction the look of amazed terror on his face. As soon as Salett had another bolt nocked, JaBrawn dropped to the dusty ground and rolled to his right, towards Derrig’s house. The crossbow bolt scorched through the air where he had been standing, whizzing off into the distance.

                “Get up you lazy bastards!” Salett shouted at the unconscious guardsmen. “Get up or I’ll see every one of your heads rolled off your necks!”

                JaBrawn eyed the heartless man from where he lay in the dirt. He shrugged the shoulder near where he had been punctured and was pleased to feel that it was quickly closing.

                He had had enough. It was time for the little bastard to die. He looked over to where Derrig had been lying, hoping he had roused, for he could use his aid.

                He was gone.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 11

 

                The many elemental divergesses of reality have been in place for much longer than recorded history. Who or what put things the way they were (and are) is beyond the comprehension of even the greatest of mortal scholars, and if the gods do truly know, they choose to keep this knowledge to themselves.

                As the millennia passed and the dreams and intentions of the sentient animals poured forth into the spiritual worlds between worlds, these elemental planes became halls of transition from one plane to another. When a soul’s physical shell ended in one plane, it often passed through many others before settling on a permanent resting place. Even then, it would remain there for as long as was necessary, guided by forces not easily perceived, let alone comprehended.

 

                Merva, unbelieving of her fortune, turned from a pale ghost nearly paralyzed

with fright into a flush faced, blubbering child. The fair-skinned young man laid his hand on her cheek and then to her shoulder and she felt the terror drain away to a level where she could gather her wits.

                “Gently, dear lady. Try and tell me what happened.”

                She took several deep breaths, hot tears falling down her round cheeks, and then recounted as best she could the horrible events she had witnessed. Her savior, his kind face turning grim and concerned as her tale wound on, asked her only a single question at its end.

                “This name that the wretched ones called the creature: What was it?”

                She gulped down her fear, forcing up the courage to mention a name that

suddenly became unbelievably difficult to speak. “Anamu, dear sir, they called it Anamu!”

                He rolled the word over his tongue, his soft voice lifting without lead on the stressed vowel at the center of its name. He shook his head slightly, but his demeanor was still serious. “I have never before heard of such a being.”

                She shook her head vigorously. “Nor I, but hearing it once on the lips of those abominable things was more than I will ever need to hear it.”

                She fell against him again, and he held her gently. After a few moments, he lifted her from his embrace. “We probably should not stay here. May I take you to the inn where I am lodging? It is not very extravagant, but the beds are warm and safe.”

                She took his warm, strong hands into her chilly, quaking grasp. “Oh dear sir, the kindness you have shown kindles a hope in me that there is still good in this world, for I swear to you, I saw its nemesis back at that unholy man’s home!”

                The two left quickly, swallowed by a night that suddenly felt thick and viscous as it poured from the sky and down the rooftops until it seemed to puddle at their feet and do its best to drag them back to where the collective evil of a thousand lifetimes walked as a man called Anamu, and it waited with a bottomless appetite.

 

~*~

 

                “Derrig!” JaBrawn shouted, uncaring as to what Salett heard. In a moment, he was going to throw caution to the wind and charge the sewer rat, and be damned his deception and this backward town.

                “Hush!” Came a reply from the vegetable garden.

                Turning his eyes and not his head, JaBrawn looked between the fronds of a turnip row. There Derrig was, crawling on his belly like a lizard with too big a lunch in its belly. From where he was slithering, he was behind his house and out of Salett’s arc of vision, but he would not be once he rounded the corner where fencepost met house. He could stay relatively well hidden, but there was no gap for him to squeeze through. He would have to get to his feet, however briefly, to vault the fence.

                JaBrawn still found the children’s scent in the air, so that meant they were

unfortunately close to everything that would transpire, good or ill. Thankfully, it seemed to be coming from the same direction, so they must have found somewhere to hide. He was still halfway confident that Salett would not harm them at this point, but incidental injury was perfectly possible. Besides, he had fully admitted to their planned murder once they were in custody.

                “Salett!” JaBrawn shouted, “Put the bolt caster down! Have you no honor? It is a coward’s weapon when used one on one against opponents not armed likewise.” He doubted that any sort of talk of honor could bait Salett, but it might get him talking to the point of being easily distracted.

                Salett tittered lightly, the sound mostly stolen by the trees and the distance. “Don’t tempt me with such tenets, stranger. I mean to see you dead, not duel you. Honor to anyone worth his place is meted out in ruling those beneath you, not placing oneself in harm’s way over some outdated, barbaric code.”

                “Barbaric?” JaBrawn eased up to a squat, the cottage’s corner barely concealing him. “It’s barbaric to make certain all is equal between two men that meet in honorable combat?” In his memory, that two-word phrase was nearly contradictory, but he reminded himself that it did, in instances, exist. This fact was hardly prominent at the moment, however.

                Salett blurted out a quick laugh again. “Honorable combat, to me, is a self-defeating phrase. There is nothing honorable about it. And I mean to keep it so.” He lifted his crossbow and let fly another lethal missile. It flashed through the air and buried into the wood of the cottage, disappearing halfway before its power was spent by the impact. There was a scream from within – the scream of a girl child. Salett quickly began to fit another bolt.

                JaBrawn flew to his feet in an instant, hurling Silvermoon with all his inhuman might towards the loathsome man’s chest. Derrig too had heard the scream, and leapt over the fence like a deer. As he closed the distance between himself and Salett, an ax curled through the air from his outstretched hand. As this happened, time seemed to be caught up in some sort of hindering force and slowed in the way that only impending disaster can slow it. JaBrawn marveled at the guardsman’s speed and accuracy, for the weapon’s flight was straight and true towards the soon to be very dead aide to the magistrate. Before either blow landed, however, Salett got off one last shot.

                JaBrawn strained his muscles to the limit, his legs making huge strides

towards his friend, trying to avert the unthinkable.

                It happened anyway, of course.

                The bolt bored through Derrig’s stomach and erupted from the other side in a

spray of crimson, snapping as it sank into the hard earth behind him. He slumped to his knees. A bare fraction of a second later, his ax met Salett’s skull, splitting it from forehead to chin. Before he could loll from his saddle, Silvermoon slammed into and

through his ribcage, folding his entire torso in half. The corpse that hit the ground moments later hardly looked human. A ragged breath slipped from where his lips once were, and then his wicked life ended.

                Silvermoon had reversed herself and streaked back to JaBrawn while he was in mid-stride, having completely ignored Salett. Derrig had rolled silently to his side, and then his back. JaBrawn was at his flank immediately after, skidding to his knees in the gravel. He pressed his palms fiercely to the wound, but it was clear he could never stop the bleeding. It was cleanly through the liver, and there was simply too much damage. “Derrig… why didn’t you just wait? Even if I had died, you have so much more to lose.”

                Derrig forced a smile through his pained expression. “That may be, JaBrawn… but I couldn’t just stand idly by while you defended everything that I hold dear.”

                Scowling, JaBrawn said, “But that’s what I do, brother. That’s all I do, it’s the only thing I’m good at anymore.”

                Derrig smiled weakly. “You will have to become skilled at something else now, JaBrawn. For what I lose, you now gain, my newest friend, at least for a while. Can you do this?” He gripped one of JaBrawn’s rough hands with his own, a hand hardened by battle as well as fatherhood. Perhaps the two, in some sense, were not so different. There were many little wars to fight when raising children. And now, it seemed, this endeavor would pass to JaBrawn. His heart teetered as Derrig’s words sunk in. It terrified him, but of course he could not refuse. There was also guilt, for, in a sense he could save his life. There might still be time. And, as before, he did not, for he vowed that his curse would never again knowingly pass from him. Exceptions in the past had… He shook his head. This was not the time.

                Besides, what of the children? They would have a father that could very easily outlive them, so what then? Damn them as well? No. That would be a worse curse than his. He nodded. “Yes. I can.” He paused, quickly searching for a question that had to be asked. “Shall I take them from here? Do you have family elsewhere?”

                Derrig swallowed, though his mouth was dry. The smell of death was lingering very nearby, peeking over JaBrawn’s shoulder, as it were. “Aye… there will be nothing for them here, that is for certain. For you either.” He took a slow breath. “In Fremett, I have a half-brother. We’ve never met, but he is the only kin I know of. From what I’ve…” a pain tore through him, and he gritted his teeth. “…I do not know his name, but from what I’ve been told, he is a good man. A great, red-headed barbarian of a shipwright, last I heard. Aria once told me that he knows he has a nephew and a niece in Camdur. That is… all I can tell you, forgive me…” He looked up at JaBrawn, his skin quickly paling as his life’s blood poured from the disastrous wound. “JaBrawn, my children… quickly, see to them.”

                JaBrawn nodded and moved to stand, knowing that he would have seconds the moment he let go of the wound. Then he heard a soft voice behind him.

                “We’re here, Father.”

                The old warrior looked up in surprise. They stood mutely behind him, tears sucked back and denied. Derrig smiled softly and reached for them. They instantly ran to his fading embrace, the last they would ever feel in this world.

                JaBrawn stood finally and stepped back, feeling out of place and overwhelmed by hundreds of memories far too similar to this.

                Wendonel kissed her father’s bloodied fingertips and then held his palm to her cheek. “You silly old man,” she said through a shuddering smile.

                “My precious little petal,” he said back. “Watch after your brother, now. You’re all he has left.”

                She nodded and kissed his lips as the sob that she had been denying finally slipped through and shook her little body. He held her as best his failing strength would let her. At last she pulled away and nodded. “I will Poppy, I promise.”

                Derrig’s eyes brimmed. “You haven’t called me that since you first found your feet.”

                “I never forgot.”

                “Never do.” She moved back and the dying man turned to his son. “My silent little prince.” Favius’ face was creased with grief, as huge tears poured from his eyes. “Now then, my beautiful boy. Already the pain is leaving me, so don’t cry so over it.” He used the last wisps of his strength to hold his son’s hands, hands that would one day be as broad and as powerful as his. “I will miss you so very much.”

                A great rush of sadness gripped him. He felt he had done well enough in this world to find himself in Ummon’s golden towers, but they would shine with less brilliance without his beloved Favius and Wendonel. “I had thought I would hear your voice once more before I died, so I could tell your mother what you said when I see her in the next life.” He brushed his numbing fingers through Favius’ curled locks. “No matter. You may tell her yourself one day, when we are all together again.”

                Favius stared at the last moments of his father’s life and calmed himself, an

odd yet admirable tranquility and strength smoothing the lines from his face. Then, he

opened his mouth to speak.

                “When you see Mother, Papa, tell her…” he paused, as Derrig listened as intently as he could and JaBrawn gaped, “…Tell her that I named a star after her, and I pretend it sings me to sleep every night, but only I can hear it.” He nodded, suddenly seeming much older and wiser than his years. “Tell her that.” He repeated.

                JaBrawn was overcome with memories dredged up by the spectacle, seeing a tiny broken body that he had not had the chance to say goodbye to, clutched in the arms of a dying woman whose body was half erased by the claws of a horrific beast and could no longer speak. He swatted the images away, but they buzzed back into his mind like a swarm of gnats.

                Derrig made a quiet sound that was half joy and half anguish as he heard his child speak after six years of silence. “I will tell her that Favius, I swear I will.” His smile shifted and began to change somewhat. “Goodbye, my little ones…look for me in your dreams… I will be there… I will…” his voice faded, his body relaxed, the sparkle in his eyes drifted away, and then he died.

                JaBrawn, watching nearby, moved over to him and closed Derrig’s eyes. “I may walk this earth until the end of time my friend, but I wouldn’t mind if you looked in on me every now and then from whatever keep Ummon seeks to place under your care.” He kissed his fist and brushed it lightly against Derrig’s lips, and then opened his hand and rested his palm gently on his cheek. It was an ancient parting gesture from a warrior to a fallen comrade. “Go where the only blades are of grass, and the only thing split with an ax is wood for the hearth.” JaBrawn knelt near the children, who held their father’s hands in each of theirs and cried quietly for a little while.

                After all the death he had seen in his long years, there still was no manner with which to handle it that could fit every situation. Each taste of death’s touch had its own flavor, its own presence. And each time she called, it was if you were going through it for the first time all over again. Finally, when JaBrawn heard and saw the guardsmen that he had incapacitated stir and groan in the grass, he touched Wendonel and Favius’ shoulders softly. “Children… we must go.”

                Wendonel nodded, and then sucked in a quick chest full of air as she contemplated something. “What about my father?”

                “We will see to his proper burial, Wendonel.” Came a deep, rough voice from behind JaBrawn. The older guardsmen, showing again his durability as being the bearer of the worst wound yet the first to regain his feet, rubbed a sore spot on his flank and rested on his haunches. He motioned to the road behind him. “You all three had better leave. We will inform the magistrate of Salett’s sudden lunacy and how you and Derrig were merely defending yourselves. As such, we would still be obligated to place you, traveler, under arrest.” He shook his head slightly. “Despite our testimonies, there would at some point be a time where having you in chains would give someone the chance to finish what Salett began.”

                JaBrawn peered at the sturdy old man-at-arms for a moment, and then inclined his head in gratitude. “My thanks.”

                The other guardsmen were slowly recovering as well, rubbing their skulls and clutching tender areas, all testaments to JaBrawn’s skill in defeating an opponent (or in this case several opponents) without killing them.

                The old warrior decided that he and the children had best depart before they

fully recovered lest there be a dispute concerning the first guardsman’s generosity. “Come, children. Let’s be on our way.” He motioned them towards Grendel, who had trotted up unbidden, sensing the urgency of the situation. The children began to follow them, then stopped short after only a few steps. JaBrawn turned to them, a quizzical look in his eyes.

                “What is it little one?” He asked Wendonel.

                Her tired, tear-stained face looked out past him, down the road and towards the far bend outside of town where the oaks were thick and gave way to towering pines and then redwoods. JaBrawn tested the wind, which blew softly from the opposite direction. There were the heady scents of the warm day, the musk of farm animals, and the dusty whorls of countless rodent burrows, but most were overridden by the nearby rusty tang of recently spilled human blood. He turned back towards the girl and boy and shrugged lightly, shaking his head in bafflement.

                Wendonel and Favius both lifted a hand and pointed. JaBrawn turned back just as the older guardsman muttered an oath.

                A trio of garulls broke through the tree line snuffling at the air and snapping their jaws. Six more joined their ranks, and six more joined theirs and so on, until there were so many huge, scaly, misshapen bodies pouring out of the trees that they were difficult to count. They shoved and clawed and snapped at each other, and were clearly audible though they were several dozen yards away. The nearby farm animals spooked and tugged at harnesses and thrashed against fences, sensing the very clear threat these horrific creatures represented. Grendel huffed with concern, but not fear. He was too accustomed to peril for it to move him any further than that. JaBrawn, however, had a bit more of a handle on how dangerous the situation had suddenly become.

                He glanced back at Wendonel and Favius, and saw a disturbing look of exhausted resignation on their porcelain faces. He turned back to the now rapidly recovering group of men who were barking words at each other in frantic alarm. They were all capable fighters, but had never been pitched into such a situation. In recent times, garulls were so rare they were nearly mythical. Now here were thirty of the

damnable things standing abreast almost as if in some kind of nightmarish formation,

an organized battalion of hell spawned shock troops.

                They at last ceased bickering in their quite nearly mutilating way and slowly

advanced, their clawed feet piercing the earth only slightly, seemingly to sneak up on

whatever unfortunate target they had chosen. Perhaps they were not aware of the humans in the distance.

                The old guardsman, aware of them but, of course, not intimately, whispered to JaBrawn at his left. “Any idea how good their eyesight is?”

                JaBrawn clenched his jaw. “Similar to a man’s.”

                The guardsman shook his head. “Then it’s too good to be useful to us.”

                “Agreed.” JaBrawn said, and then looked again at the old fellow. “Your name sir?”

                Without turning to him the man said, “Barnus Polchek. And you?”

                “JaBrawn Marshada.”

                Barnus took a long breath in through his nose and let it out through his teeth.

“Well, JaBrawn, I think I’ll ask you to forget about my former offer and in its stead, I would ask that you use that gleaming rib cracker of yours once more,” he indicated the monsters, “but maybe pointed that way this time.”

                JaBrawn backed slowly towards the children while gesturing at Grendel to

follow. With two swift movements, he hoisted them on to the barrel-bodied stallion.

Their bodies were limp and heavy, almost as if they were already attempting to follow

their father to whatever gilded halls in which he had ended up.

                He whispered in the horse’s ear. “A guardsman will wait with you down the road. If he bolts, follow him to the town hall. You hear me old friend?”

                Grendel gave the equine equivalent of “harrumphing.” He was apparently a little irritated at being left out of the fighting, but the ugly old horse did as he was asked. His steps were measured and careful so as to not jostle the children, who were slumped over each other though clearly not asleep.

                JaBrawn watched his mount move down the road a goodly piece, past Salett’s crumpled carcass, and out into a patch of grass that was shaded by yet another enormous oak tree. Grendel stopped and turned about, facing back the way he came.

                JaBrawn set his jaw and nodded, then quickly turned back to the task at hand. “Barnus, I think you should choose one of your comrades to take a horse into town if the garulls get past us.” He pointed far down the road. “Have him wait there. My horse will follow him with the children, should he ride.”

                The beasts had closed to about one hundred yards. Barnus nodded solemnly.

“Aye friend, I think you are right.” He quickly inspected his compatriots for the most

rideworthy. “Temeth! Get on your horse and wait at the end of the road. If I give the retreat signal, ride with all speed to the town hall.” He gestured abruptly at JaBrawn.

“JaBrawn’s horse will follow you with Thresher’s children.”

                Temeth nodded wordlessly and lurched to his feet, not needing to be told who JaBrawn or his horse was. With one swift motion he was on his mount and galloping away towards Grendel. The guardsmen’s horses, sturdy but clearly alarmed, retreated of their own volition to the trees, where they would hopefully survive to be recovered later.

                The surly, stocky man who had threatened the others into action earlier looked on JaBrawn with grudging respect as the garulls closed further. “Where did you learn to fight like that?” He asked.

                JaBrawn glanced over at him. “If we live, I’ll tell you. If we don’t, you’ll have the rest of your life to see it one last time before we are all killed. Fair?”

                The fellow chuckled darkly. “Aye. Fair.”

                JaBrawn expected to gain a few extra minutes or, if their fortune was even

better, lose a few of the garulls altogether when one or two or a dozen of them fattened up on sheep or chickens or even a cow, but amazingly the things passed them by without a glance. They seemed focused on either the small line of men, or the houses nearby. Most appeared empty, their inhabitants going about their tasks or interests downtown, but some were not and of those that were, they would have to return at some time, and to what would they return? Either a field littered with the dead bodies of the garulls, or the garulls themselves tearing everything to pieces. JaBrawn and the guardsmen would not be there, most likely. They would probably be eaten. JaBrawn had never had to survive being torn to pieces and consumed, and even if he did live through it he doubted he would enjoy those particular memories.

                The line of garulls had spread out into eight or so groups of three or four each. At first JaBrawn had resisted voicing the thoughts that strained at his common sense before the monsters had made themselves known, but that same common sense had now reversed itself. He had to try and tell them how to drop the vicious things.

                “They are tough, but not unkillable. Aim for an area that would be vital on any other animal, but stay away from their backs. The scales there are like armor.” He hefted Silvermoon as his eyes darted across the number of their enemy. Gods it had been so long ago yet not nearly long enough since he had seen so many.

                “Their mouths can open to the point where the jaw practically unhinges, and it snaps shut like a bear trap when it bites, but right after a bite it is vulnerable for a half second. Use that time to slash at its neck if you can – its gut or legs if you cannot.”

                The men heard him, he knew, but did not react. Fair enough. Let them believe him or not believe him. In a few more seconds his words would be proven clearly enough.

                The garulls had all stopped advancing and simply stared at them. They shuffled back and forth and clacked their immense jaws together, but did not advance. What in the world was wrong with them?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 12

 

                Extiris Pritera – the prime or primeal plane: the central plane of existence where consciousness, the spirit, and the physical body are separate yet conjoined, as are the elements. In warrick texts it is represented as a great sphere around which the other divergesses surround and penetrate. The vast majority of mortal beings observes and interacts on this plane.

 

                The entity, now known by three living souls as Anamu, wrapped tentative fingers of influence around the collective dull glow of the garulls that plagued JaBrawn and his new cohorts. Its entourage waited in rows of slack-jawed silence below, in the  former priest’s spacious cellars. They knew nothing other than servitude and consumption now, their minds erased of all but these two concepts.

                Anamu had been very pleased to learn that acts of barbarism and destruction had been cropping up randomly since its emergence into self-awareness. Evil begets evil, after all. These instances would further fracture and distract the powers that would inevitably rise against it whilst providing even more energy upon which to draw, so they were more than welcome.

                It had been meditating and gathering the flitting motes of evil energy that were always present to add to its slowly increasing power, when it felt the tantalizing tug of a greater concentrated evil many miles to the East. It was there that it saw the shifting silver luminescence that was the small town of Camdur. It had almost overlooked it, as it was mostly of good character, but then it saw the pulsing reddish hue of a very intense malevolence buried beneath its surface like a boil that had yet to push through the skin. It had nearly clapped its hands with glee at its discovery, at its justification for existence, which was this simple tenet: no matter the good, there was always the bad. Always. You can find it anywhere and everywhere. In the case of Camdur it was simple greed, fear-spawned hate, and the far-reaching intrigues of another evil mind. It vowed to seek this mind out, for its power and influence must have been considerable to reach so far from where it originated.

                This was of negligible focus at this point, however. It was a simple matter for its spirit form to reach out and snare the primitive and dark minds of several garulls hunting through the forest. Next, it would feed off the steaming gouts of malevolence that would pour forth from the deaths of these simple humans, then, it would move its focus to the wicked stew pot of corruption simmering under Camdur’s innocent veil. It would exploit, intensify, and ultimately consume this blot of foulness, and it would enjoy every anguished moment of it.

                All those tiny, innocent lives wrapped around and broken by Anamu’s

Finger. How absolutely delicious this would be!

 

~*~

 

                “All right then. Contact the Sargaths or Presiders or Hazhmahs or whatever else these city-states call their rulers through whatever the warricks call their farspeaking warra. I want them all here, and I want them all here in four turns.”

                Othis bowed low. “Is there more my king?”

                “Of course there is!” Merrett barked. “I want a detailed inventory of every warrick, soldier, weapon, shield, and piece of armor in all of Tyniar’s holds, and I want notices everywhere calling for every last smith that can swing a hammer and every last fletcher who remembers on which end of the shaft goes the pointy bit and which the feathers, that top coin will be paid for their craftsmanship if they report to Tyn Ianett immediately.”

                Othis bowed again, his hands empty of anything with which to write down the High King’s instructions. Merrett was accustomed to this.

                “Next, I want an inventory of every last piece of livestock in every farm, pasture, and stable in the kingdoms: rideable, edible, or both.” Othis stared without

blinking, waiting for the king to finish. “And, lastly, I want a list of every last sack of

provisions we have stored as well as the farm from which they came. Our Civil High

Ordinator will, at one point handle this, but the preliminaries I want handled by you.”

                Othis bowed again. “In that order Sire?”

                “Eh? Oh, erm, yes, in that order.” His brow pinched deeply and he stroked his beard between thumb and forefinger, his mind racing over every last detail that he could come up with. There was almost surely something that he had missed – that he would not remember until it was too late. “Very good. Get to it, Othis.”

                “Immediately, my king.” And the gray draped gentleman walked swiftly and

quietly away to begin the tasks set before him.

                Canthus, reclining nearby in a fur lined chair near an enormous hearth, smiled slightly in admiration. “He’s a good sort, my Lord.”

                “The very best,” Good King Merrett agreed, slumping into his chair.

                He had ridden with all speed back to Tyn Ianett, convincing Canthus to accompany him as consultant for both he and Othis. The High Advisor seemed genuinely pleased with the aged elf’s company and input, and had not even raised an eyebrow at the word consultant. Not that it would have mattered if he had. Pride was a very, very, secondary thing considering the situation. Now, buried in one of the vast castle’s musty and smoke scented rooms, the High King did not at all feel at home, though this place was supposed to define as much.

                “So what else should be done Canthus?” Good King Merrett muttered, feeling edgy and worn. “I cannot for the life of me think of anything else.”

                Canthus rubbed the smooth and hairless point of his chin with a delicate pinkie. “You will need a military cabinet, one composed of other than your generals. They are well-versed and intelligent men and women, but their strategies and abilities are restricted to only certain spheres.”

                Good King Merrett looked at the smooth stone of the floor, planed that way by the passing of countless feet over countless centuries. He mused for a moment on what a spectacle that was, for he rarely used this room and found very little mention of it in any of the other king’s annals, yet here it was, glossed featureless by shuffling steps passing over it every few decades or so. His mind returned from this tangent to Canthus’ recommendation.

                “If not directly in the employ of the military, then what sorts of individuals do you speak of, riddlesome elf?”

                The millenarian elf smiled softly. He so loved the life that humans exuded, and this non-descript little king showed more than most. “The sorts that are gifted creatures of great ability and virtuous heart.”

                Merrett’s face creased once along the corner of his mouth as he pondered his

meaning. “You mean warricks? Dragons? Midwives, what?”

                Canthus was unperturbed. “While we may end up enlisting the help of all you just described, I meant certain specific individuals unique amongst their kind and profession. Heroes, if you will, yet not blatantly heroic.” It was clear that he was choosing his words carefully, but he chose all of his words carefully.

                Merrett felt he understood. “So you wish to find people of unusual talent or

standing and make them direct my forces, is that it? Champions?”

                Canthus winced very slightly at the term. “Not quite so extravagant. If one of these beings was to pass you by, you would glance at them briefly in curiosity that just might border on wonder, but once they passed out of sight, you would put them out of your mind.”

                “How is that advantageous?”

                Canthus spread his hands briefly and then rejoined them. “I want our enemies to pause at the sight of them, change their minds, and then brutally, horribly, underestimate them.”

                Merrett grasped the thumb of one hand in the other and then placed both hands in his lap. “I could see how that would be applicable in a one-on-one engagement, but, as generals, they will hardly ever enter the battlefield.”

                Canthus smiled wide. “Oh but they will, my Good King Merrett. That’s one of many arenas where they will be underestimated, and central to why your regular military leaders fall short.”

                “I understand, but eventually our enemies will learn from their mistakes and will come at them and us with everything they have.”

                Canthus nodded. “Eventually yes, but, if we play our dice right, it will be too late. ‘Everything they have’ will no longer be enough.”

                Merrett seized his bottom lip in his fingers, lightly tugging on it in an almost

comical manner as he brooded. “Very well, I see the wisdom in this. Where will we find such beings?”

                Canthus smirked. “Well, I spoke with two of them only this morning.”

                The High King perked up. “Where are they?”

                The old elf, who suddenly seemed wrapped up and bound by every single one of his years, sighed an oath. “Oh, I sent them off to pull the tiara down over Primaxis Krubisse’s eyes. It was a somewhat greedy endeavor on their part, but you know as well as I that the Primaxis is about as holy as a demon’s scat.

                As is… right now I have no idea whatsoever where they are.”

 

~*~

 

                A garull hurled itself through the air, only to have its skull crushed like a shell of burnt paper by JaBrawn’s mace. Two more launched towards the others, nearly bowling over their targets, but skewered quickly and cleanly by the guardsmen, who repeatedly hacked at their twitching bodies and then reformed their circle without so much as wiping their blades clean so they were not caught unprepared.

                The garulls were not the brightest animals in the woods, but even they could sense that this strange tickle in their dim minds, this beckoning sensation that called to them and directed them here, was not letting them act the way they wanted to act.

                “What are they doing?” Barnus hissed through the side of his mouth towards

JaBrawn.

                JaBrawn took the corner of his bottom lip between his teeth. “Either regrouping, retreating, or charging. Take your pick, though I think one of them is not the answer.”

                Barnus snorted.

                The line of garulls spread out in a half-circle and pulled back, some all the way to the trees. JaBrawn’s concern soared. This was not like the relentless, blood crazy garulls of the war. These things were not acting like animals.

                “Careful lads, they’re flanking us,” the stocky guardsman said softly. The line continued to spread until there were nearly ten or twelve feet between each of the creatures.

                JaBrawn ground his teeth and his stomach sank. “Worse than that. They’re

surrounding us.”

                The stocky man growled in disbelief. “Now how would they know how to do

that? They look about as smart as –”

                No sooner had the words left his mouth than the opposing ends of the garulls’ trap appeared from the trees. It was an impossibly coordinated pincer attack, one that offered no escape for the men. Temeth and Grendel backed up several dozen yards so as not to be caught in it. Their movement caught the attention of the outermost beasts, and they hissed in warning, one of them crouching to spring. JaBrawn cocked back his arm, preparing to heave Silvermoon farther than he’d ever thrown her before, when something even stranger than their cunning maneuvers occurred. The creatures immediately tugged their interest from the horses and turned them back to their task, almost as if some great admonishing hand had twisted their heads.

                This went completely against the mindset of a predator seeking an easy meal. The two horses, one with two children on its saddle, should have completely stolen the attention of the garulls near them, yet they could focus on nothing other than the larger threat of the armed humans at the center of their deadly circle.

                JaBrawn blinked and marveled, but could not spare it any further attention.

The ends had met, and more than a score of the things now surrounded them. As expected, they closed on them steadily, huge hooked hands held before their lithe torsos, mouths hanging open in horrendous fanged grins, eyes gleaming with an innate evil.

                The old warrior felt a tug at his breast, a sensation that he had battled and wrested control of for three decades. He shoved it away as he had in the past but found it difficult, as it was more defense mechanism now than anything else.

                “No,” he muttered to himself, steeling his nerves. “I will not need it.” He did not look about to see if anyone noticed him talking to himself, but he doubted they would care much at that point.

                As the garulls advanced on the men, the gaps between them shrank from twelve feet, to ten, to eight. Soon they would be a foot away from each other and twenty feet away from the men. If they all struck at once, it would be like throwing bread dough into a spinning barrel lined with shark’s teeth. There was no way they could survive, unless he…

                “NO!” JaBrawn shouted, making the other’s jump.

                “What the bedeviled saints are you yelling at?” Barnus hissed at him.

                A growl that sounded like someone rolling boulders down a hillside rumbled

from JaBrawn’s chest. Everyone held their breath and turned their heads to look at him. His teeth were gritted, and Barnus noticed that two on the top and bottom seemed elongated – almost tusk like. JaBrawn did his best to ignore this, and found his human voice again, though it was shot through with wrath. “All of you get on your bellies!” He bellowed. They took quick glances at the ground and the garulls, who were perhaps twenty feet away now. “DO it!” JaBrawn shouted, foam flicking from his mouth.

                Considering how this same fellow had felled all six of them earlier with hardly any apparent effort, their hesitation was brief. Like a troupe of felled pawns, they collapsed to the dirt and covered their heads, though some continued to look upward in fear.

JaBrawn willed Silvermoon to her maximum length of ten feet, causing gasps of wonder from the guardsmen who saw it. The weapon was now a massive clubbing pole arm, her hundred-pound weight made three times what it was by being suspended at such a great distance from the handle. JaBrawn noticed the difference in her heft, but paid it little mind. If the garulls did, they showed no outward sign of neither it, nor the sudden prone position of the other men.

                And then, without warning, half their number leaped into the air, claws and jaws spread wide. For the split second that they were airborne, JaBrawn marveled at how every other creature attacked, skipping one in between. If they had all jumped at once, they would have collided with one another. He slapped the thought to the back of his mind. The time for thinking on such would come later.

With a horrendous, bellowing roar, JaBrawn tapped into the heart of the weapon, drawing on a store of living energy within Silvermoon that he rarely used due to its typically uncontrollable nature. With a buzzing, humming shriek, he spun her through the air with such ferocious speed, that the image of Silvermoon’s gleaming sphere dissolved into a blurred, deadly amalgam. One of the guardsmen would later tell how it looked like they were enclosed in a ring of liquid silver, a ring that the ten or so garulls flew into headfirst.

                They were smashed to fragments. Their bones were crushed, their hides split, and the contents of their bellies and torsos ruptured and flung far and wide in a gruesome explosion.

                So quick were their deaths, not one of them made a sound.

 

~*~

 

                Anamu twitched where it sat, feeling the sudden deaths of the garulls like a tug on an eyelid. It bared teeth that once belonged to someone else and hissed like a basket of vipers. It shook its head and wrestled with the remaining creatures, fighting to get them under its yoke again. As it did so, it took a long hard look at the small group of men that dared to defy it, and something that had been hidden became clear.

                It slowly smiled.

                One of them was not what he appeared to be.

 

~*~

 

                JaBrawn attempted to slow down Silvermoon’s spin but was unable to, even when he applied all of his vast strength. In fact, the rotation became more severe, and his weapon began to burn in his hands. It was an enwarred burn, so the damage would be real and lasting if he could not contain it soon. Focusing his will, he endeavored to again tap into Silvermoon’s center, the core of her that actually was alive.

When he reached her, he was stunned to find nothing but hate, revulsion, and bloodlust. She was not going to be called back, not now anyway. He tried for several seconds more, but it was like a man trying to reason with a howling wolf deep in the predatory throes of a recent kill.  He made no headway with her at all, in fact, if anything the mania of her increased and the burning worsened. He could hold her no longer. With a cry of frustration he let go, and she violently launched high and far into the air, lost to the sky and a location he could not even dream. So fast was her flight that the air scorched in her wake, making her appear as a fallen star striving to reclaim its place.

                JaBrawn scowled heavenward, aggravated beyond words at what he lost, and what he would no doubt have to endure to recover her. All he could really ascertain was her initial direction, which was westerly, but her flight was not a straight line. It was more of a great arc that continued beyond sight, so she could have landed anywhere. He could sense her presence when she was close enough, but never from this distance. Considering what he had to endure to call her his own… He shook his head angrily, but pressed it down within him with logic and reason. At least Fremett lay in that general direction.

Irritating as this was, it was now secondary. He looked past the circle of grisly remains that was once nearly a dozen monsters nearly twice the size of a man, and instead inspected their remaining brethren. He had reduced their ranks by not quite half, there being two and ten of them remaining. Not pausing for a second longer, he snatched from the ground a long sword for each hand and leapt into the air holding them over his head while simultaneously shouting for the guardsmen to regain their feet and press the attack. The garulls had appeared dazed and confused when he had killed the others, but regained their composure almost simultaneously. The old warrior then went gruesomely back on the offensive.

                With an overhand chop, he sliced a scaly torso in two, the creature barking in

surprised pain. The sword sang with the impact, and he had to remind himself not to strike to hard or he would dull or even snap a blade against their scales or bones. Spinning to his left, he pierced a snout clear through to the brain, dropping the animal in an instant. He leapt to his right taking a quartet of deep gashes along his flank that tore straight through his leather jerkin to score the flesh beneath. He grunted slightly, reversed his grip of one sword in midair so that he gripped the handle palm down, and then lashed out from left to right with both blades, catching the garull under the chin and slashing through its spine. It had time to shriek once before it died.

                He chanced a quick look over to his new compatriots and saw that they had grouped into a tight ring, each lashing out with his sword, or, in the case of the two whose swords he liberated, stabbing with daggers drawn from their belts. Since they could not focus on a smaller number of targets as they did when the first trio of garulls attacked, they were having difficulty scoring more than the occasional slash or puncture, but the wounds were painful and kept them at bay.

                Two of them converged on him at once, one seizing a sword in its teeth, the other snapping at his head with jaws that could have severed it from his neck with a

single bite. He dropped a sword and seized the latter one by the thick hide of its neck

and squeezed. His powerful hand felt little purchase but the action caused the garull to

shift its intent from trying to behead him to trying to escape his grip. The other was lifted clear off the ground and slammed earthward, shock shattering its jaw and the sword, but no before the blade sliced through its tongue and cheek while snapping off dozens of teeth. Yowling with pain, it rolled around clutching at its head with its claws.

                His remaining sword arm now free, JaBrawn slashed the other creature across the belly, cutting open arteries and organs. He dropped this doomed beast to the ground, and then clubbed the other on its skull with the pommel, splitting its skull to its brainpan, killing it instantly. He then heard a shout of alarm that turned into a shriek behind him. He held his breath in fear but knew what he would see when he turned.

                The stocky guardsman had been plucked from his fellows by two of the horrific beasts and was being tugged in opposite directions between them. Their claws dug into his flesh cruelly at leg and chest, and blood gushed from the wounds. He gritted his teeth against the pain, but one twisted one way as the other went the other, and JaBrawn could hear the man’s bones break even above his cries of pain. All of this happened in only a few seconds, so quick and vicious was the attack. The other men stared, wide-eyed and paralyzed. He had to be rescued now, if at all.

                A missile attack would leave him at a disadvantage as he would be unarmed, but there was little doubt the poor man would be torn in two before he could reach him. Without another thought, the noble old soldier flung his remaining blade with a quick arc of his arm, closing the distance between himself and the nearest of the two garulls in hardly a second.

                The sword pierced its back just above and between its shoulder blades, pushing through the thick scales and immediately severing its spine. Useless as a knot of wet blankets, it flopped over. The other garull, unknowing as to what happened, began tugging the groaning man out from under its former competitor, grinning with the prospect of an entire meal instead of half of one.

Now JaBrawn was on it though, seizing its chin in one powerful hand, and its snout with the other. With a brutal jerk, he spread its jaws wide to the point where they broke, and then he twisted its head brutally to one side while twisting its jaw to the other, snapping its neck. When he shoved it away, it too was a dead pile of mange, scales, and teeth. The guardsman was pinned but protected under its bulk.

                Five of them remained now, and they were very upset. They were caught between the urge to flee and the irresistible goading that had filled their tiny minds, this voice that said they must obey despite the odds, and that there were rich, gluttonous rewards should they succeed and punishment beyond their bestial conception of pain if they did not. One of them, maddened, let loose with an ear-quaking squeal and charged clumsily forward. It suddenly sprouted a thumb-thick crossbow bolt from one of its eyes. It stood stock still for a moment, its jaw working up and down spasmodically. Reaching up with one claw in what almost seemed a curious gesture, it fingered the bolt of wood protruding from its socket. Then, with a sputtering, choking sound, it folded over and fell.

                JaBrawn flung his gaze around, seeking the archer. For a split, surreal moment, some absurd notion in his mind reasoned that Salett, broken in half and pallid from lack of blood, had hauled himself back from death and decided to turn over a new leaf and become a hero.

                His eyes found the truth quickly enough. It was not Salett, of course. Temeth, the guardsman awaiting what he had at first thought was an unavoidable call to retreat, had retrieved the boltcaster from the dead man’s fingers and had begun loosing quarrels towards the garulls. He was not the best marksman (he would later recount that the one that had just sprouted one from its eye had been aimed at its chest) but more than one found their target regardless.

                JaBrawn breathed relief and then returned to his grim task. One creature, screeching and clawing at a bolt that had suddenly appeared in its thigh, was cut down quickly by the guardsmen. JaBrawn impaled another through its chest, as it sought to rend the humans to pieces as they were bent at their task. The two garulls that remained stood back to back, their legs quivering with the urgency to flee, but held rooted to the spot due to Anamu’s unbreakable grip. They hissed, they growled, they gnashed their teeth, they tore at their manes with their claws, but they neither attacked nor retreated.

                It was at that point that realization dawned on JaBrawn. The way they advanced as one, and then spread out evenly and smoothly. After they had been encircled, the way they alternated each creature in the first wave of attacks, so as to not crash into each other nor use all of them at once, and now, the way that they clearly wanted to flee but could not, each occurrence was astounding enough individually, but jointly he mentally chastised himself for not seeing it. Some outside force was coercing them.

                Then, like a hood lifted from the face of one sentenced to death and then released for no reason, the garulls perked up, looked about, and turned away, tearing up the earth in their fervor to escape. A final crossbow bolt glanced off the armored scales of one of them nearly a hundred feet away. A useless shot, but impressive. In moments, they disappeared into the wood.

                Not a single one of the men on that bloody stretch of grass and road raised a shout of victory.

                “Will… somebody get this damned stinking carcass… off my head?” Said a

weak voice buried under three hundred pounds of dead monster.

                Lifting carefully, JaBrawn pulled the sagging weight away from the fallen

guardsman and took stock of his injuries. It was not good. He had deep rents in his flesh where the garulls had pulled and tugged on him, and his legs were a twisted mass of splintered bone and dripping, torn flesh. His left arm was yanked from its socket and hung limply, the palm mottled and purple from pooling blood. If blood loss did not kill him, infection surely would.

                Barnus knelt by his comrade and smiled down at him. “You fought a good one, old friend.” He glanced down his body. “I don’t think you’re going to be out chasing your Eliza much for a while.”

                The broken man lifted his one good hand and grasped Barnus on his shoulder. “No, I suppose not,” he said in a hoarse, pained whisper. He turned to look at JaBrawn. “Thank you, stranger, for helping us save our town. Can I ask you something?”

                JaBrawn nodded slowly. “Of course.”

                The man blinked through the pain. “Who are you?”

                His mouth fluttered into a quick smile that died away. “Some sort of bloody savior, I suppose.”

                The dying man and the others shared a very small, quiet laugh at that. His smile did not fade when, with a soft sigh, his life slipped away.

                JaBrawn held his breath a moment and clenched his jaw. “What was his name?” He asked.

                Barnus closed the man’s eyes, which were a blessed shade of peaceful. “Olmud Craftan. His family was one of the first to stake claim in this valley. His son is now the last of his name.”

                JaBrawn shook his head very slightly. “Then let’s head back to those backwards, slime-covered, wrist-wringing, yellow-bellied collection of toads that run your town, and inform them that two of their number have been killed by creatures that do not exist.”

                The cropped fellow looked at him. “Are you sure that’s wise? This may be the only chance you have to get away clean.”

                JaBrawn nodded grimly. “I understand, but I feel we have just delayed what more may transpire.” He turned towards where the garulls had disappeared. “Something was moving them to act that way. That was far too coordinated an attack for any animals, but especially these bloodthirsty beasts. This was more than random. Your town was targeted, or, at least, perhaps tested. I am not certain who or why, but I strongly urge you to spread the word in Camdur that the High King’s aid is desperately needed. If this happens again,” he pointed at the carnage without turning his head, “It will be disastrous without the proper preparation to repel it.”

                Another said softly, “The council will be resistant to such an idea. They are

proud and arrogant.”

                “That would be another task I must deal with. The time has come for your town to supplant its rulers.”

                The others nodded or murmured quiet agreement, deigning to reserve mention of JaBrawn’s enigmatic method of dispatching the beasts that assaulted them, nor the extravagant manner in which he lost his weapon. There just seemed to be an additional unspoken consensus to voice their thoughts later, if at all.

                “I must admit, I am curious to see their faces when they discover that their

cowardly assassin was killed for pointing a crossbow at the wrong man.” Barnus

mumbled.

 

~*~

 

                Anamu sat very still for a while.

                It strove to remain calm, to remind itself that it really had only just been born and that its power was still not nearly what it could be. It had underestimated the inhuman ability of the one warrior, and had paid minorly, if at all, for it. It had released the remaining garulls, seeing them as wasted resources if he allowed them to be killed. They would heal, breed, and replace their lost numbers in just a few turns. Overall, it categorized the entire affair as a useful lesson in judging an enemy.

                The day for retribution would come. There was no need to get angry.

                None at all.

                In a blur of movement, it turned and rent the former priest’s expensive goose

down bed into shreds, throwing feathers and expensive silk in every direction, striking again and again until the stately bedroom looked as if a tailor’s shop had been upended into a tornado with a flock of geese. The vile entity did not stop until the mattress was in ribbons, and then it went to work on the wooden frame of the bed itself, tearing it into splinters and kindling. It went on destroying it until nothing remained standing or even remotely resembled a bed.

                After its violent task was completed, it knelt in the rubble, its bloody fingers

curled in its lap. It neither seethed through clenched teeth nor was its breathing labored with its efforts. Such things were beneath it, it reasoned with itself, though the occasional curative outburst was not. Relinquishing to such destruction was one of its cornerstones, after all. With wanton ruin came its feast.

                Feeling solaced by this thinking, it decided to review its options and to seek out further resources without risking itself or its minions. At once there seemed to be limitless possibilities and then only a very few. Fremett offered a varied affair of

debauchery and depraved souls that thrived on such wickedness, but, as it had surmised earlier, too much too quickly would draw too much attention to itself. It hated admitting that weakness, but consoled itself with visions of the future when entire nations would sacrifice its children to it.

                It settled itself into a meditative state, loosing its mind into the great astral sheet that connected every living thing with every other living thing, as well as their intentions and the energy released by such intentions. This divergess of aether was something of a transition zone between other divergesses, and hid many mysteries even from it. Anamu’s mind was vast and complex, but limited still, almost as if it were the grandest and largest library on all of Earth, yet most of its books held pages yet to be read – or filled.

                Pulling back from where it found itself, here, in the bedchamber of the late High Priest Alvis, in the town of Fremett, on the western coast of Hildegoth, it panned its vision around its astral self, seeking out first the shiny pond that represented Camdur. The dull red throb was still pulsing beneath its veneer, but that was not why it sought this place out. It wanted to discover what the source of evil was that had reached its horrid fingers from such a distance so as to stir this little pot of a village into acts of villainy. At best it could be a source it could quickly overpower and from which it could draw sustenance. At worst it could be an ally, at least for now.

                It focused its will on the murky tendrils of dark intent that were the points of

contact between this evil it sought and Camdur. Almost instantly they were found,

standing out in stark relief against the pulsing, sparking green of the Earth beneath it.

They were dormant now – connected but inactive. Anamu was pleased with this, as it

meant that it could follow them to their source without being noticed until it had arrived. Pulses of evil influence sent along these tendrils may have not been aware of it, but, considering the fortitude of whatever entity was behind it, it seemed unlikely. This way, since the energy was not present, it could not detect Anamu.

                Racing along their length, Anamu felt a stirring in its spiritual breast, a feeling of growing excitement that it found much more palatable than the rage it had unleashed shortly before. It was a sensation of something astounding about to take place, something wonderful, something momentous. A turning point was about to be reached, and nothing would stand in its way, it was certain of it.

                The gestalt being Anamu could hardly wait.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 13

 

                Extiris Aerathi – The divergess of aether: The currents of aether provide a means to travel to all other planes as it links, surrounds, and penetrates them. It is a

place of calm zephyrs and raging cyclones. Most enter this plane only as a path to find another. There are beings that reside in it and travelers who have become lost in it. Their existence is a fractured and fluid one, as excessive time in the aetheric plane leeches the mind and memory, eventually turning one into a wistae, a ghost particular to the aetheric plane.

                All spirits make a journey through the extiris aerathi to their final place of rest. The land of Erathai derives its name from this plane, as the early High Kings felt that this kingdom linked all others and was instrumental in their existence. The hraath, or the Couriers of death exist here, as well as the zephirim, known more commonly as air elementals.

 

                Canthus sat perfectly still. He laid his hands on his thighs, his back against a chair, and had his eyes closed. Breathing slowly and deeply, he calmed his body down to the point where, other than the slight rise and fall of his slender chest, he appeared dead.

Good King Merrett waited impatiently nearby, pacing as quietly as he could. He had watched Canthus do this sort of thing several times in the past, but he had never really become accustomed to the waiting part of it. He hated waiting. It was like taking bits and pieces of your life and throwing them away. He felt the same way about sleeping.

                “You’re thinking too bloody loudly,” Canthus muttered through slitted lips.

                The High King rolled his eyes and ground his teeth. “Now that, my skinny friend, is something that I have never, ever, been accused of.”

                “It is so, all the same,” Canthus said, adjusting his position in the chair slightly. “Either sit down and think of nothing, or walk around and think of something pleasant, or a combination. But stop this mental complaining. It’s like trying to read a manuscript on phantasmal physics whilst someone washes pots and pans under the table.”

                Merrett held up one hand and headed for the door. “I don’t think I can do either right now, so if you’ll excuse me?”

                “Of course. Stay nearby if you would, my king, so that I might tell you of any information I uncover.”

                The king nodded on his way through the thick oak portal. “Certainly,” he said gruffly.

                Canthus shook his head and smiled, but it quickly faded. He had deceived his friend, the High King of Erathai and all of Hildegoth. He did not like it, but it was

necessary. The two that he was supposed to be seeking with his spirit sight were well

enmeshed in a string of, what he had come to call, The Great Tapestry of Time and Things and Stuff that must take place. He had nudged them in that direction intentionally, and not even the gods themselves could make him remove them. The world was at a time and place where, in order to survive the coming crisis that had been long overdue, certain people had to be certain places when certain things happened. One mistake, one misplaced soul, and the entire strategy could unravel. The only possibility of salvation after that would be he, or someone like he, could begin anew if there was enough time.

                If.

                Canthus, however, had taken enormous steps in making certain that that did not happen. Even though a fine new world might rise from the foul ashes of this one, he had grown quite fond of it. So, instead of seeking the two future allies out like he told the Good King, he sought out others.

                He felt their glowing souls out in the vastness of the Earth call to him silently, their very existence strumming ethereal chords in him that were only noticed when they were touched. They were the veiled champions of which he spoke, the beings who would lead and wage this war that was coming. They were like errant puzzle pieces, misplaced shards of an urn, unmet children wandering as orphans. They would act both within and without the vast, sweeping arm of The High King’s soldiers, and would ultimately go on when the armies had been destroyed.

                Canthus winced inwardly. He knew that reading the future was not, could not, be an exact art because of its shifting nature, but this did little to comfort him when he glimpsed what its guarding hands withheld.

                With a tug on his willpower he pushed those horrible visions aside. Fate

would dictate their end, not he. In fact, dwelling on it much may alter the outcome against his wishes. So delicate were the filaments of time and space, that the simple act of observation could obscure them – or snap them altogether.

                He refocused his mind. After a thousand years of constant practice, he had rather perfected all there was to perfect in the application of warra, both his and otherwise. Techniques of immersion in the astral fields that used to take him days now took him seconds. His spiritual poise, paths of thought, wells of warra, everything was honed to near flawlessness – except the ability to remain neutral. According to what he had learned, it was balance that lit the stairway to enlightenment, objectivity that was its handrail, and non-interference that was the key to the doorway at its landing. He believed this, mostly, but could not wholly subscribe himself to it – not yet anyway, even after all these years. Consequently, it was this lack of neutrality that forced his hand when evil began stomping around, and it was about to do a bit of stomping that would make the oceans roll and the mountains crack.

                He had sensed the gathering of this thing of evil that had attained sentience quite some time ago, but had yet to learn this incarnation’s name, if it even had one. He knew that its mind was not human, nor mankindred, nor demon, yet shared traits with all of these. It was something newborn, yet it had existed for dozens of ages, dwarfing even his lifespan. At the same time, he sensed something lesser about it, something… infantile. Often excess energy of various sources would congeal to an appreciable level, but it would just as often fragment and reform somewhere else, sometimes as something completely benign. The gods and the demons were formed similarly, though it had been a very long time since any new ones had been birthed. The demons would simply destroy and devour any rivals in their realms, and there were enough gods to cover more or less all of the categories of prayer and worship.

                So he had dismissed it, at first. Canthus had felt it simmering and growing like a sickness, like an abscess of foulness, yet was of course much more because this disease had a mind, a heart, a goal, and, like the pain of a swelling chancre, it finally garnered his attention. This was no benign occurrence, and it sought no entry into the towers of the gods of the halls of the damned. It simply remained. And ate. And grew. He knew then that he was witnessing the creation of something new, something horrendous. Action needed to be taken before it attained some sort of mental faculty. Perhaps gaining sentience was just its latest incarnation, and it had yet to accustom itself to the eccentricities of such an existence. The sea had always been the sea, but if one day it noticed the boats on its back and the fish in its flesh, how would it act? What would it think? Would it be e benevolent host, or would treat every living thing as an invader or a parasite? Or lunch?

                Intercepting it before this moment was a personal aim from which he had fallen short, in part because if his self-assured arrogance. He had thought his power would be enough. It was clear now that it was not. As he had before, he needed help. For now, it needed to be unwitting and cleverly motivated help.

                He crafted a mental image of what he saw this evil to be and what could happen if it was allowed to gain a foothold in the living planes. He then slipped this into the High King’s subconscious mind. From there, he had known that nightmares would arise, but he was surprised by their swiftness and efficacy. Good King Merrett’s moral core obviously took things to heart much more swiftly than he had planned, and he felt guilt over it, but it was irrelevant. This impossible beast had to be combatted and its purpose thwarted, for this purpose was painfully clear, as were its origins. It was evil in its purest, most undiluted form, a thing composed of ancient emotion but attaining an existence unique in all reality, because, unlike the demons, it manifested here, amongst the mortals. It was a sobering thought to think that this occurred because here is where it felts most at home, and where its sustenance could be found. It would eat and expand and reach further and further across and through the world until its touch was everywhere. It would be inescapable, and unbeatable.

                Canthus lifted higher into the aetheric heavens, seeing more of the spirit essence that penetrated and bound this living world of Earth, seeking out the bright souls that, hoping against hope, may very well be the beings that he so desperately needed. He looked, and sought, and prayed, and cursed, and fumed, and, ultimately, he started over. He sat without making either a move or a sound for hours, the task gargantuan but with possibilities that he could not discount, thus could not abandon.

                Whilst the ancient elf sat in silence at his quietly exhausting task, the High King in the other room began to get seriously drunk, throwing all thoughts of moderation and caution to the whimsical care of the twilight breeze. Things would get very crowded and very tiresome very soon, and he would be damned if he was going to be sober when it all began.

 

~*~

 

                Councilman Gar Serbis blanched at the news the court attendant brought to his chambers. His mouth pulled into a tight line, and he hurried to the main trial hall where the stranger known as JaBrawn and Sergeant Barnus Polchek were awaiting. The other councilmen would take a few minutes to arrive so he executed a minor infringement on the rules and questioned them himself.

                “How exactly did Derrig die?”

                JaBrawn, an old bearded brute so enormous not even Derrig could have looked him directly in the eye, set his jaw and answered. “Salett killed him.”

                “Salett was defending himself?” He said as he sized him up. He was obviously a warrior sort, but his mannerisms were the cool relaxed demeanor of a practiced politician. Something told him that this trait was not the result of a life dedicated to politics.

                JaBrawn shook his head. “Salett attacked me. Derrig attempted to defend me, and Salett killed him with a siegeman’s crossbow.”

                Serbis pursed his lips. “He and those under Sergeant Polchek’s command,” he sent a quick look at Barnus, “had been sent to arrest Thresher and take his children into custody. He had full authority to use whatever force he deemed necessary to accomplish this. From where I sit, Salett was merely doing his job.”

                JaBrawn took a step towards the wide desk that was between him and Serbis.

Though it was against protocol and more than a little rude, the look in the old warrior’s eyes was enough to silence any offense that may have reached Serbis’ lips.

                “Salett told me the real reasons behind the entire plot, Mr. Councilman.” He leaned over, the shift in weight causing the old timbers beneath his feet to creak. “He told me everything.”

                Serbis, looking into the huge man’s eyes, saw nothing but truth. For the first time in quite a while, he froze. Damn that senseless Salett! At the very least he would never run his mouth on again, but this last time may have worse implications than any other. With some small effort, his polished voice reasserted itself. “He told you about our concerns for the safety of Thresher’s children and for Thresher himself, I take it? Why in the world did he attack you then?”

                JaBrawn’s face looked like shaped iron. “You lie very poorly, Mr. Councilman.”

                The corner of Barnus’ wrinkle framed mouth lifted with amusement as the esteemed Councilman locked up yet again, standing impassively with his palms on the desk. Just then, the chambers behind him opened, and the other four councilmen entered and took their seats. If any of them were curious as to what had been transpiring before their arrival, they gave very little indication of it. Huffing and grumbling, they fluffed their robes, adjusted crystalline spectacles and generally made a big condition out of nothing, as most men of power – however little – do.

                Serbis, his eyes never leaving JaBrawn’s, took his seat as well. With his compatriots at his side, he recovered a great deal of his bearing. “This is not an official trial, inquiry, or anything else of the sort,” he said, his voice still staying smooth and non-inflective. “We have chosen this spot to meet and to hear a firsthand account of what occurred this morning. So: Who’s first?”

                The other guardsmen were waiting outside, each on a horse, each keeping an eye on Wendonel and Favius. They had wanted to come inside the hall and give their own testimonies on what had happened, but JaBrawn and Barnus had asked them to stay uutside and mind the children, who were already getting frightened and even angry looks from passing townspeople. They had not shifted in either position or placement since they had been set on Grendel’s broad back. They blinked, they breathed, but they did not move or speak.

                JaBrawn spoke up loudly and abruptly. “This is not going to be a recounting of what happened this morning. This is going to be a simple and straight forward warning that you don’t really deserve.” He crossed his arms and took a deep breath as Serbis eyed him curiously. “Sergeant Polchek and I will be leaving with Sergeant Thresher’s children shortly. Any man that makes any attempt to stop us will be killed. Anyone sent after us will be killed.” He moved to speak again, but he was interrupted because for the first time in thirty years Gar Serbis actually lost his temper.

                He shot to his feet, his face flushed with indignation. “Now see here, we will not be held captive by your threats outsider! How dare you make such demands on -”

                “Furthermore,” JaBrawn said calmly, his deep voice silencing Serbis immediately, “Sergeant Derrig Thresher will be given a decent burial behind his cottage. His house will be given to his half-brother, when I find him. Until that time it will remain untouched.” He let that sink in a moment. “I will check in from time to time. If any demand I have said this day has not been met, every last one of the guardsmen outside and Sergeant Polchek, will bring up the true reasons behind Sergeant Thresher’s death to the High King and his judicial cabinet. If any of the guardsmen or I are threatened or attacked due to our knowledge, all five of you will die. I will kill you myself.”

                A small chorus of astonished gasps popped out of circled mouths to the left and right of Serbis as he retorted. “Sir, I cannot for the life of me understand why we would at all take these threats seriously, but your status as a threat to our community and the greater good of all Rualedd, and even Hildegoth herself, has just been made perfectly clear.” He drew quick breaths through his nose, agitated beyond even what his nearly legendary demeanor could manage. “If it were up to me you would be drawn and quartered and then burned to ashes, but a simple, clean beheading will have to suffice!”

                Barnus shook his head. “I think you had better hear the rest of what he says,

Councilman.”

                Serbis’ eyes flashed between the two men. “What do you mean?”

                JaBrawn took another step forward, leaning his own hands on the massive

expanse of aged oak. “Your tenure as any kind of ruling class here is over, Serbis.”

                The other councilmen reacted differently between each other, but none could hide the very sudden, very real sense of concern that had blossomed amongst them like a diseased daisy.

                “You have no authority here!” Serbis spat at him. “Your words now are as

meaningless as before, and I will never be more filled with joy and happiness than when I see your head roll off your shoulders!” With that, he reached underneath the edge of the desk and pulled hard on a cable that ran its length to a quartet of brass bells hanging at a corner of the building. They began ringing loudly, casting sharp peals of noise in every direction to nearly the edges of the town. After several seconds of this, Serbis ceased and bored his gaze into Barnus and JaBrawn. They made no move to flee or defend themselves. They did not even appear concerned with it.

                “Brave fools, are you not?” Serbis said, his cool detachment returning. “Good. It will be that much more pleasing to watch that bravery turn to fear.”

                The double doors at the entrance opened. Twelve of the magistrate’s guardsmen filed in. After they had all entered, they made their way to Barnus and JaBrawn’s sides, stopping only when they were within arm’s reach. They then looked upward at Serbis as if awaiting an order.

                Serbis smiled pleasantly at them. “Your deaths will be so much more gratifying if you were to say something in your defense, some moral prattling or decisive banter of good and evil, black and white.” He chuckled at his own words. “Come now, anything at all. Hm?”

                Neither man spoke for several seconds, nor did anyone else. Then, slowly,

deliberately, JaBrawn’s face pulled down into a scowl. The order now came, but not from anyone on the wrong side of the bench. “Your magistrate and all of you, councilmen, have been removed from office in accordance with Camdur’s town charter for conspiracy against a townsperson. Normally you would all be executed, but instead it is banishment into a world that does not treat soft politicians very well. As for the council itself, worry not. New holders of your positions will be voted in on Firsday.” JaBrawn swallowed down the delicious sight of Serbis’ smile melting away like a snowflake in a forest fire. “Take them away. Lock them up. Your town will decide on the terms of their banishment in the morning.” JaBrawn said this quietly yet apparently with enough force to shove Serbis forcefully back into his chair, because that is exactly what happened.

                The guardsmen neither took their eyes from the councilmen nor did they hesitate. They simply approached the bench, rounded it, and took them into their grasp.

So surreal were the circumstances, that hardly a sound was made. They were ushered out one by one through the front doors. As they were lead numbly from their perches, the old aristocrats’ faces were blanched and sickly with horror.

                As Serbis passed by JaBrawn he finally made a sound human enough to be

understood. The robust old soldier placed a hand on the guard’s shoulder who had seized him and bade him stop.

                “What is it?” He asked Serbis.

                With a face slack and lifeless, the councilman addressed him. “You should have killed me, JaBrawn. You should have removed me from this world, because now I will do everything in my power to do that very thing to you.”

                JaBrawn smiled wryly, and then leaned over. “I had figured as much. That is why I had talked the others into banishment rather than outright execution. That way,

I might see you again when you attempt revenge... and exact some of my own.”

                Serbis’ eyes flared with a brief anger and then faded away. JaBrawn looked up at the three burly guardsmen and motioned slightly with his head for them to remove the man from his sight. Barnus followed them out, with JaBrawn in tow. He took one last look into the town hall before he moved to close the doors, and wondered what sort of men would take their place, and whether or not there would be any serious improvement. Hopefully the new ones would remember this day, at least for a while.

                He sighed a moment and then shut one door to the chamber. In the end, this hope was naïve and moot. All that really mattered was the struggle, the endeavor to improve. There was no winner’s circle where your trials and moral fortitude paid off. There was no final goal to achieve or trophy to claim. There were no rewards other than small ones along the path of this endless effort – this endless, necessary effort. With a muffled thump like a coffin lid as it sentenced its occupant to eternal night, he shut the other door.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 14

 

                Extiris Teraxa – The divergess of earth: Creatures that make their home in earth and stone can be found here, as well as the teragga, the earth elementals. More than a vast realm of broken terrain, gargantuan mountains and smooth cliffs of featureless stone, the teraxian plane also is the source of mortal stability, the birthplace of all growing things, and where the dead spend a brief time after being interred. Here they fully shed their mortal shells and move on to the aetheric plane. From there, their permanent place of rest will be reached, although permanent is a very fluid concept dealing with where we go when this part of the journey ends.

               

                Later that morning they had a small, personal funeral over Derrig’s grave. JaBrawn felt out of place, but both children grasped his hands fiercely when he tried to excuse himself. No words were spoken. No tears fell. They just stood there and stared at the raised piece of fresh earth under which their father was laid to rest – right next to their mother. The air was damp with dew, and the few shafts of sunlight that pushed through the oaks were circled by butterflies and touched with whorls of pollen. A robin hopped about the ground nearby, eying them curiously. The calls of sparrows, thrushes, and warblers tittered in the trees. After a few minutes, Favius and Wendonel turned away simultaneously.

                “We’re ready. Can we go now?” Wendonel asked simply.

                JaBrawn had procured two horses, a covered wagon, and provisions enough to last for several turns as well as seeds to grow more. The children (Wendonel finally speaking again, if not her usual self, and Favius moving about but seeming almost in a

waking fugue) had decided to make a small living area in this wagon, almost a home away from home. JaBrawn had not argued the point at all. They did not take up that much room. All they brought was their clothes, some blankets, and the few books, trinkets, and toys that they had. Their comfort was going to be sparse and unsatisfactory at best for quite some time before their uncle could find some sort of accommodation for them – if he could find their uncle. Hopefully his surname and description, as well as a description of this children would be enough.

                Quietly and whilst no one was looking, JaBrawn murmured to the horses that

they would be well treated and cared for. All they had to do was follow his and Grendel’s lead. They nickered in surprise, but accepted his words readily enough. Everything was in readiness. He asked the children if there was anything else

they required before they departed. Favius did not even appear he had heard. Wendonel lifted her head and shook it very slightly. With a sigh he pulled the waxed canvas shut, cinched it down, and tied it off. As he headed for Grendel’s saddle, Barnus intercepted him and clasped his hand firmly.

                The old guardsman asked, “Where are you headed then?”

                JaBrawn hesitated. He felt it unwise to disclose where they were headed even to trustworthy folk as even well-meant words can be overhead by those who do not mean well, but he needed all the help he could get. “Fremett. To find Thresher’s half-brother, some red-headed fellow who builds ships.”

                Barnus glanced upward at his own fiery locks and shrugged. “I did not even know he had any other family, let alone a fire-branded boat builder. My apologies friend, but I don’t know. I doubt anyone else would either. That said, I will keep your destination a secret.”

                JaBrawn sighed. “I sort of figured something like that. My thanks all the same.” He patted Grendel’s flank.

                The old guardsman lifted his chin somewhat and smiled. “Quite a horse you've got there.”

                Grendel regarded both the men curiously. JaBrawn shrugged, returning the smile, though there really was nothing behind it. “He has been my only friend for the last decade.” Grendel chuffed at him. It sounded something like a curse. “Lately, it seems that I can make and keep any friends I wish, as long as they are not people.”

                Barnus shook his head, closing his eyes. “No, comrade. You have done a great service here.” He turned his head, taking in the small huddle of Camdur. “This town will always remember the unseemly warrior JaBrawn, swooping in from gods knows where on an ugly horse, and saving the town from both without and within.” He grinned. “And who made a new constellation with his monster swatter.”

                Barnus and the others made no mention nor even cast curious glances at JaBrawn, despite the fact that when they had met him he looked to be approaching sixty years of age, and now, thanks to the last skirmish with the garulls, appeared ten years younger than that. It was clear to each of them that he was more than what he seemed, yet it was just as clear that they did not bother themselves with it. He was one of them, and his heart was kind and just. All else was immaterial.

                “Ummon and whatever gods he places in your cabinet be with you, JaBrawn

Marshada.” Barnus said. “I know not from whence you came and care very little. What I do know is that I and many others are forever in your debt. Even many who do not yet know it, but they will. I promise you that.” He paused. “The council members have been chased from town. Four of them left together. Serbis left on his own. At some point, I would like to send word to someone in power in Erathai regarding their crime, and have the high kingdom deal with them. That should make it clear to them just how harsh punishment can be, as simple banishment is much kinder than they deserve.”

                Uncomfortable with praise and feeling undeserving considering that he felt that a great deal of the recent turmoil was as much caused by his presence than cured by it, he merely smiled and shrugged again. “I did what I felt had to be done. Keep a stern eye out, Barnus. I do not think that these beasts will leave Camdur alone simply because we slew a score of them.” He turned to face the town. “As for the spineless worms that perched behind that bench, do as you see fit. My experience, however, says let life take its toll on them. It has a tendency to bring things full circle with little input from anyone else. Just the same... keep a vigil. They may bring some sort of retribution to Camdur's head, if indignation outpaces fear.”

                Barnus nodded. “Fair enough. I wish you good luck and speed in getting those two little ones to safety, and finding Silvermoon.” He indicated the town again, briefly. “Someday they may yet return, when Camdur has reclaimed its virtue. Until then, they have an uncle to find, and there is a good deal of cleaning up to do here.” He grinned broadly through his scraggly beard, and then he stepped away.

                JaBrawn nodded at the man’s departing back and said under his breath, “Agreed, and I cannot think of a better man to head the task.” He hopped on to Grendel’s saddle, turned, and clucked once at the other horses. They instantly obeyed, and their combined pulling power was more than enough to keep up with the powerful warhorse despite the wagon. At a brisk pace, the old warrior and the children left Camdur with the early afternoon sunk whilst Barnus and the others waved in farewell behind them.

                Soon the town was out of sight, though for the rest of their lives its memories

would linger as fresh as when they were laid in their minds: bright and dark moments,

unexpected friendship, and unbelievable anguish. Shining through all else though, was the flickering, brilliant light of hope.

                JaBrawn headed west, into country that used to feel safe and known. The past few days had badly shaken these quiet, unassuming lands, shaken it to the point where there may actually be a fracture that no one would see until it had split wide and rent everything from end to end.

                Fremett still lay two turns away, as did a destiny beyond what any of them

could have possibly imagined.

                Time would tell.

                It always did.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Part 2 - Politics and the Devil’s Hand

Chapter 15

 

                Extiris Aquanie – The divergess of water: An immense realm of raging torrents and calm seas, the aqueous plane (in concert with the aetheric plan) is where all monumental storms are birthed, where the drowned pass through to the aetheric, and is home to various aquatic beasts both recognizable and the stuff of dreams.

Despite the random force that seems at work everywhere, there is an incomprehensible rein to it, a leash to the chaos. Water elementals, known as torrinqua, make their homes here.

 

                The great hall of Greann was an incredible edifice. It was several hundred feet in diameter and nearly that high at the peak of its central dome. Rebuilt and augmented over the years because of necessity, wealth, or both, it sported structures of every luxurious wood that could be found in all of Hildegoth, and held together with equally expensive metals. It was designed in a series of steep, balconied tiers with a stage and podium at its nadir. Though the richest could sit anywhere they pleased, there was a hierarchical placement at work. The poorest of the shack and stall merchants had to gather at the lowest tiers, where the floors were of oiled wood and the seats were bare. The median filled the levels from there until the very top tier, where only the wealthiest and, of course, most arrogant, could recline on stuffed velvet benches and walk on the finest rugs and carpets. Normally there was an invigorating buzz of talk and intent swirling amongst the mercantile minds who frequented its aisles. Today, though, there was a tangible crabbiness in the air.

As a whole, the Greann Commercial Council did not like showing up for their scheduled seasonal assembly, so an emergency meeting (announced in the middle of the business day, no less) was met with bubbling resentment. Consequently, the air held a tang of something like a tinder dry forest, needing only some stumbling drunk holding a torch to trip over a root and set the whole thing ablaze.

                Arachias had to admit, he often enjoyed being that stumbling drunk. He sat

with his feet crossed and his arms folded over his chest, smiling slightly and even

chuckling every now and again at the rumblings and murmurings eddying around him. His dark crimson overcoat of crushed velvet over burgundy suede was creased in

immaculate folds to accentuate his slim and hardened form.

                His pupil, a young lad bound to his coattails until he learned the ways of politicking and business savvy, looked about like a nervous rabbit. He started at every disgruntled councilman's muttered curse. The boy's father, a mediocre businessman who had reached the mundane pinnacle of his career, would have the sharp young politician believe that he wanted his son to know the ways of the world as a politically knowledgeable man would know it. Arachias was not fooled for an eye blink. He wanted Arachias to teach the boy how to become rich very, very quickly. The deal was brokered this morning, and the first order of business was to attend this emergency meeting.

                Well, he liked the boy, Alec, so he would teach him how to make money as well as how to thrive in the political world. In a year, Arachias was certain Alec would see his father's aims as clearly as he did, and would make his own choices. For now, the poor little thing looked like a mouse in the middle of a catfight.

                He leaned over and whispered in Alec’s ear. “Hey! Who do you think will start shouting first?” Alec, completely consumed in the goingson around him, jerked in his chair at the sound of his new master’s voice. Arachias laughed. “Easy! Nobody’s going to bite you, lad. At least...” he glanced at the riotous members of the hall, “…not if you don't make eye contact.” The boy’s eyes went wide. Arachias waved the look away. “Oh, come on, I’m playing with you. Seriously, which of these crusty old lizards is going to lose their temper first?”

                Alec relaxed a couple of notches. He looked at him a moment, pondering. “Why?” He was stalling.

                Arachias approved. “Very good. Create time for yourself to search for a valid answer in the event that you do not have one immediately.” The boy nodded. “I ask because it is important to know your competitor’s tendencies. By the way, in practically any venue, the words ‘competitor’ and ‘colleague’ are interchangeable. Be that as it may, when you are aware of their tendencies, you can construct your arguments for or against them more effectively.” He sat back and again passed a quick glance over the massive hall of council members. There were dozens of men, women and mankindred from all of the richest businesses in the city. “Now: Who will it be?”

                The boy, his large brown eyes wide in observation, looked back and forth over the vast, ancient meeting hall and evaluated each member, trying to narrow it down. After half a minute or so, he sighed in resignation. “I have no idea.”

                Arachias raised a single finger. “Ah-ah. Your schoolteachers may tell you that honesty will always bring its own rewards. In many areas that is actually true. Here, however, it will bring you nothing but barely concealed snickers and cruel, amused glances if you are honest when it is not to your advantage. Your honesty will be considered a powerful tool to use against you by more than a few of them.”

                The boy frowned. “But if that were the case, then how is it that you could

ever truly trust any of these people, or anyone like them?”

                “Simple. By learning who you can and cannot trust.” He leaned forward

conspiratorily. “Most of this is little more than a game to these people, which is why

it can be extraordinarily easy to surpass them at it when you treat it seriously.”

                “’It’?” Alec asked, somewhere between curious and desperate.

                “Yes. ‘It’ being everything involved in this world in which you now find yourself. I realize it seems vague, and it is, but that is because, ultimately, it can only be defined by you.” The boy looked doubtful. Arachias rolled his eyes and sighed. “I fear you have far too much integrity for this world, young Alec. If you absolutely cannot decide, redirect the question.”

                “All right, Master Arachias. Which do you think? I have several ideas, but would like to compare these with your own.” His eyes were still readable, but he had blunted their honesty appreciably. He was catching on very well.

                Arachias smiled at him. “O my boy. There may be hope for you yet. I have

narrowed it down to three: Old Mangrath Bardee over there,” he indicated a tall thin

high elf (who looked about forty years old but was more like four hundred) seated on

the opposite end of the hall from them with his arms folded across his chest. He actually

appeared to be pouting.

                “Or Madam Oriah Feldsmith,” he gestured towards a short, plump human woman who had shown up for the meeting drunk, and was quickly deepening her condition with glass after glass of the house mead.

                “And, of course, there is always Rogette Busch, the crankiest businessman this side of the Thousand Hells.” He pointed towards a great fat human man with a completely bald head pouring with sweat. Draped and wrapped about his vast bulk was an elaborate, multi-layered business ensemble festooned with tassels and bows and glittering buttons and broaches of every precious stone and metal that could be culled from the earth. He must have been on the verge of fainting in the late Sanguinneth heat. Alec giggled. “All three of these are prime contenders. All three of them are renowned for their inability to withstand any sort of inconvenience, unless they are the ones administering it. What think you?”

                Alec leaned forward and passed his eyes over each of them in turn. “I know

nothing about any of them. It is impossible to decide.”

                “It is impossible to be certain of a correct decision, but that is true no matter

how easily read the situation may be. Even something 99% possible is still 1% impossible and the other way around. Trust me, that 1% can drop out of nowhere when you least expect it. In fact, the only thing that is of absolute certainty is that nothing is of absolutely certainty. In your case, however, it is of even deeper uncertainty, because, well… you’ve never done this before.”

                Alec nodded. “Well, yes.”

                Arachias nodded. “So?”

                “So… what would you do?”

                The dusky young man said, “I often find that, when faced with factors of

questionable intent, it can behoove you to behave in a similarly questionable manner.”

He let the thought trail off mysteriously, his thought clearly unfinished.

                The boy looked around again, baffled, and then back to his mentor. “What?”

                Arachias threw him a mischievous smile. “It is always best to keep those whom you do not consider friends (and those you don’t yet know are friends or enemies) on their toes, always guessing. An effective manner in which to do this is to randomly toss out wild cards when they are least expected.” He laughed lightly. “What if a wild card were thrown into this mix of sweat and whining at just the right

moment?”

                The boy blinked. “What moment?”

                Arachias winked. “Oh, how about right now?” He stood and cleared his voice in such a manner as the whole room could hear him. Some silenced immediately. Most continued talking and squabbling. All, however, turned their eyes to him. He smiled briefly, and then clearly stated, “There is a terrible stench in this room. I believe it is known as ‘old person smell.’ That would seem applicable, seeing as how the majority of you in this assembly could have sired my grandmother.” A few found this amusing and heckles popped up here and there, but, more importantly, the bickering reduced considerably. He now had their attention. “Ah. Glad I found the right combination to silence the lot of you and focus on the one thing that is irritating you all in the first place: Why in the hells are we here?”

                As one the hall unzipped in angry rebukes, some directed at Arachias, but most at the fact that they would rather be someplace else making money. The Conciliator had not yet arrived, and she had been the one to call the meeting.

                “So,” he continued, “how about we find out, eh?” There was a gentle thunder

of consent, grudgingly given or otherwise. “Excellent. Now, does anyone know where

Madam Conciliator is?”

                A weaselly little representative from the Avenue Angels Evening Companion

Service, or whorehouse, offered a suggestion. “Considering the grave implications of

ordering us here on such short notice, an extra dose of courage may have been in order for our esteemed Conciliator. With that in mind, perhaps she is gathering herself at the local refreshment establishment?”

                A chorus of sporadic laughter followed the statement. Madam Conciliator

Arianna Heathrow was reputed to be quite fond of the drink. Subsequently, a host of

rumors sprang from nowhere (of course) and were thriving quite well amongst her dissenters. Arachias shook his head at the fellow.

                “Have you not realized that the only way she could possibly cope with the likes of you, good councilman, is with a few dozen black ales in her belly? If I had the sort of clout Madame Conciliator enjoys, I would mandate a great drum of Midreth dark towed behind me whenever we were called to assemble.”

                A great many more laughs followed this one. The flesh peddler, in fact, was one of them. He bowed deeply to Arachias, who returned it. Then a sudden clap of wood on stone silenced the room. Arachias, consciously controlling his startled reaction, panned down to the raised dais at the center of the hall. There stood the thin, graceful form of the conciliator. She had entered and taken her place at the podium completely unnoticed.

                Arianna Heathrow was a very thin woman, and came close to Arachias’ six feet in height. She was in her early sixties, but her face had only the vaguest lattice of lines, and her voice carried as clearly and as loudly as a man twice her size and half her age. Her hair was a light, silvery blond, and was always pulled back in intricate braids that fell down her back nearly to her knees. There was rumored to be elvish blood in her ancestry, but if the subject had ever been broached there were none who could recall it.

                She always dressed simply yet elegantly, and today appeared in a soft gown of blued pearl, adorned only with a shawl of slightly darker hue. Her fingers glittered with stones, though those few that knew her well enough were aware that she hated diamonds. She preferred the subtler opal and topaz.

                She rapped the ancient oak paddle on the stone again, silencing the few who dared to still whisper though she decreed silence.

                “Quiet,” she said tersely. She leveled a steely gaze of inescapable gray eyes

in the direction of the whisperers. They soon simmered. “Now, I am aware that you hate coming here at all, much less with little warning, so I will be brief. In eastern Hildegoth, there have been unexplainable attacks on the High King’s forces. They were rare at first, and seemingly random, but they have increased with alarming frequency and aggression. They now occur almost daily, and almost always with fatalities.” Her eyes fixed on random members of the assembly, though she was completely relaxed. “As yet the exact details are shadowy, but the information we have received indicates incredibly unusual circumstances. Creatures driven into the woods centuries ago are coming out and assaulting bands of armed men. Other creatures acting in ways unheard of are decimating entire roving caravans. Additionally, the instances of bandit and highwayman assaults have risen dramatically, according to the reports I have seen from our interkingdom agents.”

                Cranky Rogette Busch had heard enough. He heaved his massive bulk to his full height, which was formidable as well. “What in all the frozen hells does this have to do with Greann or us? Erathai is a thousand miles away and then some. Unless Merrett has up and gone into hiding so we can split up this continent amongst ourselves, I can see no reason to usurp a valuable workday and gather us all like sheep!” A great spray of spittle flew off his lower lip.

                Madam Conciliator fixed a patient stare on him until she was satisfied he was finished. “Although I cannot conceive of the High King hiding from anything, I understand your concern Councilman. Thank you. Are there any other completely out of line or rude comments to vomit forth at me before I continue? Anyone?” She glanced quickly around.

                His mouth a stunned O, Busch flopped into his chair, his servant doing everything in her power not to smile.

                “Gods how I love that woman sometimes,” Arachias said softly through a smirk. Alec, standing beside him, amusedly nodded his assent.

                “Right,” she continued, completely unflustered. “The reason I have asked all of you prominent businessmen here today is twofold: First, I would like to extend aid to The High King in combatting these uprising.” A few muffled laughs slipped out amongst the throng. “Second,” here she paused and sighed, “I received a message not six hours ago of a sighting of creatures not seen for two decades in these lands, and, considering the entire Septimet is chasing prospects in the Uulik, I am prepared to expend the necessary funds to address this locally.” The expectancy of the room was vibrating the air. “The issue that is of concern to us all is a pack of garulls, spotted near the Chaali border.”

                The room erupted.

                “Impossible! The garulls were driven into the woods with so few numbers left that it would take...”

                “...If you see one of them, that means a hundred more are hiding not a mile from him...”

                “...The Garulokai are disbanded! If a horde of garulls is gathering, we have

neither the equipment nor the trained soldiers to...”

                “...Why were we not informed of this sooner? I tended my store from nothing, and now it is threatened by something that we were promised would never...”

                The list of complaints and concerns went on and on. A sharp crack of oak on

stone attempted to bring the hall back under control. “Order, the lot of you!”

                The cacophony continued for several seconds. Everyone was obviously shaken with this news, and with good reason. The Garull Wars nearly crippled the developed lands of the entire continent. The distant lands of Westenmarsh had never fully recovered. After the garulls had laid waste to the human settlements and eradicated the local ruling classes, the powerful Orc clans moved in and supplanted the High King’s rule entirely.

                “Why must we come to the High King’s aid?” Mangrath Bardee shouted in a

reedy voice, his elvish features flushed. “We are obligated to send equipment, materials, and taxes as it is, is this not sufficient?” Angry barks of agreement met this statement. “Moreover, is it not true that it is his duty, not ours, to dispatch soldiers to deal with problems we, as subordinate kingdoms, encounter? His forces are the police of these lands, not ours!” He retook his seat as more agreement rumbled forth from the irritable lot.

                The Conciliator again struck her gavel. “Yes, what you say is true, however,

there has not been a need for any sort of police action in years. Consequently, the High King’s military forces have, predictably, atrophied. They have had no serious evil to squelch out and would be of limited effectiveness if such a task was put to them. I believe that it is a good business venture to provide the High King with preemptive materials to head off this uprising before it becomes too large for his weakened forces to contain.”

                “How the hells is that good for business?” Someone practically screamed.

                Conciliator Heathrow smiled. “Simple. If it is we that come to his immediate

aid, he will be beholden to us. Imagine the appreciation. Tax reduction. Trade tariffs

lowered or removed altogether. And, most importantly,” she paused until she had the entire hall’s attention, “discriminatory placement on the ‘who gets the criminal slaves

first’ list.”

                The roiling sea of objection faded, and was slowly replaced with greedy interest. Bardee stood again. “How can we be sure that he will agree to any of these, much less all?”

                Arianna spread her hands. “I see it as a simple comparison of risk versus reward, good councilman. We send a message to Tyniar with our offer and our requests for how we would like to be compensated for this offer, should he accept it. If he says yes to one or all, we gain a great deal. Imagine a fifty percent tax reduction for the next five years. That money, as you well know, could triple itself in one season. Anything else on top of that is simply shine for the crown.”

                “And if his answer is no?” Busch demanded.

                Madam Conciliator shrugged. “Then we are out the payment for one warrick’s message to Erathai, and one business day. We can, at that point, decide if we would bend our own forces to our protection, but if the situation worsens appreciably it may be too late, and, consequently, moot.”

                The scent of oily greed began to spread in the rapidly calming sea of resentment. Tax cuts? Tariff reductions? New slaves? The implications were very profitable indeed.

                Busch, however, still smarting from her earlier rebuke, would not relent. “Some of us are doing just fine as it is, without getting involved in your political games, Madam Conciliator. Besides, what would the Septimet say about all this? Their affairs in Uulik keep them quite conveniently occupied so that you may press authority to force us into this, eh?”

                Arianna shook her and eyed him piteously. “I am forcing nothing other than this

meeting. I brought this to all of your immediate attention so that you can mull it over until our normal meeting time at the end of this turn. Then, as in all radical issues, it will be put to a vote as to whether or not we will commit city funds to this venture. Even if it does not pass, those of you who are interested can still commit personal funds and materials, and will most likely receive like returns. I only regret that the Septimet is not here to capitalize on such an opportunity.”

                Busch pouted but still would not let up. “So, you bring this to the council’s

awareness out of the kindness of your heart?” He smirked, which was a horrific spectacle under the flaps of his jowls. “Why not stake just your claim for this and reap its sole rewards?”

                “First and foremost, I am concerned for the welfare of Hildegoth and thusly the welfare of Greann. The offer of assistance to the High King would be appreciably

augmented if many of us commit funds and materials, and I doubt I could afford such an endeavor on my own. And, finally, yes, out of the kindness of my heart as well, which may come as a surprise to the more ignorant of you good merchants and vendors.” Her cool gray eyes took in the room briefly. “Unawareness of something does mean non-existence of something. That is all.” She clapped the gavel smartly on the stone and abruptly left as Busch clutched at his mouth in exasperation, tossed to the floor yet again.

                The other merchants, money handlers, bankers, vendors, and shopkeepers burst forth with further admonishments and expressions of outrage, though almost all were neatly mitigated by her proclamations. Now murmurs of profit and opportunity slithered amongst them. The quieter ones of the affluent elite most likely already had some inkling of the possibilities and kept to themselves. The rest filed out of the massive old structure, though not without the occasional vocalized opinion toward Heathrow, the situation, or life in general. While all of this occurred around him, Arachias sat in his chair with his feet crossed over the railing. He was frowning.

                “What is it Master?” Alec asked.

                Arachias took a slow, deep breath and let it out even more slowly. “Something about this whole mess is leaving a very bad taste in my mouth every time I try to swallow it.”

                “What about it could be bothering you, Master? It seems a sensible plan of action. Madam Conciliator is taking an ugly-looking situation and making money off

of it. What could be better?” He smiled ear to ear.

                Arachias scowled at him. “Are you absolutely sure that you need any counsel of mine?” The boy’s brow furrowed in confusion. Arachias shook his head. “Never mind. Alec, did you hear what she said?”

                He nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, she talked about tax cuts, tariffs, though I don’t really know what those are, and she talked about –”

                Arachias leaned in close so that there was barely a hand’s breadth between their faces. “Think, boy: What did she say before that? What had everyone so riled?”

Alec’s mouth clamped shut. He blinked a few times. “Something about… invaders? Monsters? I don’t rightly remember.”

                Arachias nodded. “Exactly. And neither do most of them,” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the emptying hall. “Of those that do, they see it as a simple hurdle to more wealth, and nothing more. As soon as she dangled money in front of their fat faces,

they all forgot the rather disturbing fact that she had laid on the table.”

Alec shrugged, lost. “And what was that, Master?”

                “A pack of garulls was seen, Alec! Not twenty miles from here! Everyone is so focused on squeezing the Erathian grape, they neglected to address the very real problem that we are in immediate danger!”

                “But it was only a few of them.”

                Arachias shook his head. “Do they not teach history in these schools? Alec, there are never just ‘a few of them’, at least not in any lasting sense. There may be a few that are first seen, loping about and raising mayhem, but there are twenty score more of their twisted brothers and sisters hiding in the trees, or lying about at the bottom of a river. What? Yes of course they can breathe underwater, you didn’t know that? Ummon’s beard this is depressing.”

                Alec had swiftly lost his former look of elation. “What do we do?”

                His master snorted. “We kill off the lot of the evil bastards and then push whatever’s left back into the cauldrons from whence they were spawned, of course.” He quite literally jumped to his feet. He was concerned, but was just as clearly enjoying himself. “Let us find Ari. I need to talk to her.”

                Arachias and his pupil descended the worn steps from their balcony. Alec glanced upward at the great vaulted ceilings, its massive redwood timbers oiled and sanded and held in place by great spikes of steel wrapped steel imperithite. There were two domes, the largest to the south, then connecting to the smaller one was a long rectangle where the vaulted joists and rafters continued. Checkering the ceiling were great panes of leaded glass frosted with powdered sulfur, so that light could come through but no distracting clouds could be seen. Depending from every other rafter were broad copper gilded iron chains holding massive chandeliers aloft. In each of these were at least a dozen evenly spaced ivory carafes carved into a variety of shapes, mostly depictions of former esteemed members of the town council or the Septimet itself. They all were filled with oil and topped with a thick braided wick that gave soft, smokeless light when lit. Alec could not imagine the time and effort it would take to light or extinguish the lot of them. There had to be over a hundred. After spiraling down from their tier and descending several staircases at intervals along the way, they approached the gilded and carved double doors that led from the stage to the Conciliator’s private study. A salt and pepper bearded, heavyset guard stood at attention near it. His armor was plate and scaled mail, and his hand rested casually on the pommel of a thick sword at his waist.

                Alec eyed him nervously. “Master, how will we get past that brute?”

                “Mm? Oh, him? By asking nicely, I suppose.”

                “Of course,” Alec replied.

                Arachias strode purposefully towards the man, with Alec in tow. “Hello, Kevett. A day of ease for you, dare I hope?” He asked.

                The barge of a man shrugged huge shoulders. “S’far, yes, but who knows what a bunch of grouchy councilmen’ll think up when they got the time ta do it.” He grinned a nearly toothless grin.

                “True, true.” He looked away for a moment. “She may not be expecting me, but she is going to send word for me sooner or later. I know she’s here, but is she available?”

                Kevett frowned. “It aren’t ‘zacly the bes’ time, Ar‘kias…”

                Arachias nodded. “It never really is friend, however, I do think that she will be more upset if I don't make an appearance than if I do.”

                The big doorman chuckled. “She’s a difficult one te’ please, an’ that’s fer

certain.”

                “In every way that you can imagine, Kevett.”

                The guard stepped aside. “I guess... bes’ not keep ‘er waitin' then...”

                “Thank you, Kev. Can I get you anything?”

                “Nah. Watch yerself.” He stood at attention as Arachias and Alec passed by.

                Alec glanced behind them. “What did he mean by that?”

                Arachias had a rather grave look on his face, as he pondered the marvels of women. An entirely separate, vast, impossible subject of discussion. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

                The room they entered was very old, which was evident in the archaic and

flamboyant carvings gouged directly into the flesh of the walls and ceiling. The floor was rubbed smooth by countless polishing and subsequent baths in oil. Off center slightly from a corner was a delicate navy hued whalewood table with settings for four as well as a three-tiered silver tray crowded with a great variety of instruments for serving tea and all its trimmings. Near a single crystalline window was a cushion less chair, half of it bleached pale by decades half in and half out of the sun.

                The wall opposite the table was filled by a large bookshelf, crammed with ranks of manuscripts and transcripts and member logs from meetings of times past. The last wo hundred years filled those musty boards. The previous thousand years lay in wax-sealed caskets in locked rooms below.

                Arianna Heathrow was sitting at an angled mahogany desk near the window, a thick volume laid open before her and a writing stylus in her thin hand. She was facing away from them both, her willowy shape warmly outlined by the gently wavering yellow light of an oil lamp. She touched the stylus to the book, and began scratching something on the ancient paper.

                She had not turned, nor given any indication that she had known they had entered, but still she snapped, “What do you want, Arachias? And who is that?”

                “I come with a few concerns regarding recent developments, and as to who my young charge is, well, he is something of a homework assignment.”

                “Hmph,” she mumbled back, the scratching of her writing very distinct.

                Arachias and Alec moved to within a yard or so of her. There was a very pleasant scent of lavender in the air about her. “I would like to speak with you on one of the points you brought forth…”

                She waved her hand dismissively at him, still not looking. “Yes, yes. You saw it too. As soon as they saw a gleaming, golden road to money, the trolls guarding the ridges were promptly forgotten.”

                Arachias’ face was grave. “So it’s true then. Garulls have been seen.”

                She at last turned to look at him, irritation burrowing into her refined features. From such proximity, Alec nearly gasped at how lovely she was. She was not young – ageless was a better word. Her face was angular but not sharp, her eyes icy but not piercing, her lips slender but still somehow full. The faint lines about her eyes seemed more to indicate their beauty rather than the loss of youth. “Of course it’s true, Arachias. Have things between us degenerated to the point that you now doubt my word?”

                Alec gave his tutor a sidelong glance that Arachias summarily ignored.

                “The degeneration of which you speak is of a nature difficult to precisely

define. As to the veracity of your words, let’s just say that the last things you made known to me were, how shall I put it: somewhat less than stellar in their authenticity?”

                The Conciliator’s eyes widened hardly a hairsbreadth, but Arachias caught it.

That was all the surprise she was willing to let on that he had discovered her schemes to keep him here, in Greann. Alec, his powers of observation powerful but untrained, was virtually mad with curiosity.

                “I think that you are a self-enamored, horn-blowing braggart, Arachias. I only wanted you to stay here because you force a semblance of order and respect in that... that... juvenile tavern brawl out there. Like it or not, believe it or not, those men look up to you, begrudgingly acknowledged or not. Any other speculation on your part is merely that: speculation. Now, is there an actual purpose as to why you are here, or do you just enjoy wagging your tail feathers in front of another of your infant disciples?” She fixed her eyes on Alec at that point, their attention like a pair of frozen steel spears. Alec’s blood chilled in their intensity. After a moment, she looked back to Arachias.

                “Yes there is Madam,” Arachias said, his voice cheerful. “Other than waiting with our fists clenched between our knees for Erathian favor, I wish to know what we are doing about the possibility of having our beloved city overrun by garulls. If there are a thousand of the beasts raising utter hell in the woods, we’ll need three times that to repel them should they set their eyes on Greann’s walls.”

                Arianna nodded slowly. “I realize this, Arachias. The totality of the city defenses will be insufficient in both number and skill to defend against such an onslaught. That is why I wish to set up camp early on the High King’s good side. When he orders a state of emergency for all the lands of Hildegoth, I want Greann to be on the forefront of the recipient list.”

                “And the other councilmen...?” Arachias carefully asked.

                “...Can rot in their gold-lined coffins for all I care,” she said idly. “I knew the only way I could get them to even consider the proposal was to show them some way to make themselves even richer than they are.”

                “And, of course, you did. Do the esteemed members of our absent oligarchy

know of any of this?”

                She again waved one hand dismissively and looked out the window. “I have not

made any attempts to contact them, however, they are a resourceful bunch of snakes. I

would be far more surprised if they knew nothing about this than if they did. I will keep you informed, Arachias.” She then turned back to her book. “Despite what you may think of me, I am an honorable woman.”

                It was clear at that moment that the conversation had ended.

                Arachias regarded her briefly, and then grabbed Alec by the arm with a grip that made the boy gasp with surprise. With him practically in tow, he stormed out of the study.

                “Where are we going Master?” Alec murmured, a bit stunned by Arachias’

strength.

                “Out,” was the single word reply.

                “Out to where?”

                “Alec, do be quiet.”

                And he was.

                Kevett started when they flew out of the doors and across the stained and travel-worn floors of the Council Hall. He watched them burst out the main entrance and into the sunny Sanguinneth day. He thought the weather odd for this time of year.

                It had been for days. It should be much colder than it was.

                Just like the weather before a thunderstorm.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 16

 

                Extiris Incendura – The divergess of fire: The lands of flame are overrun

with cyclones, seas, and hurricanes, all made of fire. Lava flows, fields of molten

glass, and steaming obsidianite comprise this realm, and all who venture into it must

be protected from extreme heat thusly. The fire elementals known as the Infernuu

dwell here.

 

                Arachias and Alec rode a public coach back to Arachias’ manor. He had told his personal driver to take the remainder of the afternoon at his pleasure, and handed him several silver draco coins with which to do it. The driver, not entirely unused to such gestures merely smiled and nodded. He was an excellent employee, really. He asked few

questions and was only too happy to do his employer’s bidding.

                Alec seemed put off by the oddity of the situation, as they climbed into a coach that was still suitable for simple travel but much more drab and common than the other. “Master...I realize that you are upset about something, but... isn’t this a little unusual? I mean, your standing with the others will no doubt be, well… affected by an act such as this if they should see us.”

                Arachias sat with his elbow on the windowsill and his chin held in his palm as a finger tapped a slow, meaningless rhythm on his cheek. “Alec: If nothing else, I would have hoped you’d noticed that, with few exceptions, I hardly care a whore’s fart what others think of me.”

                The boy’s mouth dropped open slightly at such a comment. “I see.” He stared at his new mentor.

                Arachias rolled his eyes. “Look, Arianna and I had a bit of a… ‘falling out’, I guess you could call it.”

                Alec continued to stare. “When did this happen?”

                Arachias groaned and rolled his eyes yet again. “At the tail end of an immense, bothersome story that dates back further than I sometimes care to recall. Like to hear it?”

                Alec nodded.

                He sighed, but his smile returned. “Oh, very well.”

 

~*~

 

                My mother died giving birth to me. My father I never knew. I assume that he is either dead as well, or simply did my mother the service of donating his half of my conception one evening and then moved on. Perhaps it is best that I do not know.

                My earliest memories are as clear to me as today’s will be tomorrow. I remember being only two years old, running around barefoot in the packed dirt lot behind a home for orphaned children in a town far North of here called Tallo where I spent my earliest years. The home did not have a true name. It was not even an official orphan’s home, really. A somewhat wealthy woman opened her somewhat large house to as many children as she could feed. It was not nearly big enough for all of us, of course, but it was a wonderful alternative to the cold, filth-ridden streets.

                I have clear memories of the woman who took care of us. She was an enormous hulk of a lady, with dark red hair always tied back and under a washer woman's cap, a dress a patchwork of stitching and mismatched patterns, and a smile of never-ending love, happiness, and courage. I do not know if it was her actual name, but we all called her Madami. It means something or other about the qualities I just mentioned in some language I cannot recall nor have heard since. Just thinking of it now makes my toes feel warm as if she had just laid a rough swatch of woolen blanket across them, and it made my tongue feel a bit scalded, most likely from downing a cup of her chicken broth with a touch too much enthusiasm.

                Gods, that broth Alec! It was about as simple as food could be, yet on a cold

Surcease day? Matchless.

                It was a wonderful time for me. I learned very quickly, and soon fell in love with all manner of ways to write, read, and work with numbers. Eventually Madami had me teaching myself as well as the other children for her. This garnered more than a few jealous friends, but once I had made it clear to them that I loved doing it and did not think myself their betters, these faded.

                I had even devised games we could play on rainy days involving numbers and betting on a single rolled die. It was fun, and I was grasping a talent (that of understanding the concept of odds in games of chance) that would become very useful much sooner than I would ever expect. Madami loved it. It was helping the children learn, and helping me find something rather difficult to get your hands on when you’re an orphan: myself.

                I suppose if I had seen many children with mothers and fathers I would have

wanted some of my own, but I lived in a house full of parent-less children. We didn't

need a mother or a father, because we had Madami. She was mother, father, and something beyond even them. She was our everything. And despite there only being one of her and twenty of us, she always seemed to have time for each of us. Rarely did we feel that one was being treated better than the other, and yet we still felt special individually. It was an amazing, inhuman emotional balancing act that she maintained. To this day I do not know how she did it, so subtle were her methods. She was a blessing that did not grant everything but did not really need to, for all of our needs were met, and all of our wants were trivial.

                Then out of nowhere comes the illustrious ruler of the city, the Sargath of Tallo. That squat, important pile of political pork that used to send messenger after messenger to her door bearing sealed letters and documents that made the children’s (my) eyes sparkle with wonder.

                I used to think that Madami was some sort of important advisor in disguise,

receiving secret correspondence that only she could see and mentor. To make matters

even more aggravatingly mysterious, she would always tell the messenger one of two

answers: “Tell him yes,” or “Tell him no.” The majority of these answers would be the latter. She would then hand the messenger a brass weg coin and send him on his way. Though mesmerizing at first, the messenger's visits became so frequent that it became a nearly daily routine. She would wake us, have breakfast waiting, and then answer the door where the courier would already be waiting. One morning, though, he had a different message for Madami. The Sargath himself would be paying a personal visit.

                When Madami told us this, we all became nearly manic with nasty mixed feelings of wriggling excitement and stark, bottomless terror. He was not exactly known as a philanthropist. I once heard him say, “The only thing worse than going through childhood, is being around the other worthless piles of rags and hunger who are going through it as well.”

                Of course, this was years later, and under much different circumstances... er... in due time.

                On that sunny, rebirth morning, Madami waited patiently at the door not bothering to wear anything nice, and not bothering to spruce the place up, though it was always neat and cleanly, even with so many children to make it otherwise. She was simply herself, and you could tell by the slight tilt to her lips that she was just a tad amused by the whole thing.

                Such effrontery was terrifying to me. Glancing nervously at the old brass clock over the hearth, I saw that there were still a few minutes before the Sargath’s arrival. I whispered as loudly as I dared towards her, “Madami! Aren’t you worried?”

She turned her broad, friendly face towards me. “Worried? Abot what, little

nugget?”

                Though her affectionate name for me calmed me for the barest sliver of a second, it was only that: the barest sliver of a second. “About what? The Sargath

himself is coming to the house! What has happened? You never did tell us why he is

visiting! Have you failed him in some way?”

                She chuckled. “Failed him nugget? I have ne'er failed anybody. Ta be sure, I

know not why he comes. I am jus' enjoyin' the mornin’ air.” There was an open window near the front door, but the air outside was still and suddenly thick, like the air in a grave yet to receive its occupant.

                It was obvious that she knew more than what she was saying, but I deemed it

better to abandon the subject for now. As I settled back down, I looked at the other

children. They were all staring at me in as much disbelief as I had been staring at her. I opened my mouth to say something, but again decided the better of it and just turned my eyes back to the door. My decision was a wise one. A loud thumping came from the other side of it, a deep, reverberating sound that was nothing like the polite rapping of the

messenger. This was the sound of an armored set of knuckles making it absolutely clear that their owner wanted to come inside.

                Madami calmly rose from her chair and went to the door. She opened it, and

two of the biggest men I had ever seen looked down at her. They were wrapped in links of steel, and each carried a poleaxe. The one on the left parted his lips in a voice that was much louder than it needed to be. “The Sargath of Tallo, Preporious Mondo, deigns to visit thee. Please assume an appropriately deferential posture.” These two then parted and turned to face one another. Three more sets of equally large men did the same. Madami seemed to restrain a chuckle, and made absolutely no attempt to assume any posture even approaching deferential.

                I peered down the row of guards and, from the sumptuous confines of a carriage worth ten times the house in which we lived, stepped the Sargath. I was stunned. He barely topped the guards’ waists, yet was nearly as broad in the waistline, and not with muscle, either. He tromped and huffed and lifted his cloak and said a great deal of words under his breath that were most likely not very nice. He was garbed entirely too richly for such a call. His forest green tunic was shot through with stitched gold filigree, his baldric was a braided chord of steel and silver held with silk, his cloak was a burgundy square of doeskin so tanned and stretched that it was as thin as linen, and his head was adorned with a sort of short, conical hat – almost religious in appearance. This too was detailed in gold and gems. All in all, he looked bloody ridiculous.

                He reached the door, and was literally out of breath. The distance from his carriage to our front door was hardly twenty feet.

                “Damn you, old woman. Look at what you put me through.” His voice was a

grating, unhealthy warble.

                The shock of both hearing someone speak to Madami in that manner and having the speaker be the ruler of the city was almost more than we could bear. I am sure that at least a couple of us soiled our clothes. I was not among them. Just so you know.

                “Oh hush now old gnome. Why have ye come ta me? To ask fer even more

money? Ye know my holdings are big enough, but…”

                The Sargath lifted a worn and wrinkled hand, though I doubted there were calluses from anything other than holding a pen or sifting through coins on his palm.

“Silence. Yes and no. I have come to you to collect your tithe. This time, however, I have brought along a bit of incentive.”

                He stepped to the side, and a tall, regal figure draped in crimson and white

literally filled the doorway. I could tell that his frame was slight, but the voluminous

cavities of his robes and cloak made him seem immense, a shimmering icon of religious order. Despite this, there was an evil about him that I could almost taste, like an invisible syrup that poured into the air and sought out my tongue. His white-parted-with-red accoutrements made him appear like a great slashed fish’s belly, drained and foul. His face was a long and hollow frame like a clock missing its hands, and the flesh that filled the myriad of folds and crevices in his features looked gray and lifeless. His eyes were like dark portals to the sea a thousand fathoms down, while his mouth seemed a motionless line across his face, incapable of a smile that portrayed anything other than malevolence.

Mondo's smile was hardly different. “This time, my little urchin saviour, I am afraid ‘no’ is not an option.”

                His thinking was brutish, unbelievably harsh, and horribly simple, and he

outlined it to Madami in an equally short manner. He wrote a law stating that any person who wanted to open a halfway house or a home for those less fortunate than themselves, must purchase a permit from the Ummonic church to do so. This permit cost ten gold ranyins per year, half of which was donated to the church of course. The priest was apparently present to collect this tithe. Of course, though well off, Madami could not afford such an ungodly amount of money. A horrendous argument ensued. Both Mondo and Madami lost their tempers, but the consequences for Madami were much worse.

                “Yer nothing but a pretend little monarch, Mondo the Motherless! We had ourselves an arrangement but yer greedy little soul simply couldna’ be satisfied, could it?”

                Mondo laughed. “Arrangement? This was nothing more than an investment that has run its course you fat old hag! These wastes are simply worth more to me under some slaver’s collar than sucking down the church’s coin! And so are you!”

Madami glared at him a moment, and then balled up a fist and swung it with surprising speed and skill at Mondo’s nose. The strike was parried at the last second by the gauntleted hand of one of his guards who grabbed harshly at her wrist. Amazingly she yanked the man off his feet, but the other guards were upon her, holding her away from the Sargath. They pulled her, squirming and shouting, from her own house.

                “At least let me say goodbye to my little ones, at least let me say goodbye,” she repeated over and over. We whimpered and cried but were held back by the guards. Madami was then carted away muzzled like an animal and shackled in chains. She was taken to some place that seems to have completely swallowed her up, because I have neither seen nor heard of her since, and have paid quite a handsome amount of money hiring out the sorts of professionals who are good at finding people – or finding out what happened to them.

                At first neither I, nor the other children knew what to make of what had happened. Watching our beloved Madami chained and drug from our home like a criminal was something our feelings could not grasp, nor our minds imagine. It was like watching someone murdered and understanding why murder had to happen in a manner that made their death palatable. Impossible.

                As for the children, those that did not flee from the guards as they turned on

them were snapped up and sold into slavery. Once my means became great enough, I investigated every one of their histories. Not one of the enslaved children from that orphanage are still alive Alec. Not a single one. Most of them hardly survived their first year. The greatest stretch endured was by a girl that was younger than I when she was snatched away and placed in that hell. She died about fifteen years ago, crushed beneath the wheels of a wagon hauling ore out of a quarry near here.

                Naturally I was one of the ones captured, however, I was not led away with the others. I found myself taken towards the open ebony door of Mondo’s carriage, where gilded steel steps and doeskin seats awaited. I was terrified. Losing Madami was unthinkable. Being torn from the others twisted this wound until even more pain poured from me, and I was wailing unintelligibly and had to be carried. I remember it took two of those big brawny bastards to keep me restrained. Oddly enough, though I kicked and squirmed and bit and screamed, not once did they strike me back or utter even a word, much less a curse. They were either completely detached from their act, or what little decency was still theirs kept them from striking a child, though, apparently, participation in a kidnapping was well within their moral standards.

                They put me in the coach, and then assisted the Sargath in behind me.

                Muttering foul curses that I could hear clearly this time, the gnome entered and sat across from me, a narrow table of simple yet elegant and obviously expensive design between us. Though seemingly clean, a foul reek of unwashed skin blew across my face like a fetid breath when he turned to sit. I wrinkled my nose. He nodded to the guards and they stepped away from the coach and disappeared.

                “Well that should show that snobby stubborn old cow what I think of her and

her ‘giving.’” He glared at me as though I was an offensive icon of such thinking. “Giving people everything breeds weak people.” He leaned over, and leveled a knobby finger at my nose. “People just like yourself.”

                So unaccustomed was I to such painful words, that they had no immediate effect on me at all. I simply sat, disbelieving, and staring.

                “See?” He continued, “If only you could see yourself. Terrified. Lost. Powerless.” He squinted at me. “You haven’t a clue as to why I picked you from the

lot, do you?”

                I could not speak. It was all I could do to slowly shake my head.

                He shook his head in return, though it was in disdain. “How disappointing. When I was your age, I was already running with the guilds in gambling groups all throughout Tallo. Of course, it was much less of a city, then.”              He peered out the slit of light to his right. His unfocused subjects were confusing and scaring me further. For many years I had thought that this was the result of madness, but I learned later how easily molded a befuddled enemy was.

                He turned back to me. “I expect three things of you, little puppy. One: Respect and fear me, always. Do as I say, and rarely will I ever have to punish you, though every now and then punishment is inevitable.”

                I gulped and nodded, my lip trembling. He approved. “Two: Never, ever try

to steal from, or betray me. And I will cut off a finger for every lie.”

                Tears rolled down my cheeks like liquid heat, like my very soul had slipped free and burned away in an attempt to escape. “And three: Learn from me. Hang on my every word, and you will one day be rich and powerful, though, for as long as I live, you will never compete with me. Is any of what I have proclaimed at all unclear to you?”

                Through barely strangled sobs and lips that were now quaking, I managed to nod. I had neither idea nor curiosity as to why he would do this, or why he wanted to

teach anybody anything. Nothing and none of this occurred to me, let alone made any sense whatsoever.

                The bastard smiled a smile lined with bent and stained teeth rotted with a life of overindulgence. Then, he slapped his open hand against my cheek. The sound startled me, and the pain was a flashing bolt of stinging heat that started where his hand met my face and then erupted in a wave that spiraled down my spine. When I sat back up, the tears had been severed and had been replaced with an indignant rage.

                He smiled again. “That would be one of the least of the punishments I will

give you, little puppy. And, though the insolence on your face deserves another, it also shows that you may have a backbone underneath all that coddled flesh after all.”

                I at last managed to stammer out a few words. “W-what are you doing with

Madami and my friends?”

                He peered at me, still leering. “Now that is a difficult question to answer." He shifted in his seat. "Not that I don’t know the answer. I had chosen their fate some time ago. No, the difficulty comes from deciding which would cause you more pain: Telling you the horrors that await them, or not telling you – and letting your own imagination do the lashing.”

                I bit down, grinding my teeth as the rage grew. “Please, Sir, tell…” His hand

flew again, this time curled into a fist. It slammed into my cheek, knocking me backward where I hit my head on the solid wooden backing of the coach. My vision swam murkily, and I felt a surge of bile rise up my throat.

                I heard him say in a voice that seemed to be steadily drowning in a rainstorm, “That decides it then. Find out on your own long after their fates have seen them turned to dust.”

                I bit my lip and struggled to hold on to consciousness. It returned in time, though I halfway wish it had not. I wished that I had just been lulled to sleep, and then had Death herself take me away from everything. Quite a wish for an eight-year-old.

 

 

 

Chapter 17

 

                Extiris Nebulazra – The negative plane: A realm of absolute blackness and cold. Tenuous, tortured beings exist here, creatures that are barely sentient and as frigid and heartless as the plane they inhabit. It is thought that evil begins here, though not in the form most would recognize. Darkness tends to be evil's birthing grounds, and those who dabble in dark warricking should use these energies with care. The nebuul, or dark elementals (also known in elvish as the orosamateilar, the dark wraiths), live here – in the vaguest sense of the word.

 

                Alec sat mutely, his hands limp rags in his lap. He opened and shut his mouth several times before finally saying, “That’s terrible.”

                Arachias nodded enthusiastically. “It’s also only the beginning.”

                The coach pulled up to Arachias’ estate, which was a tall, complicated building near the center of town. It was planted on a rather modestly sized lot, as there was precious little space between the structures here. He could have purchased a large, tentacled mansion raised on more land than a small kingdom to cushion it from the outside world, but he had from the very outset of his career preferred to be in the thick of things.

“Let us go inside and finish this trite tale over a cup or two of mead, hm?” He grinned and winked. Alec nodded rather distractedly as Arachias hopped out of the carriage with him close behind.

                He paid the driver for the trip along with a handsome gratuity. Accustomed as he was to moving fat, rich people across the town and its outlying lands, the driver’s brows still twitched at the sum. Arachias smiled brightly, and nearly tugged young Alec towards the front gate.

                “Entreda met posesti,” Arachias murmured quietly at the simple iron framework as they approached it. There was a loud ring as if an anvil had been struck, and the gate swung slowly open with a scream of competing metals.

                Alec winced. “Master, I think you need to have the hinges oiled,” he said through clenched teeth.

                Arachias looked at him curiously as he trotted towards the front door. “And what would announce the arrival of some nefarious bad person if he or she were to somehow dissolve the warra of the lock?”

                Alec had no answer, really. “Well, urm... I would think that it would be difficult to negate such a spell...”

                Arachias barked a short laugh. “I am impressed, Alec. You never told me that you were knowledgeable in the ways of warricking!”

                His young pupil looked at him as if he had missed something. “I’m not.”

                His teacher peered at him, draped in feigned concern and disappointment. “I

see. Unfortunate.” And then he punched him in the shoulder. “Doesn’t really matter.

Anyone hell-bent on sneaking in wouldn’t use the gate anyway.”

                “Ow!” Alec blurted, but grinned lopsidedly as he rubbed where the strike landed.

                They passed through the thick iron of the fence and into an intricate and beautiful garden that made use of every square inch of the comparatively sparse area

surrounding the residence. Alec’s expertise was limited, but he recognized several different rose bushes, bougainvillea, honeysuckle, and crawling ivy that clung to walls, trellises, and statues, trimmed neatly and expertly. At each corner was a fountain ringed by stone benches, with interconnecting white flagstone walkways linking each other to the main brick path from the gate to the front door. Bordering this and dispersed throughout the grounds were statuary of various animals both mundane and fantastic.

They reached the beautifully carved and stained front door to which Arachias had produced a key. Alec glanced up at fox-headed statues perched on two wide pillars on either side of the entrance. The craftsmanship was amazing, as such detail was hard to effect in bronze. Each hair seemed individually cast, and the eyes seemed a thought away from turning towards him in inspection of their guest. He pushed his brief appraisal aside, though, and followed Arachias into the entranceway.

                Alec looked up and around the inside of his new master’s house. The décor was not lavish, but the skill with which it had been crafted was exquisite. The floors were dark whalewood stained even darker with ash and resin. The walls were composed of thin boards stacked and glued so tightly and polished so smoothly that they almost appeared to be a painted pattern rather than actual woodwork. Here and there along the main entrance hallways and foyer were small tables atop intricately woven rugs to keep them from marring the floor. Above each table was a mirror. Alec thought this to be rather egocentric, but he let it pass without comment. Then he turned the corner and Arachias’ main living room was revealed. At its center were four chairs, each of similar but distinct design, and they ringed a low, wide oak coffee table that was topped with an incredibly durable and incredibly expensive sheet of obsidianite. At the far wall was a marble hearth caged off by thick iron bars. Each of the walls was adorned with artwork of some kind, but a piece above the fireplace caught his attention. It was a large depiction of a mountain with a curious grain to it that he could not quite make out. It was painted with a careful hand, each stroke obviously not laid on the canvas until its place was certain.

                Arachias nearly rushed in, beckoning for his charge to follow. “Come, come, my infant apprentice, the day might still be young but the tale is long and the storyteller is far too sober.” He clapped his hands and an elderly gentleman detached himself from Some invisible corner and appeared before him. He was tall and thin, but had broad shoulders and a strong set to his back. His head was topped by a carefully combed swatch of gray hair, and he had piercing blue eyes.

                “Ah, Master Arachias. Things must have gone poorly at the meeting, for you

seem in a revoltingly good mood.”

                Arachias laughed loudly. “Aye, Noal, they did. It was absolutely awful. You

could see the greed dripping off their teeth like liquid fat pouring from a cheap roast.”

                The graceful old fellow smiled thinly. “Very good, Sir. Your mood would decree mead, I take it?”

                Arachias beamed at him. “Sometimes your presumptions frighten me with their accuracy, old man. Yes, two large mugs of mead. And leave the bottle, there’s a good fellow.”

                Noal bowed slightly. “Right, then. I’ll fetch the... mugs.” Like a bit of shadow slipping under a chair, he turned and vanished up a hallway.

                Alec noticed with mild interest another painting, this one much smaller than that of the mountain. There were several people in it, standing in a scullery of some sort. They all faced forward, expectantly. It was an odd image, as a still life of such banality usually involved the common people bent to their individual tasks, finding something noble or beautiful in the mundane.

                Arachias tucked his coattails behind his legs and settled into one of the large leather chairs near the unlit hearth. He beckoned towards Alec to take the comfortable

looking seat across from him. Alec felt a slight touch of concern at Arachias’ demeanor as he took the proffered chair. Here he was recounting a tragic and horrible tale of his youth, yet he seemed to be in such good spirits that he almost appeared jovial.

                Arachias reclined in his chair and stared upward into space, his fingers steepled over his lips. Alec sat in his and stared at the brilliant and eccentric young politician. After several seconds, he asked, “Alec, do you ever wonder why things happen the way they happen?”

                Alec squinted in confusion. “Master?”

                “Has something ever happened in your life that – oh, thank you dear fellow.” Noal reappeared with the drinks and laid them out with quick precision on the mirror-like obsidianite surface of the coffee table. The servant had been so thoughtful as to include a tray of cooled fruits and vegetables along with thin cuts of fowl and cheese. He bowed abruptly and then departed, giving Alec a quick wink as he passed by. Arachias continued. “As I was saying: Has something happened in your life that may have seemed small, even insignificant, yet its passing alters everything beyond what you could imagine?”

                Alec waited, and then nodded slowly. “Yes.”

                Arachias rolled a piece of fowl around a strip of delicate white cheese and took a conservative bite. “Tell me.”

                Alec pulled the story out of his brief years of memory. “A couple years ago my father and my mother got into a great argument about what kind of wheels our coach should have. One of them had broken, and they decided to buy a whole new set so they matched.”

                Arachias rolled his eyes briefly. “Go on.”

                Alec helped himself to a mug of mead and tentatively slipped a piece of cheese into his mouth. It was salty, creamy and delicious. “So there we were, late for a dinner meeting with one of Father’s business associates, muddling over wheel designs. It all seemed so silly to me, and I do so wanted to make it to the engagement on time. There... well,” he paused, his face flushing as if he had already emptied his cup though he had yet to touch a drop. “There was a girl: The gentleman’s daughter.”

                Arachias smiled warmly. “I see.”

                Alec grimaced, but pushed on. “So, we were stuck there at the coachwright’s Shop for more than two hours before the new wheels were decided on and mounted. We finally pulled out on the road and headed for the estate, all of us in sour moods.” He paused, almost as if for effect. “On the way there, we found several men of a scout patrol around a burned wagon. My father spoke to them, and from what the scouts could determine, it had been set upon by bandits and everyone on it killed only a few hours or so earlier. If we had picked wheels quickly or not broken one in the first place…”

                “…It could very well have been you.” Arachias finished for him, his chin held between thumb and forefinger. “Yes. That is exactly what I mean.”

                “Yes,” Alec agreed, munching his snack and then following it by a sip of mead. He was young and unaccustomed to drink but he found its sweet burn favorable and licked his lips. He took another long drink. “Why do you ask me this?”

                Arachias made a dismissive gesture. “It’s something I ask everyone that might make for halfway interesting conversation. Thus far, no one had ever denied it happen. Interesting that we all seem to have this in common, yet never talk about it in any serious context, is it not?”

                Alec gulped down the last of his mead, reaching for the pitcher to refill it.

Arachias stayed his hand. “Whoa, there. Eat a bit more first, or your head will be swimming too much for me to pick at.”

                Alec did what he was told and took a few more folds of meat and cheese. He

munched them down quickly. “So how did Madam Heathrow come into all of this?”

                Arachias took a long drink of his own. “That comes much later. First, let me tell you a little more about the Sargath of Tallo: of him, his vision, and his unspeakable greed. Even now, I cannot believe that that greed has not yet swallowed him whole.”

                Alec blinked in surprise. “He’s still alive?”

                “Oh yes, tadpole. He is a gnome after all, and they are a long-yeared race, nearly three times that of a human.” He wavered into the past momentarily. “Yes. He lives well and is richer and more powerful than ever.”

                Alec thumbed the surface of his mug. “Oh.”

 

~*~

 

                So. I was plucked from a life of happiness and friendship and love, and tossed into a quagmire of fear and hatred.

                You see, Mondo did not love money, at least not directly. He loved the power that came with it. I realize that most people would think these things interchangeable, but, if he were to somehow discover a way to become more powerful by disposing of his wealth and living in a fly encrusted hovel, he would do so without thinking. His addiction was power over others, and money was the surest way to invoke and increase this power. The richer he was, the more people he could hurt and destroy. He suckled at other people’s misery and thrived on it, like a tapeworm in your belly, like a greasy, unkempt little parasite that drew pain and despair from your heart rather than blood from your neck. And he was oh so good at it.

                We arrived at his keep not quite half an hour after the horror at Madami’s

home. It was located near the center of Tallo in a large clearing bordered by several busy roads. Numerous armored guards were posted at its circumferences, and a pair casually patrolled it. The daunting keep itself was really more of a small castle, made of stone and wood and banded with iron in places, and ringed with a wide and shallow moat. The moat was bordered by neatly cut stones on both the clearing side, and the castle side. It was glassy and still.

                “Some moats are placed to discourage crossing,” he said to me as I peered into it while we neared its shores. It was hardly three feet deep though it was more than a hundred wide. “I invite someone to enter it. You see, a siege force will always attempt to either lower the drawbridge, or lay ladders directly from the shore to the parapets.”

                 He pointed upward. I followed his hand, my cheek swollen and hot. He chuckled and poked the spot idly, making me wince in pain. This made him smile softly.

                “That will be useful in the days to come. Now: The expanse of the moat is too

great for most ladders. They could not even get one man across without it breaking under his weight. If the towers had been much taller this may not have been the case, but their height was intentionally engineered as well.”

                We had pulled up to a small stone dock where a wide, flat-bottomed barge was

moored. Across the moat was another dock, and behind it a stone enclosure where, presumably, the entrance awaited.

                “They could attempt to fire doorknockers at the drawbridge, but, as you can see now, there is none, as well as no standard entrance.”

                Without thinking I asked, “What are doorknockers?”

                He looked at me quietly for a moment, and then he pulled from his robes a long-handled knife with a thin, keen blade on it. I knew nothing about such weapons, but I could plainly see that it was razor sharp. I swallowed and felt my insides turn to ice as he leaned close, touching the tip to my lower lip.

                “Address me forevermore as Master, or you will never address anyone ever again, for I will cut your tongue out and wear it as a necklace.” He gave a small twist, and I felt the edge of the knife slice my lip. Nothing serious, but the sensation was awful. “Understand me?”

                “Yes, Master.” I said through clenched teeth unable to either move my jaw or nod because he still held the blade against my cut flesh.

                He withdrew it, and I lay back against my seat trembling and trying not to whimper. Damn him, I would not whimper.

                He continued as if nothing of true consequence had happened. “Good. To answer your question, a doorknocker is a collection of barbed and hooked spikes, usually in the shape of a falcon’s claw. This contraption is attached to a stout rope or chain fired from a ballista, which is basically an enormous crossbow laid flat on wheels.” His demeanor had slid from malevolent to almost friendly. It was chilling how easily he did it. “It launches the doorknocker and its line into a drawbridge, where the hooks grip fast. The other end of the line is then pulled with a team of horses or whatever yokeable creatures are available in an attempt to yank it from its hinges or tear a hole in it. They have a fair success rate but, again, they would be useless here. The entrance door is not visible from the ‘shore’, and it would be a nearly impossible task to hit it if it was, for it is only man-sized.”

                The driver of the carriage maneuvered it carefully on to the barge. I leaned over and could see that there was a thick layer of pitch covering its floor. I had to admit, I was curious about the whole affair, but I did not want to ask him any other questions for fear of forgetting once to call him by his title. It hardly mattered though. He continued on his own, obviously proud of his ingenuity.

                “There is a mechanism of gears and chains far beyond your ability to conceive underneath the barge that will pull it across. Ah! There we go.” A soft clunk was followed by a gentle tug, and they were moving quite swiftly across the moat. “It can go much faster if need be, but we are not in any hurry.”

                I nodded, attempting to focus on my surroundings since everything else was in such turmoil. There was only a small wake behind us, and the bottom of the moat appeared to be nothing more than white sand. There were no birds, no plants, and no fish, which seemed odd. I was very young, but I still knew that any body of water, mortal-made or otherwise, eventually became host to all manner of living things.

                “Now, if said siege force were to suddenly show up at my doorstep,” he cackled once at his own words, “they would take one look at this odd setup and probably scratch their heads for a bit. Certainly they might consider engineers to mine a tunnel and sappers to blow the walls down from their foundations, but before they did any of those things, they would see how shallow the moat is, and most likely decide to just boat or even wade across it. Therein would be a ghastly mistake. If you look out and down, you will see why.”

                I did, and I did. Barely ten paces from the dock, several dozen huge, pale tentacles the same color as the bottom of the moat unearthed themselves and began writhing and squirming through the water towards the barge. I gulped as one broke the surface not two yards from my face. Its underside was covered with disk-shaped openings

that were lined with black teeth hooked like cat claws. They opened and closed at me with a nauseating sucking sound, like someone trying to draw mud through a tube.

                The Sargath suddenly lunged for me, pushing me partway out the window. “Here my lovelies, I’ve brought dinner for you! A fresh and overfed little orphan! Plenty of meat on his bones!”

                I screamed and flailed about, but the Sargath held me firmly which was a surprise considering his small size, apparently frail health, and my absolute terror. The tentacle moved toward me and I very nearly voided every end of my body. The thought that Mondo had picked me from the others simply because of the fact that I looked the most scrumptious for his pet boiled across my mind.

                And then he let go, collapsing in a fit of laughter so powerful he held his belly in his hands like some great bloated ogre in miniature. I crumpled into my seat, closed my eyes and breathed heavily as tears came again. When I finally opened them, I saw nearly a dozen more tentacles surrounding the barge. Mondo, finally regaining control of himself, wiped away tears.

                “Oh, don’t fret, useless little urchin. There is one thing these hideous beasties hate, and that is oil of citrus. The very timbers of this barge were soaked in the stuff for a season before it was made. I doubt it will ever wear off, but I have the oils reapplied every few years. By the gods you are a pathetic little whelp, screaming like that. Maybe I should have your voice cut from your throat eh? I’d hate to have to endure your ear piercing wailing every time a little fright made you start.” My hand flew to my throat, and I cursed myself for such an obvious display of fear. He chuckled again. “No, no. At some point you will unfortunately have to converse with me or someone else, and I don’t feel like spending the time or money to teach you hand signs, nor the spectacle of having you run around with a slate and chalk everywhere you go.”

                Spared for convenience rather than morality, I nonetheless felt a wash of relief.

                “So there you have it, puppy. Magnificent, aren't they? There are dozens of such tentacles, though, if memory serves, there are only three or four creatures to which they belong. They were unbelievably expensive to procure and nearly so to transport, but worth every ranyin. Anyone entering that moat will never come out of it in any form other than offal.”

                That was why there was not so much as a tadpole in that damned moat. Nothing could live in it. We traversed the moat while the tentacles writhed and gnashed their teeth

unnervingly. It seemed that the moat had suddenly tripled in width, so terrible was that crossing. In little time, however, we had reached the opposite shore and were collected by a pair of stout servants who lashed the barge securely to the stone dock. The carriage horse, clearly accustomed to such odd situations, trotted confidently on to the dock and into a large square entrance around the corner and beneath the main door. It was invisible from the shore side, and nearly so until you were already going through it. The carriage driver directed the coach through this entrance and into the spacious stables behind it. Moments later he opened the door, placed a small staircase for the portly Sargath to use, and stood nearby.

                Mondo sneered as he stood. “Time to go, little urchin. I will see you later tonight, after the stink of that pig’s wallow has been scrubbed from your hide.”

                The driver helped Mondo’s bulbous little form out of the carriage, and the gnome cursed at him, the weather, the horses, and the general state of things, all in one breath. No stranger to such abuse, the driver simply said, “Yes my Sargath,” repeatedly.

                Watching the pathetic display, I promised myself that, though I would do what I needed to stay alive, I would never become as broken and subservient as this or any other of the vile mankindred’s servants.

                The driver accompanied Mondo up a small staircase and to a curious contraption that, I learned afterward, was modeled after a device used in mining operations. The Sargath stood on a small platform and held on to a railing as the driver placed his feet under an iron bar bolted to the stone floor, to anchor himself. He then grasped a large wheel not unlike the steering wheel of a ship, and, with no small effort, turned it, causing the platform and the Sargath to rise from the floor to another door at the top of the wall. After it stopped, the servant pulled a chain that set a braking lever beneath the platform, locking it in place. Muttering under his breath, Mondo shuffled from the lift and disappeared through the door.

                I remember staring up at the entire arrangement with amazement. The driver had made his way back over to me, and peered into the carriage’s confines at my trembling, amazed, bewildered little face. His face was tired but kind, and he was most likely not as old as he looked.

                “Best not gawk at things too much, little one. The Sargath does not take kindly to such looks.” I tried to give him a defiant gaze, but he only chuckled. “Don’t waste your barbs on me, little one. I’m neither worth the effort, nor the cause a’ your troubles.” I glared at him a moment more just to look, I suppose, convincing or something, and then nodded in as adult a way as I could muster. He smiled. “Well then I’m thinkin’ we can be friends then. My name’s Farquid.” He offered a hand, the first act of kindness I had seen since Madami had made us breakfast that morning.

                At that thought, that pleasant, cozy memory of oatmeal cakes with honey and fresh milk from the market served with a flourish and a smile from the kindest face I have ever met, my innocent little mind and heart were finally and instantly overwhelmed. I managed to take his hand in mine, and then suddenly I was in his arms, sobbing so powerfully I thought my ribs would crack and my heart split. He stiffened when I touched him, and then I felt myself lifted up in his embrace as gently as if he had just plucked a chick from a hen’s nest without waking her. I felt and heard him rushing up the stairs to a different door at the top of the landing, and then felt and heard him rapping on this door as his grasp was too occupied with my weight to turn the handle.

                The door opened to a simple room of old oiled beams, polished ebonwood

floors, and scuffed tables. Hanging from complex hooks and wires were many

different sorts of dried and succulent things, from onions to yams to cured slabs of

bacon. It smelled of steam and roasting meats and a mélange of spices. The man

carrying me began demanding things in a harsh, hushed whisper from people I could

not see. I had at first thought it was simply because he was tiring from holding me in

his arms, but that was not it. He did not want the Sargath to hear him or anyone else

being kind to me. Such doings would instill the very values he appeared to see as not

only disagreeable, but blatantly repugnant.

                I did not know at the time what would drive a man to such extremes of personality. My tiny world only included myself, the other orphans, and Madami. The worst thing in my heart was a slight tendency towards pouring a bit too much honey on my breakfast after Madami had specifically told me not to. Bearing that in mind, The Sargath of Tallo, Preporious Mondo, seemed to not only be a different sort of person, but a different creature altogether, a creature that is ruled and governed to embrace hate, greed, and envy rather than to denounce and defy such things.

                For the next several minutes I was on the verge of unconsciousness and

constantly weaving in and out of uncontrollable bouts of tears, as Mondo’s servants

bent to the task of cleaning me up for his approval.

                I am certain that the entire ordeal of having me reach this level of approval

was part of the system he had devised to break my will and destroy any love I might have in my heart. They were to make the undertaking of cleaning and feeding me as unpleasant as possible without driving me mad, so that I would constantly be on the verge of breaking down completely, but not quite. Unbeknownst to him, however, his servants were very kind to me – at least when he was not around.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 18

 

                Extiris Illumina – The positive plane: A divergess of endless light and gentle warmth. The thoughts and actions of good are inherent to certain sentient beings, not

generated her, however, the energy generated by such acts often found its way here all the same where it is self-sustaining. Creatures of great heart exist and flourish in these bright realms. Many others are birthed here with destinies elsewhere. Still others come into being in their worlds only to find final peace here.

It is home to the illumiari, also called the light elementals, who caretake, guard, and sustain it.

 

                Othis patted the messenger on his back and sent him to the armories where the master armorer was awaiting his inventory lists. One task complete. Legion remained. He caught himself in the midst of a dejected sigh, and sucked it away quickly. He could not afford to let the weight of this ordeal bow his shoulders already. He had an image to uphold and a King to sooth.

                He crossed the comparatively modest expanse of his chambers and sat at his desk as golden rays of warming sunlight spotted the room. As he reached for a sheaf of parchment, he noticed a letter. It was sealed in a nondescript wrap of thick leather with the seal of Thoris Greenwood, the commander of the great mercenary navy, branded at its center. Othis had not seen it until just now. He had been in and out of his chambers dozens of times this day and had left the door unlocked, as anyone of ill intent would find it very difficult to make his or her way this high into the guarded towers of Tyn Ianett. It was entirely plausible that a messenger had knocked, heard no reply, cracked the door, and just decided to deliver it to his desk and scamper off, as they were as swamped with toil as everyone else.

                He eyed the rolled document for a moment, and then lifted it from its place. He stared at it again, wondering what caused his hesitation. There were dozens of parchments, writs, documents of this and that, and loose papers on his desk that it pricked at his usual sense of cleanliness and order, which had to be shelved for the time being.

He pulled open the wrappings, slipped the message from its clutches and read it.

                And then he finally did sigh.

 

~*~

 

                Alec interrupted again. “Master, I sympathize greatly with what you went through, and I believe every last word of it, but gods, why did Mondo put you through

this? Why were you chosen out of all the others?”

                Arachias stopped. “My dear boy, with what is the infirmary of the great castle of Tyn Ianett filled?”

                Alec’s thoughts were scattered by this oblique query, crafted as it was with meticulous grammar. He blinked and furrowed his brow. Arachias sat and waited for an answer. “Um...” he said, and then, after several seconds, “...nurses?”

                “A true answer, but not the right one.”

                Several more seconds passed. “Healer warricks?”

                “Another true answer, but still not the right one.”

                Alec looked at him a while longer, then slowly shook his head and shrugged.

                Arachias clucked. “Patients. They’re filled with patients.”

                Alec nodded in false understanding, and then his eyes opened wide for a moment as the answer smote him. “Patience!” He smirked at his mentor with mild annoyance.

                Arachias grinned. “May I continue?”

 

~*~

 

                So, the servants would scrub me just hard enough to make me pink, would tell me to hold my belly and grimace after dinner if he wanted me to eat too much, or constantly swallow and lick my lips if he wanted me to starve. I was to appear bleary-eyed and sluggish if I was not allowed to sleep enough, or fidgety and impatient if I was to remain in bed until late into the morning. I of course suffered very few of these ills, but I had to appear as if I had.

                He did dress me well, and I always had a roof and then some over my head. His castle must have had rooms enough to rival the greatest citadels in all of Erathai, yet only five of them were used with any regularity: the entrance hall, the dining hall, his private study, the washroom, and my room. I had an adventure or three in many of the other rooms and secret chambers when not under the Sargath’s watchful eye, but, again, that is meat for the spits of another tale.

                He normally hired guards as he needed them, but, to my knowledge, he employed only eleven servants, and they all bunked in the same mid-floor dormitory.

With a few notable exceptions, that left literally dozens of rooms left unoccupied by anything but dust and cobwebs.

 

~*~

 

                As I grew up, I feel I must mention that the physical abuse was never as bad as it was that first day. I am certain that part of this was due to the fact that my learning capacity not only satisfied his expectations, they surpassed them. Another part was that I never challenged his authority or forgot my manners. Though I stand by the fact that I

believe Preporious Mondo lived only to hurt others, I believed at the time that he eased his punishment on me because he was afraid I might break to the point of uselessness. Even so young, it did not take long for me to realize that he must, after all, have some use for me. I just did not as yet know what this use was, other than for his apparent amusement.

                Every morning at nine of the clock, we would meet in the cluttered yet antiseptic setting of his study where he would drill into me the various types of knowledge he felt one needed absolute expertise if one wanted to excel in this world of ours. This was not done in the context of a loving father figure preparing his adopted son for the rigors of life. This was done in the manner of a brutal slavemaster programming an automaton to become the same monster that he was. If I had not had both the loving memories of Madami and her orphanage clutched in stubborn mental fingers, or if Mondo’s servants were not as kind-hearted as they were, I believe that he would have succeeded. I simply would not have had the resources, at such a young age, to repel him.

                And I did learn from him. Just because the grotesque little bastard had a heart as dark as any demon’s and a soul that held as much love for the world as a lava flow, did not in any way mean he was stupid. On the contrary, he was articulate, knowledgeable, devious, insightful, and even tactful when it suited him or when the situation demanded it. As loath as I am to say it, I also believe I would not be at the station in life that I am if it were not for his teachings. Would I have rather spent the rest of my life on the streets of Tallo with the memories of being raised by Madami? Or should I take into account all the good I have done since striking out on my own? Advice to you, youngster: In most cases such pining is both wasted on nothing, and painful. Not much reason in thinking such things then, eh?

                As I was saying, Mondo taught me all about the hearts of men and women,

the fallacies and truths about the gods (as he saw them, that is), the ridiculous

assumptions of the Ummonic church and their ilk (despite his public support of it), the usefulness of hate and greed, the weaknesses of love, the ability to always deal with politicians because all of them, all of them, Alec, lie to better themselves. Yes, even I. I lie all the time, though I always do it for what I believe to be the greater good, despite how slippery that slope can be. If, after I die, I am turned from Ummon’s tower, I will do so with no regrets. I am comfortable with the works I have created, partly because I know they help people, but there is another reason that I have told only very few: I know that each and every act of kindness I do would make Mondo pull his hair out through his nose in disgust.

                Anyway, onward.

                He also developed in me an already respectable talent that I had mentioned earlier, which was a knack for juggling numbers and odds in my head. It was not only easy, it was fun, as I had thus far used it only at the orphanage. I would bet on numbers on a die, or run odds on lizard races in the open lot behind the house, that sort of thing. Even as a hobby I was right much more often than I was wrong. Mondo noticed this immediately when he poked through my brain to see what was already there, if anything.

                “I would hope that there is more going on up there than what is required to move your legs, eat, and weep,” he said. “For that is all you have yet done.”

                Then, like the slow extrication of a fossilized bone, he began digging into the

depths of what my young mind actually could do. “A Drake has been frozen stiff by a

warrick and plunged, straight as an arrow, into a deep swamp where he sticks nose first. His tail is sticking out of the water.” I started to smile at the image, and he glared at me. I was reminded that he had a very poorly developed sense of humor, at least in comparison to just about every other living thing. “One fifth of the drake is stuck in the silt at the bottom of the swamp, two-thirds of it is in the water, one eighth is above the water, and the topmost piece of his tail, measuring one foot and three inches, has been snapped off, poor devil.”

                He paused here, looking at me thoughtfully through that hideous growth of

eyebrows. I was not unaccustomed to problems such as these. Madami had been teaching us the basic concepts of mathematics, language, and history, and I had excelled in all of them. I pondered the figures he had laid out, cobbling together the length of the great flying lizard’s body.

                It took a few seconds, but I had it.

                Turning away from me, he peered at a collection of trophies of some kind or another framed in gold and preserved behind crystal, one collection of many that lined the shelves, desks, and cabinets. He was still facing away as I opened my mouth to speak and he asked, “How deep is the swamp?”

                As you might imagine, feeling that I had already solved his problem only to find out that I had done it completely wrong and must start over was sickening. He saw this in my face and soaked it up like a warm morning. “Before you start figuring and solving anything, always make certain you are answering the right question little worm. Giving the right answer to the wrong question is just as useless as giving the wrong answer to the right one.”

                Bothered by the fact that he had tricked me, I blurted out, “One hundred feet!” After a second had passed, I added, “Master!”

                His eyes narrowed and his lips puffed out slightly, as if he was pondering whether or not to strike me for daring to figure out his riddle. “Correct,” he said finally.

 

 

 

~*~

 

                “How did you figure the answer out so quickly?” Alec asked, his eyes aglow.

                His new mentor smiled congenially. “I perhaps could have discovered the answer if I had pondered it for a bit longer, but no, I did not actually figure it out at all. It was a guess. A flat-out guess.”

                Alec shook his head in wonder. “Quite a gamble, Master.”

                Arachias chuckled lightly. “Yes, it was. But, worth it or not, it was rewarding to see the surprise on his face.”

 

~*~

 

                The first one was really more a measure of how quick I was with my wit, not so much my ability in arithmetic, so he began again at a bit lower level of expertise. Singularly they were not that difficult. Collectively they were murderous.

                “The number of addition signs that can be slipped between the numbers of all the digits between ten and zero is what?”

                After a small delay, I muttered the answer. Between the numbers of ten and zero meant excluding ten and zero. “Eight, Master.”

                “Correct.” He lifted some metal object that lay next to an ornately carved bowl from his desk. “Speak up from now on Urchin, or I will take this walnut cracker and split the ends of your fingers with it.”

                “I understand Master,” I said clearly.

                “Surprisingly swift. Now. Arranging these numbers in descending numeric order in three lines of three, one could add each line and get three different sums.” Attempting to trick me again into thinking the right answer to the wrong question, his eyes snapped up at me. “Easy enough, but, what is the sum of these sums?”

                I gulped but tried to hide it, so he would not see the fear on my face. By the smile on his greasy mug, I ascertained that he did anyway, the disgusting dog. No matter, the answer popped into my head of a sudden.

                “Forty-five, Master.” I almost smiled, but managed to stifle it down.

                His face fell just slightly. “How did you arrive at such a number?”

                I quieted my heart and slowed my breathing. “Numeric order starting with the first number before ten and the first number after zero would be nine down to one. Putting them in three rows of three would be nine plus eight plus seven in the first row, which would equal twenty-four. The second-row sum would be fifteen, and the last would be six.” I shrugged just a little, hoping the movement did not seem arrogant. “Adding them all up equals forty-five, Master.”

                His nose twitched in irritation at the same time the corner of his mouth tugged in admiration. “Good enough. Let’s try something harder then, shall we?”

                So, we sat there for several hours, as he pounded me with problem after problem. He did not bother with slate and lead, for it was clear that I was already beyond the rudimentaries of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division. I had surpassed on my own what Madami had instructed me, and discovered further intricacies of these areas of mathematics, also, on my own. Mondo could see this, it would seem, and wanted to test its limits.

                I began getting hungry and tired, and every time my eyes would droop or my head loll, he lashed me across the thigh with a braided chord he would produce from thin air. It did not hurt much and left not even a welt, but the sting was enough to wake me up instantly. Finally, I felt a physical need other than weariness and hunger make itself known. He apparently could read this distress on my face as easily as if I had held up a sign.

                “Alright little whelp, you get this one right and then you may sup on whatever scraps the cook finds under the table and urinate in the moat for all I care.”

                I nodded and tried to keep one leg from bouncing. “And if I get it wrong, Master?”

                “You eat nothing and micturate where you sit, but not a drop of it will hit the

floor or you’ll sleep on the roof until Surcease.”

                I swallowed down tears and nodded. “I understand, Master.”

                He ignored me. “Divide one hundred by one half and add ten. What is the

answer?” He crossed his stubby arms and relaxed against his desk, peering at me from

behind spectacled rims.

                I sat there and pored over the question. It was far too simple a problem in

comparison to the others, and far too kind of a gesture on his part to present such an

easy problem while I suffered through the need for food, sleep, and a need to relieve

myself. I looked back and forth and upside down and backwards and word by word at

the problem, but could see no trick to it.

                Then I decided that that was the trick to it! He must have been saving this one for just this occasion, when I was exhausted and my bladder was obviously about to explode. He must have hoped that I would sit here, trying to see some sort of ruse, when the act of looking itself was the ruse!

                Full of sudden confidence and near bursting in at least two ways, I shouted out my answer. “Sixty, Master!”

                Slowly Mondo grinned, his bottom lip sucked under his top teeth. “Wrong,” he said softly, and walked towards the door chuckling bemusedly to himself.

                I followed him with my eyes, a terrified question wallowing in my throat and

begging release. I could not speak it of course. I could not ask why because, well, I

already knew the answer the moment the wrong one had fled my lips for one thing. For the other, he would know I knew the answer, and would probably prescribe some other sort of horrid treatment for me for asking an unnecessary question. So, I sat there, hungry and miserable. Three agonizing minutes later, frustrated and dejected and ashamed, I soiled my breeches. It was quite possibly the most embarrassing thing I have ever endured, though no one saw it but me.

                Not a drop hit the floor, however.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 19

 

                Gran Palatius Ummona – Ummon’s Tower: The place of final ascension for the followers of the Ummonic Faith, Ummon’s Tower is a great golden edifice at the center of the Unknown Lands. Entrance to the tower is at the topmost, but residence begins at the bottom. As ages pass, souls ascend the tower, graduating to the next level as their consciousness expands. At times, these souls leave the tower altogether to live another mortal (or sometimes immortal) life, only to return to the tower at death. Thousands of souls can be found here at any one time, a very few of them nearly as old Ummon himself.

                Though it can be seen from very high peaks as a great golden spire reaching into the fathomless heavens, its surroundings ensure that nothing living could ever approach it.

 

                “I am sorry my king, but I do not believe that there is any other way.”

                “Gods damn it all Othis, there must be another way! I can’t have you leave me now!”

                His chief advisor shook his head sadly. “I have his message right here.” He indicated the leather-bound tube he had placed on his desk. He knew the king would want to read it but would not ask to because he trusted him. “You know how he is, Sire. His contract will be up in four turns…”

                “Oh, that is perfect bloody timing, by the way,” Merrett interjected, his plain

features screwed up in anger.

                Othis continued without losing a hint of verbal cadence, “…and my guess would be that he was quite upset when it was not renewed as it had been for the previous nine years. He demands that I, in person, rectify this.”

                Good King Merrett fumed, he stomped, he huffed, he threw his hands in the air, and, ultimately, he conceded. “You are right, Othis. Considering how overbearing the Great Admiral Thoris Greenwood can be, the only way to appease him would be for us to basically kiss his arse until our lips chafe.”

                Othis smiled somewhat, the closest he ever really came to actually laughing. “And an excellent envoy to do the arse-kissing would be I, your Highness. He did ask for me personally.”

                Merrett nodded. “I suppose I should stop questioning your judgment Othis.” He peered up at the thick redwood joists across the ceiling in his council chambers high in the central keep of Tyn Ianett. Then he placed his fists on his hips, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to push away some of the stress and fatigue the last few days had placed on his aging shoulders. “You’re always right. And yet, just as often, I am burdening your wisdom with panic.” He looked down now, chuckling. “I sometimes wonder why you stay in my employ at all.”

                Othis stepped forward. “My Good King.” The ruler looked up at the usage of his cheerful title. “I stay in your employ for many reasons, but one of the most pertinent is the fact that you do always question me. Yes, I am virtually always right in my advice and counsel. In fact, I have already sent word to the North along the route I must take, to make preparations at key stops along the way, so I need not waste time securing provisions or lodging,” Merrett blinked, “but, it is your goodness and your worry for your kingdom and all its inhabitants that makes you question this counsel, however unerring it may be. It is proof of your epithet.”

                He smiled and turned away, his robes shifting soundlessly as he headed for the door. Right before he crossed the threshold he said without turning, “I have never been so pleased to be questioned. It is why I consider myself honored to be your servant, my king. Farewell.” He slipped out of the High King’s chambers and down to his own to make final arrangements.

                Merrett, sniffed and needlessly brushed something from his leg. He felt foolishly moved by the little speech. Its soft, conservative tone, so characteristic of Othis, made its journey straight to his heart all the more touching, somehow.

                “Bah,” the king said with very little conviction, and headed for a large mahogany desk upon which were several neatly stacked towers of parchment. Many were corroborating reports of the inexplicable acts of nearly forgotten enemies: goblins who were hardly more than fairy tale malefactors, more ogres acting unthinkably intelligent and cooperative, the roaring of dragons that had gone to slumber before the first High King ever took up his crown – and these were just a small portion of what lay before him. There were various edicts, requests, demands, apologies, letters of commendation, letters of recommendation, letters of outrage, and dozens of other sorts of writing on paper that required his individual attention in the form of an affirmative, negative, or indeterminate response.

                He sat behind them and gathered his strength. There had to be hundreds of them, arranged neatly in order with most urgent at its crest to least urgent no doubt being pulped back into wood at its nadir. Pulling the top one down, he wetted a quill and dunked the pointed end of it in a pot of dark blue ink, his family color. He set to work quietly and quickly, for he felt that every last paper he addressed was one more or one less chance he had against whatever encroaching evil had made itself known in Hildegoth, and he needed to know who must be relied upon, who must be discounted,

and who must be watched.

                Long into the gray hours of the early morning did he scratch away at the documents, interrupted only here and there to take care of physical needs or by the brief interlude of a messenger. He would not admit it out loud or even in his conscious mind, but it was to this that Othis was referring, this indefatigable well of servitude to his servants, this unquenchable thirst for what was right. If the preparations he set in motion failed, it would not be due to of a lack of effort nor a lack of morality, for the High King of Hildegoth could provide these in abundance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 20

 

                Much of Hildegothian time is based on the number 10, but there are exceptions. Each day is twenty-five hours long, and there are ten days in a turn. The four seasons that comprise one year are Surcease, Rebirth, Arden, and Sanguinneth, and are ninety days in length.

                The days of the turn are Freeday, Firsday, Seconday, Thirday, Forthday, Fifthday, Sixday, Sevenday, Fasday, and Bounday.

Fasday is “Fasting Day” and is named after the ancient Ummonic Ritual of Fasting on the ninth day of the turn. Bounday is “Bounty Day” and is named after another Ummonic ritual for enjoying large meals after Fasday. Freeday is yet another ritualistic day, where all may do as they please as long as no laws are broken. Most non-slave labor is suspended on Freeday.

                There are ten years in a decade. There are ten decades in a century. There are ten centuries in an era. There are ten eras in an age. Most written history before the Age of Kings – when the High King was first implemented – is destroyed or lost, but from what little remains it is generally accepted that the sentient races of Hildegoth first began chipping their knowledge into the rock nearly one age ago.

 

                The High Church of Western Hildegoth in the kingdom of Rualedd, was set about twenty miles inland, and one hundred miles south of the tribal lands of Arkodia, where the High King’s laws are followed out of tradition and mutual belief rather than need.

                From all across the vast stretches of the west came the followers of Ummon to this great church, some of them taking up permanent residence. Over the centuries a small community of worshippers, their kin, and even a few who simply could go nowhere else had erected a town of moderate proportions around its ankles. The cathedral itself, however, loomed over the immediate landscape with its massive worship hall and quartet of one hundred-foot towers. Each were built of steel banded stone, and dominated each corner, one for each point on the compass. Across its parapets and balconies, were carvings of saints, divine warricks, and healers from centuries past. The greatest and most revered at its crown, and the lesser but still cherished adorning the lower levels. Paint the color of the morning sun coated its outer skin, with russet gold framing the crystal glass and ringing the towers in bright bands that captured and intensified the sun’s rays into glittering sparks. Windows were sparse but gigantic, with alternating depictions of each of the greater gods on the edifice’s flanks, and the sigil of Ummon himself, two great hands with fingers barely curled and palms facing upward, dominating the window at the church’s forefront.

                It was gargantuan. It was daunting. It was foreboding.

                Every Fasday, Bounday, and Freeday, from four hundred to over a thousand

people would fill its aisles and pews to pray with and receive divine guidance and instruction from the Grand Priest of all Western Hildegoth. His name was Oratio Dumas.

Each Fasday the Grand Priest would give sermons and hear prayers from his devotees in the main worship hall of the church, a room so vast it took up most of the monstrous structure’s enormous belly. The walls and central floor were lined with rows and tiers of pews, all of which were cushioned and skillfully crafted and maintained. Indeed, so filled with gilded walls and bejeweled candelabras and dark, polished wood of the rarest kind was this cavernous space, that the comparatively poor people of the surrounding township actually felt they could touch the life of the wealthy, if only for a few days every turn, when they passed through its tomblike doors.

Atop pillars, filling recesses in the walls, and decorating the supporting arches of columns were even more statues and busts of holy warriors, great scholars and teachers of Ummonic scripture, and even a High King or two who had been brushed by the divine touch of the greatest of gods.

A great marble fountain filled with blessed water was set in the mosaic floor near the great entrance, and the devout would dip their fingertips in it and touch the first two fingers of each hand to their temples and then their chests, and then briefly hold their hands out palms up in the universal symbol of Ummon before taking their seats.

                The grand priest himself was like a condensed version of the High Church,

wrapped in layer after layer of gold woven cloth, ropes of platinum and silver, and so many glittering stones and circles of precious alloys adorning his fingers it was amazing that the man could even turn the pages of the Rand. He was outranked in the faith only by the Primaxis in Tyniar, Krubisse himself.

                Of Dumas’ appearance, he was tall and broad in the shoulders, and his back was straight and strong despite his age of sixty. He was a human of mixed Chaali and Hale descent, those desert lands giving him his height and fading dusky appearance. His dark hair was kept in a closely snipped ring around his head just above his ears, and showed only a very few silver hairs. His eyes were a brown so deep and dark they appeared almost black until the light hit them just so, and then they flashed a shining amber, as a cat’s would. He was the most loved and hated religious figure of the Western lands, and both admired and envied by those of his church and others. He had held his holy office for forty years, and there had been nearly half that many attempts on his life. Some were ridiculous outbursts of rage by some sectarian dissenter, and some were coldly calculated assassinations by rivals both within and without the church that came very close to succeeding. A few of these near successes had left pale, puckered scars in his skin, which was stretched and tired over his bones.

                And that he was. Tired. He still felt Ummon’s touch, both warming and cooling against his soul and in his breath every morning. This was especially true on the fellowship gatherings of Fasday, when all those hopeful faces, flushed and energized by their fasting whether young and old, would gaze up at him in admiration for both their god, and he, their most potent interpreter and messenger. Not once had he missed an appearance at a Fasday service, and today was no different.

                And yet… it was. Somehow. There was something just outside his aging mind, beyond its cobwebbed manuscripts of memorized entreaties, and beyond the unshakeable marble upon which all of his faith was erected and from which his warra could be called. He felt something out of place, something malign. He did not, as yet, know what it was.

                To his left stood his personal servants, the Uumata. These holy men were not

the sources of anything other than vessels of faith and devotion to Ummon, and servitude to him. He passed his look down amongst the Ummonic monks who had made their homes here. They served as both personal guard and divine attendants, helping those in need in an individualized manner, for which Dumas could never hope to have enough time.

                He looked then out to the gathering itself, the vast assembly of souls and hearts and hopes that would place all in his hands, having faith that he would do only Ummon’s will with it. They awaited his sermon in the uncountable, staggered levels of pews that reached from ground level to many feet off of the floor where they met the far wall. Countless more filled balconies and tiered rooms in the church’s heights. Many times in the past had his assassin come from this throng, and each time he knew who they were before their strike was even made – thus his continued existence in this world. No, there was nothing but patient worship in those souls.

                Enough. He would deny them their communion no longer. He opened as he always did with the Yuly Etumsey, the Singing Prayer. It was a beautiful piece of simple worship, this hymn, and its thrumming, haunting notes poured not just from the lips of the believers, but from their hearts as well, and Grand Priest Dumas was no different. Though he felt the vague intrusion of something wicked, his beliefs were adamant. When the service was over, he would unravel and release his Uum, his spirit self, and seek out this bothersome trifle that would dare desecrate these holy grounds.

                Here, his power was near absolute. Ummon was always near no matter where one treaded, but his presence could truly be felt here. Whatever it was that deigned to press its influence would soon find itself forced back into the same dank and fetid sewers that had spewed it forth.

 

~*~

 

                Anamu had been quite busy, of late. After seeking the source of Camdur’s

malignancy and finding this source both puzzling and magnificent, it had spent several hours attempting to ascertain its origins. The dormant tendrils of influence that had led from Camdur reached to Tallo, where a nexus of sorts resided. Clearly not a natural phenomenon, Anamu poked and prodded and delved into where it led from there, but could not discover what this was, however, this lent credence to two things: Whatever did this could be used by Anamu, and whatever did this was limited in power and scope, or it would not have needed to hide. Under the pretense of mutual benefit, Anamu left a psychic imprint of intent and cooperation there, letting whatever entity or entities that had created this system know that it was aware of it but not a threat. Indeed, it was interested in a mutual endeavor between them. This was a lie, naturally, but Anamu was certain it had hidden this fact. It had then taken its flock and left Fremett under the pretense of an evangelical crusade to the High Church to cure them of some plague or other brought on by carousing with demons. It was hardly any effort at all to convince the local church authorities to allow this, for they looked truly nightmarish and none wanted them in the city, whether or not they believed Anamu’s claims of demonic disease. The church was left in the hands of a few lesser clerics, though Anamu cared about it very little. If it burned to the ground it would simply be one fewer task for it to accomplish. If it stood, it would have the satisfying task to its own tastes.

                After a comparatively boring and lengthy journey from the bowels of Fremett north through the woodland spotted plains of Rualedd and finally in view of the high church itself, Anamu was near bursting with glee at the situation in which it and its followers found themselves. Here it was, nearly at the doorstep of the most sacred building in all of Western Hildegoth, appearing as a prominent high priest from Fremett, who, with overflowing humanity and charity, brought along a cadre of lepers and the sick in hopes that the grand priest himself may heal them. The irony of it was so magnificent it was ridiculous.

                All the previous night and into the early crisp hours of the morning, Anamu had lifted itself from the withering mortal shell that it now used, and plunged into the misty and spirit saturated waves of the astral ocean, homing in on veins of evil to sup on and to gather strength. There were other more real, satisfying ways to draw this nourishment (hot and salty through the spine of a man who had just murdered his invalid mother, perhaps) but this way, the way it had known to feed itself for ten thousand years, was still the quickest manner with which to replenish or even bolster its power. Spreading wide its astral grasp, it had pulled in the sparks, motes, and even the dim flames of the energy spawned with hatred, greed, lust, and pain. All these things singly defined the evil upon which it dined, and combined they were an even tastier feast.

                Pulsing arteries of this vile power flowed through it this bright morning, and it passed this on to its underlings, watching their stick like limbs swell with potency and renewed vigor of a dark and hateful source. It used this power to accelerate their journey, stepping onto a streaking river of energy that moved them north at dragon speeds. When they had made their way to within a few miles of their destination, they resumed a more mundane pace, both to incur a believable spectacle, and so Anamu could rest its rather taxed stores. A gangly troop of blackened scarecrows they were, their twisted faces hidden beneath cowls as they beat a lope-stepped path towards the High Church.

                Townspeople, filled with the goodness of Ummon’s spirit or not, gave them a wide berth and struggled with a natural impulse to flee from such obviously afflicted individuals. Whatever it was that had caused them to look the way that they looked and walk the way that they walked was something to which they did not want to get very close. Though their number was greater than most processions of its manner, and though the priests of any town rarely pay a visit to the High Church on any matters other than special ceremonies, the strange column of afflicted souls was treated as warmly as possible by the clergymen who parted from them and opened the great carved doors of the High Church in reluctant welcome.

                As it nodded solemnly to the men adorned in flowing robes of glittering gold, Anamu’s greatest struggle was to not giggle as it marched stoically past them. It had forced itself to maintain an entirely human visage, as it had to appear as nothing more than portly High Priest Hemerek Alvis, the man whose face it now wore. Inhabiting a body like this taxed the flesh of it, more so than any normal life would, however, applying only the faintest of its power to it could smooth its surface and stitch shut the cracks that its possession caused. To any normal observer, it appeared as a somewhat unimpressively proportioned human man whose robes were rather tattered, no doubt from the long trek from Fremett – apparently on foot, no less.

                Such love for his fellow man, such personal suffering so that a few broken,

diseased wretches might find some peace and healing. This time, Anamu did giggle, a

short burbling laugh that lifted from its throat and was quickly snuffed.

                No one seemed to notice.

 

~*~

 

                Alec returned from a quick trip to Arachias’ privy facilities wearing an

uncomfortable look on his face.

                Arachias grinned up at him. “Everything came out all right, I take it?”

                Alec sat roughly and reached for his empty mead cup. Seeing its vacant condition, he filled it. Arachias watched his actions and made a mental note to stop the lad if he got too inebriated, for, of all the lessons he meant to teach him, the most

important one was buried in the very tale he was telling.

                “Yes, everything is fine,” Alec said rather sharply. A quick furrow of Arachias’ brows caused him to clear his throat and rephrase himself. “That is… yes, everything came out just fine, Master.”

                The young politician laughed. “Alec, there is no need to wonder if a part of the heartless slug that taught me all the vile tricks of this trade that I have mastered survives on in me. I assure you, the exact opposite is the case. Now, tell me why that irritated look is stamped all over your face.”

                Alec inhaled and exhaled quickly, pondering the golden liquid in his cup. “I was just realizing how awful that must have felt to… to…”

                “To wet myself like an infant at nine years old?” He asked. Alec smirked

uncomfortably, and then nodded. Arachias leaned forward and constructed an impressive stack of alternating meat, cheese, tomatoes, and watercress, topped with a smear of dark brown mustard flecked with bits of cracked pepper. “I find your humanity a wonderful thing, Alec. I mean that.” He took a bite of his snack, grunting in approval. “After I’m done with you, it will be your most useful tool, for the ability to weed out and rise above the scum is what can make a man or woman rule whatever goals are set before them.”

                Alec blushed slightly, and then took a long drink of his mead. “So what was

the answer?”

                Arachias shoved the remainder of the mess into his mouth, and munched happily. He peered at Alec as he sucked the tips of his fingers clean. “You haven’t

figured it out yet?”

                “Well…divide a hundred in half, and add that to ten…” He shook his head, lost. “It has to be sixty. Either Mondo is stupid, or he wanted you to be wrong even if you were right.”

                Arachias shook his head, this time. “Oh, no, no, no. The Sargath of Tallo is

anything but stupid. My answer was incorrect. Think on it.”

                Alec did. “Divide one hundred in half, then –”

                “Say that first part again,” Arachias interrupted, setting down his food.

                Alec looked at him. “Divide one hundred in half?”

                “No,” his mentor said quietly. “Divide it by half.”

                Alec nodded again, slowly and quizzically, as if it were Arachias who was truly missing something, and then he stopped. Realization washed over him like a bucket of ice water. “By half, not in half!”

                Arachias threw himself back into his seat, clapping once loudly enough to make Noal poke his head out of the kitchen for a moment. “You listen well, little student. So, what’s the real answer?”

                Now that the question was clear, the answer came easily enough. “One hundred divided by half, not in half, …that is, how many times does .5 go into one hundred… well, that would be two hundred, plus ten is two hundred-and-ten.”

                Arachias smiled and then nodded in approval, advancing his estimation of Alec’s intellect from quite to very, and then wondering if he would have to modify this appraisal yet again before the night was through.

 

~*~

 

                As I had said, once the wrong answer was out of my mouth, I knew the right one, and saw how the filthy bastard had tricked me.

                That night Mondo’s servants, particularly Farquid, treated me with extra

kindness. They took my soiled clothes and remarked that, for my next lesson, they would swaddle me in an infant’s cloth. That way, his instruction could go long into the night without any concern over me puddling the floor. And yes, they would ensure the Master had a diaper as well. It was clearly a soft jibe to make me smile and laugh at my own predicament, which it did. They made me a small but delicious supper, washed me up, And sent me to my room with a smile on my face despite my earlier humiliation. I curled up under the very comfortable accommodations that the Sargath had given me. I had said before that I was treated quite well when either I met or exceeded Mondo’s expectations, or when the servants could sneak me a little extra something.

                Yet in a way I was far, far worse off. In each of the servant’s faces I saw a flash of Madami’s features. She was enormous and beautiful, like a great kind ogress with all of its strengths and none of its ugliness. Nevertheless, flashes were all that they were. And as much as they brought brief flickers of happiness, they just as quickly reminded me that she was gone.

                I remember settling into that huge, comfortable bed with its soft blankets and

pillows stuffed just right. It probably was worth more than the house Madami had owned. In it I slept, and dreamt. I dreamt of pale tentacles that would reach from a river of black nothingness and suck away everything that I loved, right out of my mind, right out of my memories. Madami, the orphans, the games we played, and the words she taught us, everything, sucked away down their awful gullets and into oblivion. I would wake terrified that I would forget all there was about her and that wonderous place. And that was not the worst of it. I was afraid that those memories would be replaced with the vile, greedy visage of Preporious Mondo, who would show me, will me, and bend me into becoming the most repugnant thing that I knew on this Earth: him.

 

~*~

 

                Othis hired a non-descript wagon with a grumpy but nearly indefatigable driver minding the reins. He had sent word to every hamlet, village, and city along the way that when he passed through, there were to be a fresh quartet of horses waiting for him. He sent this word under a different alias on each letter, to hide his route. With any luck they should arrive about a day ahead of him at each stop. He also declined the Quartermaster’s suggestion to hire a huge team of ten horses, a barely manageable number but one that would see him down the road at speeds that could only be surpassed by warricking or hitching transport on the back of a dragon, which was an unsurprisingly rare mode of travel. Othis had patiently explained that he must sacrifice such speed for a degree of subterfuge. Four horses pulling an old wagon down the road at as fast a speed as they could muster would draw no attention. Two and-a-half times their number would stand out as surely and as sorely as a smashed thumb on an archer’s hand. As such a high-ranking member of the High King’s staff, he could not afford to expose himself to any incidental risk by kidnappers or worse.

                “Then why not teleportation by warra?” He then asked.

                Othis was familiar with such warricking, and knew it to be an act even more manifest, and to eyes that were owned by some entities whose power was too often only equaled by their wickedness. Besides, he had never been entirely comfortable with the practice. He had only been teleported once, and the experience had left him weak with nausea for three days despite the fact that Quarter Toltor, Erathai’s resident Master Warrick, had performed the teleportation. To the horsekeeper, he merely shrugged slightly.

                The Quartermaster, a longtime admirer of the quiet and studious High Advisor, made a few adjustments to the tack and harnesses of the four sturdy draft horses, chosen for their inexhaustible stamina. “So, er, My Lord, do you have lodgings prepared for you?”

                The tall, thin man smiled kindly at the honest concern showing on the scruffy, work-hardened face. “That I do, Quartermaster Yanuuk.” Othis patted the thick, waxed burlap of the wagon covering. “Looks supremely comfortable. Maybe not fit for a king, but certainly for his advisor.”

                Yanuuk chuckled, his bare, furry arms swinging just slightly with the act. “I

never thought I’d see one of your station spending a turn in and out of a wagon, My Lord.” He smiled halfway. “I think it’s becoming of you, you know… to the common

folk.”

                Othis had climbed into the wagon by now, and had his hand on the handle of the door to close it, but could not without returning a kind comment for a kind comment. “To my knowledge and memory, Yanuuk, common people are always possessed of the most uncommon qualities. With that in mind, these accommodations,” he gestured briefly at the interior of the wagon, which was warm and dry, but sparse, “are hardly a burden, they are an honor.” He smiled a thin smile that was still heartwarming, and swung the door shut.

                Yanuuk inclined his head respectfully, and shouted to the driver to earn the hard silver he had been paid or his wagon would never park in his stables again. With a gruff look that was not very convincing, the coachman led the wagon off into the waning light of the afternoon.

                “May Ummon watch and protect that man,” Yanuuk said stiffly, as he set his

calloused hands on his leather-bound hips, “for the likes of him only come once in an elf’s lifetime.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 21

 

                The currency of Hildegoth is difficult to pinpoint, as varying districts and city-states use varying qualities of metals to mint their coin. Strict norms created and implemented by the High Treasury have attempted with mixed success to neutralize this. Still, a Greann draco is minted with such pure silver it makes the Tallo equivalent look drab by comparison. An accurate-as-possible table with accompanying worth is below:

                The iron drek (a stale hunk of bread)

                The brass weg (worth 5 dreks/a poor ale)

                The tin tid (worth 5 wegs/a decent ale)

                The bronze soga (worth 5 tids/a small, poorly made dagger, a small meal)

                The copper bit (worth 5 tids/a poor bottle of wine, a decent meal)

                The silver draco (worth 10 bits/a decent bottle of wine, a turn’s stay at a small inn, a small pack animal or riding pony)

                The golden ranyin (worth 5 dracos/a rare bottle of wine, a turn’s stay at an

extravagant inn, a decent horse)

                The platinum baron (worth 10 ranyins/deed to a small house or shop, a small ship), which is equal to 312,500 dreks, and are very rare to see in day-to-day transactions.

                A peasant will almost never carry anything above a tid, and then only one or two. Most manual labor jobs will pay 10 wegs a turn. A halfway successful adventurer might have a handful of dracos in his or her coinpurse. A minor noble or knight would have mostly dracos with a few ranyins. Most wealthy people do not carry large amounts of coin on their persons, but would in their homes or estates. The ruling classes of most of the Unified Kingdoms can lay claim to several hundred thousand ranyins each. Greann is now wealthier by a significant margin than Erathai, boasting collective holdings well into the millions of ranyins, making it the richest kingdom in Hildegoth. Most of this is stored as notes of currency in the form of platinum placards hand-stamped with the High King’s seal, each worth 25,000 ranyins.

 

                Grand Priest Oratio Dumas focused keenly on this unusual visit.

                The High Priest of Fremett, that profiteering, nearly godless coastal town, had suddenly appeared at his doorstep, and bearing a score or better of sick charges with him, no less. He felt sudden irritation, but washed that away just as suddenly with practiced patience. These leprous men and women needed the healing light of Ummon – or to be cared for until released from this world, whichever was his will.

                He immediately ceased his sermon, a digest of the history of the church and the holy order of Ummonic monks that nested on distant Mt. Gregor, and bade a small clutch of kneeling holy students called Uumets, those young men and women in training for the priesthood, and various other servants to come to side. He knew not how he would render any assistance, but he wanted as many of his devout at hand to carry out whatever he decided to do.

                That nagging feeling, like a wretch at your coattails that fills you with disgust but whose words itch with truth, struck at him again. Something was not right here. With a critical eye, he pondered the weary looking High Priest of Fremett. For this moment, Dumas struggled with his memory of this particular holy man, deluged in images of corruption and sin barely contained. Yet here was this same man, tired, haggard, and on what seemed to be a plainly humanitarian trek. Perhaps there was some sort of ruse set in his mind? Some manner of deceit that involved the lepers? He recalled his only too recent feeling of invasion by some malignant power, and the old priest’s eyes narrowed. He did not know yet what face this evil would take, but Alvis (yes, that was his name!) could certainly be its bearer.

 

~*~

 

                Anamu watched Dumas closely. The pious old fool suspected something. Indeed, he may have seen right through its deception altogether, though somehow it

doubted this. The old fellow’s eyes subtly narrowed and widened alternately at it, a look of misgiving tangled with uncertainty.

                Pulling itself up straight, what appeared to be the High Priest of Fremett strode purposefully towards Grand Priest Dumas, stopping and lowering to one knee and casting his eyes to the ground while lifting both hands apart and in supplication. Anamu smiled inwardly as Dumas accepted (with a small sigh of relief) this ceremonial gesture of deference and goodwill.

                “My child,” Dumas said softly but with power, “you are clearly pained and in need of rest. Allow my helpers to take your afflicted gathering to our main Rostiruum at the south of the church, where their... condition... can be assessed.”

                No sooner were these words past his lips that Alvis, or what he thought to be

Alvis, grasped his arm in a grip bolstered by fear.

                “No, Father!” His eyes, shot through with red webs of fatigue and wariness, flashed. “They have been set upon by some awful, dreadful curse, one that eats the flesh right off their bones!”

                Dumas stared in shock at the man that was not a man. “From where does this curse come?”

                Alvis gritted his teeth. “From realms infernal, my Father! The touch of demonkind! That is all I know for certain, but, truly, what else need be known? The only power keeping the curse at bay from my own flesh is my faith in Ummon!” The one who once was Alvis’ voice wavered as if under a burden of weariness and fear.

                Grand Priest Oratio Dumas stiffened. Something looked to be confirmed behind his old, wise eyes at the evil entity’s words of dread. It would seem that, whatever was lighting the old priest’s suspicions, Anamu, draped in the flesh of a dead man, was no longer the flame.

 

~*~

 

                So. The invisible wretch of wisdom was right. There were foul deeds taking place. And here, this once virtueless priest, this man whose cloth was stained with sin, had been forged in whatever nightmare he had endured and had emerged as what he truly was: a servant of his god, Ummon. The One God, the forger of the Golden Tower of Enlightenment, and keeper of all other gods. How very convenient and admirable.

                Without further hesitation, Dumas stepped away from Alvis and addressed the gathering of wide-eyed churchgoers. “My brothers and sisters. It would seem that Ummon has deigned to place a test at our feet. These stricken persons come to us with

nothing but rot in their skin and terror in their hearts.” Several of the people in the pews nearest the putrid congregation moved away. “I must cut short your sermons for this day. In their stead, learn from this Blessing, yes, blessing! For here and now, we have been given the chance to drive out the foul seed of demonkind that has become manifest before our very eyes, brought to us by the brave and selfless sacrifice of Brother Alvis of Fremett,” he gestured toward Anamu, who bowed after a moment’s hesitation.

                The south chamber had been opened by the priests and healers, who gingerly approached the collection of guests, weakened and wretched with rot as they were. After a brief bit of cajoling and kind words, they allowed themselves to be lead away.

                “I will administer to these poor souls, and return word to all of you,” Dumas

continued. “You, in turn, will pass this word as far as its truth will ring.” He straightened his angular body beneath the gleaming sheath of gold and jewels. “I leave you now in the care of my monks, who will direct and guide you. Go, good people.”

                The Ummonic monks, without even an upturned glance, rose from their places of supplication and assisted with the emptying of the church, following the throng out with the intention of keeping them calm and to administer any spiritual aid they may need. Once the last of them had passed through the entrance and the doors had shut, Dumas turned and laid a comforting hand on Anamu’s shoulder as his servants and priests-to-be unrolled bed mats in the Rostiruum upon which his followers could rest.

                The situation was so ludicrous that another small giggle slipped from Anamu’s stolen lips. He could not believe he had just been bowing to this mortal meat a moment ago. It managed to cowl it into what sounded like a stifled sob before Dumas could question its origins.

                “Your task is nearly done now, child.” Dumas said softly as he led Anamu away from the main chamber and up a narrow winding staircase of smooth, ornately cut stone. “Now, tell me all that you know about this curse visited upon us. Do you know the name of the demon that put these dreams into our pool of reality? Do you know if it is a whisper of things to come?”

                The graying, pallid face of Hemerek Alvis looked up on a man with dead eyes that had once belonged to a priest, one who had always gazed upon his superiors with envy and wonder – when he was alive.

                “Oh yes, my Father. It is most certainly a whisper of things to come.”

                The staircase deposited them on a landing, at the end of which was a door to a small, private chamber. Dumas opened and closed it behind the two of them, as the large doors of the cavernous southern ward slammed shut on the holy men and the forsaken ghouls they had unwittingly taken into their care.

                Anamu felt a soothing warmth fill him as it realized, should these things to come go as planned, they would shake the very floors of the hells and heavens alike.

 

~*~

 

                “I must say, it’s been quite a while since I’ve leveled this tale at anyone. How does it strike you so far?”

                Alec studied his tutor carefully, weighing the question. “I’m not certain I

understand the question, Master.”

                His mentor snickered. “I have you on constant guard, do I not lad? Splendid! I will tell you, however, that this is not a trick question.” Alec narrowed his eyes to bare slits. Arachias rolled his. “Very well. How about this? I will hold up my right hand thusly,” he lifted his hand palm inward, “when I am not attempting to mislead you. Though this in no way signifies whether or not I am trying to trick you when I don’t make the signal. Since we need a forum under which we can communicate without subterfuge, I cannot lie when I hold up my hand, but not showing it does not mean that I am lying either. This is where your wit and ability to read me will come into play. Fair enough?”

                Alec smirked slightly, unsure. “You would never believe something like that in the real world.”

                Arachias held up his hand in the manner he described. “Ah, but then you are

already differentiating between ‘the real world’ (whatever the hells that is), and ‘our world,’ little Alec. In ‘our world,’ things like this do happen, as a matter of necessity and instruction. Am I clear?”

                Alec paused, and then nodded in acceptance, as this seemed more command

than permission for agreement.

                “Very good then. So. How about an answer?”

                “I think it is both nightmarish, and fascinating.” Alec replied with hardly any

hesitation.

                “Are you telling me the truth?” Arachias queried.

                Alec blinked in mild bewilderment. “Well... yes, Master I am.”

                “Did I not advise you against defaulting to unfettered honesty?”

                Alec sat up, a hurt look on his face. “You tricked me again!”

                Arachias nodded gravely, no look of humor on his features. “That I did Alec, but not quite in the way that you think.”

                Alec’s look of confusion deepened by several fathoms. “What?”

                Arachias proffered the back of one hand. He had not raised it the second time he put his question to Alec. “Always keep your memory sharp, for it will be constantly tested. Usually immediately after you’ve stowed something in a chest in your head, when it is easiest to fumble with keys you’ve only just pocketed.”

                Alec continued to look hurt, but nodded. “I understand Master. Though...” the boy bit his lower lip in indecision.

                “What? Out with it, no hiding anything – for now.” And he held up his hand in their agreed upon manner.

                Alec shrugged. “...Though I think perhaps Sargath Mondo makes himself known in your own teachings perhaps more than you’d like.” He looked into Arachias’ gray eyes for a moment, and then looked away.

                A tense, almost harsh few seconds passed. Arachias peered into the shimmering golden depths of his mead cup. “Yes. You are right. Despite my denials of any real influence he has left, I do see him in me, from time to time. Though what you said was certainly troublesome to me (which I’m certain is why you were not comfortable with coming forth with your opinion, dear boy) it is also truth.” He leaned forward, his gray eyes lit with fire from within. “The useful kind.”

 

 

 

~*~

 

                So, my lessons continued, day in, day out. Some were easy, some difficult, and a few were intentionally impossible.

                “They are not a measure of your wit or your memory, Arachnid.” Arachnid was his pet name for me. “They are a measure of your character and personality. How do you face up against an impossible task?”

                I looked at him blankly. “I understand Master, but how often do you come up against impossible tasks?”

                “All too often, I’m afraid.” He fluffed his robes which I hated because that gods-awful stench he seemed to wear like a perfume would roll out from under his clothes. “And I am not referring to just the life or death impossible decision sort of impossible decision, I mean this:” the foul little gnome ticked off a blunt, gnarled finger, “You are in a debate with a competitor.” He touched another extended finger. “He just proved you wrong beyond any glimmer of doubt.” And a third. “Your argument has been rendered pointless. What say you?” He clasped his grubby little hands together and glared at me.

                I cleared my throat. “What is the debate about…?”

                He waved a hand. “Immaterial.”

                My lips fluttered briefly. “Then how am I to…?”

                He leaned over, his breath like a mouthful of black mud from the bottom of a bog. “You have just lost an argument, insect, and the pen is in your hand, so to speak.

There is nothing else that you need know. What say you?”

                I hesitated. This earned me a stinging rap across the thigh with that cord that he seemed able to summon from the aether at will. “If I had just beaten you in a debate, business-related or otherwise, and I saw a look on your face like the pathetic one you are wearing right now, I would not only consider you beaten, I would consider you worth nothing more than someone to belittle at any opportunity that presented itself. And that opinion would hardly be unique.”

                I felt like crying again, which I knew would earn me repeated lashes until I ceased, so I sucked back tears that never even made it to my eyes. I knew he was waiting for an answer, and I also knew that part of him – perhaps even half of him – did not want me to furnish one. Perhaps it was this knowledge that urged an answer from me.

                “I would gracefully accept his point, and then mock him for arguing it in the

first place, Master.”

                His brows dropped into a glower like they always did when I surprised him. Oh, but I would have never, ever pointed out that I had deciphered this on his face. To be so readable to one so young would have infuriated him. He tended to favor taking his anger out on something other than himself, which usually meant me.

                “A decent enough answer, for a piss-bottomed little whelp.” Mondo said almost thoughtfully. It was as close as he could come to actually complimenting me.

                “There are others then, Master?”

                His face scrunched up with disgust. “Well of course there are others, you idiot! There is always more than one answer. Even if the question is ‘what is one added to one?’”

                I looked at him quizzically. I could not see how there could be more than one

answer to a question such as that, but did not feel bothered with asking him. It did not

matter, truly, for he told me anyway.

                “You can lie and say, ‘I don’t know.’ Or, you can give a wrong answer. There are moments when those are useful as well.”

                I remember acknowledging the reasoning behind this. I was not at all bothered when I inwardly admitted that I would not have minded using it against this troll in gnome’s clothing who had completely destroyed my life to build another – not out of the ashes of the other, nor on its foundation, but completely anew, using his own timbers, bricks, and mortar. He was building the mind of a boy into the mind of a man who would… well at that time I had yet to know why he was doing all that he did. I had put together quite quickly that he did not have any children. Clearly, what woman, no matter how desperate for child, could bed him long enough to create one?

                Regardless, his construction went along quite fine with what he had hoped. Perhaps not what he had expected, but what he had hoped. I am confident that I was even more than he had hoped for in a few areas as well.

                All during this restructuring of my mind and character, I would glean hope of

my own as well as pride when I would secretly hand him a nail, or a stone, or a splinter from my old life for him to build with. I had decided that, despite my fears, he could not erase my memories, no matter how hard he tried. They were too fundamental a part of me, and too precious to let go despite having my hands beaten by his merciless reconditioning.

                He thought me broken almost immediately. In truth, he never did really break me. Cracked me, here and there, scuffed the finish in places, of course. Nothing that a little hard work could not repair, and repair it I did. I could not allow him to undo the goodness that Madami had sown into my little heart. I could not abide by his cold, dark soul. He was the antithesis of all I had been raised to cherish and love.

                No. There was no way in this world or any other that that ruthless coward was going to break me. Once I vowed this to myself and whatever gods happened to be listening, my nightmares, for the most part, ceased.

 

~*~

 

                Alec lifted his hand a moment, wanting to interrupt. Arachias did not mind, for he saw in his young charge a spark that he once held himself.

                “Yes, my student?” He asked amiably.

                A troubled shadow flickered across Alec’s face. “Did you... I mean, did those words really pass through your thoughts?”

                The slim young man tilted his head slightly, and then nodded. “Yes, young

Alec, they did.” He lifted his brows slightly. “Does such thinking trouble you?”

                “No!” Came the abrupt reply. “Well... yes and no. I think it is a credit to your will that you could make such a vow at such a young age, but what troubles me is that you had to make it. No one so young should have to bind his courage together and swear an oath like that.”

                Arachias found himself feeling the aching sting of reined tears for the first time in this recanting. “No, my friend. No one so young should.”

 

 

 

~*~

 

                Anamu had hoped that there would be some sort of crack or chink in the armor of Dumas’ faith he could grab hold and wrench open. To be true, there were a few, but they were nothing with which his questing fingers could find purchase.

                This private study was in itself a scaled down reflection of the vast affluence

afforded the rest of the holy building. It was dimly lit by low sconces holding fat, wide candles in their bellies, but this ruddy illumination was caught by the golden trim holding fast to every edge of every piece of furniture, and thrown back gently to the observer. Every wall showed a masterpiece of tapestry or finely wrought depiction in paint of some sort of holy reference, whether it was a miniature mural of Ummon’s creation of Hildegoth and the surrounding vastness of the universe, or a simple portrait of a child with his or her face wrapped in unbridled joy and hands lifted toward the heavens.

                Though the wealth of his appearance and that of his church was fantastic to the point of being gaudy, it was predominantly Dumas’ love for Ummon and his desire to make his presence and his house as perfect and beautiful as worldly possible that drove him to such lengths. He wanted unbelievers and new believers alike to be awestruck when they purged those doors and beheld the huge church’s inners, as magnificent in their splendor as its dimensions were in sheer size. He did personally enjoy such baubles as well, but this was secondary, of course.

                Grand Priest Dumas poured himself a tall, thin goblet of white wine. He offered the same to Anamu, who accepted it to propagate his deception of humanity, which was, for now, useful. Sipping it, the creature recoiled slightly at the taste. It was a foul, sour vintage. Through memories briefly imparted from souls it had harvested came expertise in things that they had known in life. Alvis was quite a wine connoisseur, and his discriminating palate, corrupted though it was, now belonged to Anamu. Trying to hide its distaste, it set the glass on the wide expanse of oiled oak that served as the grand priest’s desk.

                “My Father, I cannot thank you sufficiently for your hospitality. There were many times when I had thought the trek pointless, the mission lost.” The malign thing

under Alvis’ skin nodded. “I thank Ummon that he gave me the strength to press on.”

                Dumas, who had noted with some interest Alvis’ actions after sampling the wine, perked his features. “Indeed. I cannot perceive how you alone made it without horses, much less that distressed throng that came with you.” He seated himself, and peered at Anamu expectantly.

                Anamu snorted, his lie long since constructed, his delivery perfect. “At first we did, O Grand One. I was on a borrowed horse from the church stables, the infected

persons in several open, decrepit wagons donated by a patron. We figured they would

be burned after our use of them.” He sighed somewhat dramatically and shook his head. “The forces of demonkin are strong, Father. They would not see them brought to you for aid. Not long after our departure my horse fell lame, and not half a day later the ones drawing the wagons somehow burst from their harnesses, all of them, all at once, and fled. We have been on foot ever since.”

                The grand priest pursed his lips in thought. “Were there any other impediments during your travels? Did the vile beings whose acts placed you on this sojourn – yet went to such lengths to hinder you – make themselves known in any other manner?”

                Anamu shook his head. “Not in any way of which I was aware, my Father. However, they can be as subtle as they are blatant. There may be things in motion that

have not made themselves, as yet, known.”

                The old holy man nodded slowly. “Yes, too true. Though they cannot physically interact with this world, they can enact all manner of mischief and fell deeds through their puppets.”

                “May those puppets’ strings be snipped as soon as they are found, Father. The will of Ummon guide us if I have brought something malignant into your church.” Anamu could not keep the corners of its mouth drawn into as tight a line as it would have liked. Perhaps it could have been interpreted as a grim smile of camaraderie. Perhaps not.

                “Yes.” Dumas said again, one corner of his mouth lifting in what appeared to be a poorly suppressed smile of his own. “Such a thing would be unfortunate.”

                The compounded entity felt its control of the situation slipping. Its alternate plan may have to come into play. Oddly, it did not mind this at all. Pulling its mind back into its spirit, it sent out a ringing, mental command to its minions waiting below, being fussed over by the healers. “So, here we have arrived Father Grand Priest Dumas. I do not know what, if anything, you can do to help us, but that is my tale. Do with it what you will.”

                Dumas regarded the surface of his desk. The layers upon layers of finery that adorned him jingled slightly as he idly swished the wine around his glass. His eyes

finding Anamu’s, he took a slow swallow. “And a remarkable tale it is, my brother. My heart is filled with joy at your presence here, truly. I only hope that it is Ummon’s will to release your flock from this demon’s curse.”

                Anamu nodded in understanding, but did not appreciate the way the old priest was looking at it. Dumas’ countenance again slipped from belief, but he looked more confident than doubtful. Before they had come up the stairway, his trepidation appeared to have vanished. Otherwise, would he have led him up here, to an obviously sanctified chamber? It seemed unwise to invite your enemy into such a vulnerable place.

                Unless it was not vulnerable at all.

                Anamu felt a swell of panic stir in it, which was almost fascinating in its rarity. However, anger rose equally with it. Had it been tricked?

                Dumas gestured at the wine goblet. “Is not the vintage suitable to your tongue?”

                The tongue Anamu had stolen still felt the bitter tannins from the last taste of this wine, almost as if someone had dribbled juice from a wax bush in it. Growing

increasingly angry that he would dare to make it feel fear, Anamu took the glass from the desk and drew a small amount of the liquid into its mouth hoping that another sip or two might placate the grand priest. It was worse than before, causing its lips to curl and its throat to convulse as it forced the stuff down its gullet. Its habitation of a mortal shell clearly augmented everything about it, including the senses.

                “Brother Alvis?” Dumas asked. “Are you well? Have your travels impacted you more than perhaps you care to reveal?” He looked at a magnificently rendered map affixed to a wall to his right. “I am curious. Fremett is a goodly distance away. How long ago did you leave on horses? And how long have you been on foot?” He almost smirked.

                Enough of this subtlety. Anamu tried to pry into the priest’s mind, tried to snare some glimmer of what he believed, twist it, and follow it through his defenses. It refused to accept that a mortal, a single, fragile entity bound to these sacks of meat and bone, could deny it. It pressed harder, tendrils of spiritual force lashing out at the impassive wall of resistance that shrouded the priest’s mind, and was again rebuked. Another spear of anger rose in its breast at this, but it shoved it down and away.

                Other than a quivering muscle on one side of his face that moved of its own accord in disgust, Dumas gave little sign that anything had assaulted him, and chose also to drop all pretense. “I do not know from what venomous shadow you crawled, demon slave,” he said in a quiet, plain voice, “but your efforts are wasted. That impregnable rampart off of which you just rebounded was not I, per se, but was in fact my faith in Ummon.” He sipped at his wine with a touch of arrogance in his eyes. The old priest seemed utterly at ease. “Your foul grasp will find no purchase here.”

                Surprised at Dumas’ calm retort but veiling this, Anamu also relinquished its façade. It dropped all remaining masks of humanity, its smile spreading wide over stained teeth, its flesh shivering away as its face shifted into a withered parchment of blackened yellow folds, and its eyes lit with a barely contained emerald glow. The relaxation of its human disguise was quite soothing. “I see that it is pointless to try and fool you, Grand Priest.” Anamu said in a soft, almost sultry cadence.

                Dumas did not show any outward signs of fear at Anamu’s true form, but arrogant disgust was plainly written on his face. “Such an attempt actually warms my heart, blighted one,” he said softly but with immense presence, “for it tells me that you are weaker than you would have me believe, or no such ruse would have been needed.”

                A moment passed between them. A man of good, and his antithesis.

                “I am not as powerful as I will become, of course, o man of Ummon.” Anamu said. “I am a smoldering spark compared to the inferno you will never in this life see, but I am still far from weak.”

                “I am certain that you think yourself that, o possessed idiot,” the grand priest said. “I could not know, demon, what grand reward you promised to this lost soul you

ensnared, but I assure you that not only will I live to see the end of your existence in this realm, but also to point out how wretched that existence will be.”

                Anamu held off for a moment longer, and then burst forth with laughter. Ochre spittle flew from its teeth, and veins flowing with something thick and oily and utterly unlike blood bulged on its throat and face. Dumas, still holding firm, was nonetheless taken aback by this reaction.

                “Demon?” Anamu blurted out amidst the laughter.

                Dumas’ brows lowered in anger. “Yes. Demon.” He set his wine glass down near Anamu’s. “This is blessed wine – sacramental in fact. I am most impressed with your hold on this wretch’s soul, befouled creature, for the touch of this liquid should have sent you screaming in pain to the floor.”

                Anamu reined in its mirth for a moment and seized the wine in one whithered hand. “This? This wine?” It asked, hoisting it. “This is merely very bad wine, Your Eminence,” and then it dumped it down its gullet, swallowing the foul remainder in one gulp and then wiping its mouth across the tattered pattern of its sleeve. It was as vile before, but the situation had changed and it reveled in its foulness simply because he could. “Nothing more. All you have done is offend the palate of the book of lies that once wore this flesh.” It cackled again. “I believe that to be the only victory you will claim this day. I suggest you cherish it.”

                It was Dumas’ turn to hide a look of surprise. He had blessed that wine himself, spending an hour or better infusing it with the power of Ummon’s spirit through verse and practiced gesture. It would have vaporized a lesser demon and caused great harm to most any other, no matter how powerful. Yet, here was this being of evil scoffing at it as if it were merely a disagreeable vintage!

                “How…” Dumas began, and then paused as he heard the tremor of fear in his own voice that made him sick with shame. “…How is it that you can do this?”

                Anamu rose to its feet, fixing its scintillating emerald eyes on the suddenly

uncertain priest. “How? It is really quite simple, little human. I am merely more than any demon in this world or any other, and I am completely unlike them in composition and placement in this reality. As such, your holy implements have no effect on me as they are created with the wrong target in mind.” The grisly mask that was its face contorted in bemused disbelief. “Did you not think that such a thing could ever come to pass?”

                “I am surprised, but unperturbed.” Dumas said, though his ashen visage and

quivering jaw betrayed him. “I have seen many things in my lifetime. Many of these things were evil, or some approximation of it. Though you are hardier than most, your end will come swiftly enough, just as all the others’ did.”

                Anamu started chuckling again, lightly. “I am so sorry, Holy One, but I am nothing that either you or the limited collection of narrow-visioned pity that is Ummon could foresee, for I am the creation of his creations.”

                There then came from beneath them in the infirmary where Anamu’s loathsome flock had been taken in, a raucous noise that made the grand priest’s blood run cold.

                “I am the ultimate culmination of man and all his ills.” Anamu said with quiet rapture.

                There was now screaming from below, and the frantic, desperate voices of priests as they attempted to call on the power of their god, only to fall into screams of

their own.

                “I am what both man, god, and demon alike fear. Truly something beyond all of them and yet part of each of them.”

                Pleas of mercy were cut short by a sound like someone tearing wet leaves in their hands. The few sounds of holy warricking that could be discerned were overran and smothered by tenfold their number in sounds of terror and death and mayhem.

                “I am what all men dream of and all devils vie for, and what all virtuous gods are born to destroy, yet cannot.”

                Shuffling steps punctuated by the sounds of breaking bones and tearing flesh crept up the stairway leading to the chambers in which Anamu and the grand priest found themselves.

                Dumas, actually fearing for his safety now, found his lips quivering and a shriek of terror rising from his chest. “What have you done, creature? What have you brought to my church?”

                The sounds, now directly on the other side of the door, ceased.

                “What have I brought?” Anamu mirrored quietly, stepping towards the door. “I have brought your end, and my true beginning.” And he flung it wide, allowing in the unholy creations of the shambling mindless it had brought with it, and those recently birthed by their deaths and eager to spread their pain and misery.

                Dumas felt his will slipping away, his faith crumbling. Ummon please! If ever there was a time I needed you, truly it is now!

                This prayer flitted across his mind as the vile servants of Anamu poured into the room. They crowded each other – old withered flesh rubbing against fresh and raw – their teeth snapping at the air in desire for death, their eyes milked over orbs that saw prey and nothing else, their hands bent and gnarled claws whose only remaining use was that of ripping life from its seat and swallowing its essence in great, dripping masses. They closed on the priest with speed that made them nothing but foul blurs. Dumas shrieked in panic, the noise alien and shameful to his ears.

                And they stopped.

                At first he thought that his prayer had truly been heard, that Ummon had merely put him through the test of tests and he had somehow passed. Then he saw the gesture of the leader of this revolting cadre, a raised hand that was clearly the reason behind the cessation of the mindless’ charge. They sat, quietly chattering and chuttering, drawing and releasing breath out of habit rather than need, and staring at the grand priest ravenously.

                Anamu stepped towards that terrified man of Ummon, knowing before it made the attempt that it would encounter little resistance, if any, this time.

                Dumas found his voice again, somehow. “I do not know what it could be that you have schemed in that rotting shell of a mind you possess, dweller of the dark, but even if I fail there will be one who will not.”

                Anamu had lifted its hands to either side of Dumas’ head. “And whom would that be, priest?”

                Dumas clenched his teeth. “The next after me.”  Anamu’s brows rose in momentary, amused annoyance. “Or the one after he,” Dumas continued. “Or after she. Someplace in time between now and then, you will be struck from whatever perch in this world you’ve clawed yourself, and you will fall.”

                Anamu considered his words. “There may be truth in what you say, old man. However, there is another truth that I do not think you have considered.” Dumas’ eyes flicked in question. “Your soul will have long since passed through the bellies of demons.”

                Dumas made a pitiful choking sound, but it was sliced off neatly as Anamu’s mind burst through the tattered veil that had once been an impenetrable rampart, and tore his soul from him like a handful of parchment ripped from a book’s binding and cast into a fire. And into a fire Oratio Dumas’ soul went, screaming in agony and fear as it spiraled towards realms that never should have known its presence.

                The Thousand Hells opened wide at such a guest, marveling at the gift. Demon Lords and Ladies and all the filth at their disposal rushed madly to it, for rarely could a soul so old yet so unblemished be found anywhere, much less here, in these halls reserved only for the wicked. Anamu, if it had been interested, would have felt comfort at the number of unwitting allies it had made in those blistering realms that day.

                It would also have been interested at the single, ancient and powerful entity, that looked beyond its realm in an attempt to discern from where these gifts were coming... and not for the first time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 22

 

                Long ago, trade between the city-states was severely restricted, as each nation had devised its own system for weights and measures. In the name of practicality, and, above all else, profit, the leaders of each kingdom agreed on a universal system for trade across borders, and the Hildegothian Standard system took permanent residence.

 

Distance:

One inch |-------------------------|

One span – 5 inches

One foot – 10 inches

One yard – 3  feet

One tild – 10 feet

One edge – 100 feet

One drastom – 2500 feet

One mile – 5000 feet

One deka – 10000 feet

 

Weight:

One bit

One tenbit – 10 bits

One pound – 10 tenbits

One tenpound – 10 pounds

One ton – 2000 pounds

One draston – 10 tons

 

Volume:

One cup

One Pint – 2 cups

One Gallon – 10 pints

 

Even with this prevailingly accepted system, variations exist. The nautical equivalents are usually considered a hindrance, but the legitimate mercantile marines claim that it is necessary to deal with overseas trade. A less illuminated reasoning is that pirates use different terms between each other to recognize like cargo. Of course, officially, this is denied.

 

                Thoris Greenwood was renowned for appearing to be a human that looked like a giant dwarf. He was tall and incredibly broad, almost appearing to be wider than he was high. He wore a long and meticulously trimmed beard that was a red of such fiery hue that it was outmatched only by the blazing sheaf that adorned his head.

                His low riding warship, The Reef Glider, rose and dipped on the waves as if it rested on the belly of some great sleeping beast though the 150-foot vessel seemed quite a beast itself. Its hull was steel-banded oak planks and its gunwales alternated between fire-hardened slabs of oak and brass knobs. Great spikes of steel-capped redwood could be seen on both bow and stern, and its as yet naked masts were dark, oiled spires that seemed to leave smudge marks in the sky. All in all, she and her floating colleagues were very ugly ships, and her captain would not have them any other way.

                The fleet of sixty warships was too numerous for one town’s docks, so they were spread all over the northeastern coast of Erathai all the way North to Margas Enudd. Thoris Greenwood, Admiral of this vast Eastern Mercenary Navy, stood near a squat, smoke-stained building that could only be a sailor’s inn, where he spoke in quiet tones with three other men who were nearly, but not quite, as massive as he.

                Not too distant, a carriage pulled by four sweating, foam-flecked horses rumbled to a stop. The entrance flap was tossed aside, and Othis stepped from the carriage that he had spent, more or less, the last six days in, and stretched his legs and back. He was tired, cramped, smelly, and a little put off. Thus far, the only point that had him at all pleased was that he was nearly half a day ahead of schedule due to fair weather, decent roads, and people who can follow directions reasonably well.

                Though his associate Admiral Greenwood was not exactly the most difficult man to find, the old ear-whisperer found his nearly legendary patience at an end, and his penchant for absorbing and defusing nonsense and silliness equally taxed. He wanted to find the ugly old seadog, reinstate his contract with a few generous promises and warm words, and warn and prepare him for the advancing crisis that would without doubt strike from both land and sea. He simply had to listen. There was no other way to it.

                The canvas shut with a dusty clap behind him, and the none-too-young Othis

strode from it towards the inn, which was delicately titled The Seahag’s Titty. He smiled in spite of the situation. He had always appreciated the seaman’s synonymy with all things vulgar. It somehow made them more human to him, these base qualities. Despite these very essences, there was an honor common amongst them, an acceptance of station and train-of-thought, in very simple terms. Basically, if you looked weak, you should not be surprised when you are either ignored or cast aside, at best. However, if you could hold your own in some way or another, you achieved a certain placement in their society that would rarely go challenged by anyone sober. This was certainly not unheard of in other walks of life, but it was especially common amongst seagoing folk. Othis found himself desiring such a station, if only for an evening or two. He loved his kingdom, his employment, his people, and his king, but there were times when he just wanted to bury himself in things depraved and uncivilized.

                On the subject of overwhelming depravity, the broad hand of Admiral Greenwood suddenly lifted in the air. It appeared he was greeting him. Othis smiled and waved his hand in return – and then he saw the look on Greenwood’s face, and the way he began shoving past his chums with no regard for the fact that they were hitting the ground like crystal before a fat, rampaging cat. He continued to wave, frantically.

                Like a flame to his hand, realization struck. Othis turned to face a phantom

attacker, backpedaling as he did so. He was no warrior and was only rudimentarily skilled in defending himself, but he was no fool either. The Admiral’s warning surely gave him some time. It had to have. His eyes found only empty air, with a few townsfolk skirting him and whoever was assaulting him. He retreated again, seeking some explanation – and backed squarely on to the serrated point of a dirk, one whose barbs were so flared and pronounced, the weapon was inserted and then left there, stuck fast in his torso where it scraped his spine and sliced into the lower part of his lung. Crumpling under the effects of the wound and the toxin in which the blade was almost certainly bathed, Othis swore openly at the fates for getting him this far only to have him fail now.

                Greenwood finally arrived at his aid, a huge wicked looking knife of his own

clasped in a great ham of a fist knit with scars. He thrust it at his as yet unseen assailant with a speed that his bulk surely could not have commanded, yet there it was all the same. Landing on his side, the ailing advisor looked up with bleary eyes at the outcome. Deciding that retreat was now the best option, the assassin – who was as tall as the admiral but less than half his mass – turned and fled like a stoat through the gathering throng. Othis noted, with a failing fascination, a lock of green hair poking out from under a tight, black felt cap. He knew that this was significant somehow, but his fogging mind could not recall why.

                He looked up again, and there was Thoris himself, bellowing in his face. He could feel his breath and could see his great red brows munched together in concern, but he could not hear his voice as anything other than a meaningless rush of air.

                “Thoris, old friend,” Othis said softly through lips that were quickly numbing, “I cannot hear you, and I do not know if you can truly hear me, but… the king needs you.... please do not fail him... renew the contract. Send word, as quickly as you can…” He meant to say more, to speak of the urgency of the situation, the utter dissonance amongst the city-states that was sure to come, and to let him know that he had always had a soft spot for the old pirate in his heart despite their differences, but he could not. He felt his hold on life slip from his grasp, and he was drifting away from the world he had known.

Through realms that were alien yet somehow intrinsically familiar he moved. There was a rush of otherworldly wind, the soft touch of warm earth, and then finally away down a swiftly turning tunnel, towards a brilliant light that led to a place that promised peace and comfort. The linearity of time as he had known it was undone as the past and present intermingled.

                Away and away still he moved, until the image of a soft, yellow-lit room greeted him. He remembered this place well. It was a warm room in his old family manor on the coast where his father would read history books to him when he was a boy, whilst the crashing lullaby of the sea droned with lazy might against the cliffs. He fondly recalled with a memory that was no longer tethered to his body, that when a history book is read with the right voice and told at the right time by the right person, it sounded like a story.

                Othis felt himself drawn to this light, where the kind, lined face of his father

awaited with a tome of lore, thick and yellowed with age that none had seen for centuries on his lap, waiting only for its golden pages to be turned.

 

~*~

 

                Canthus woke as if struck. Something precious had been taken, something vital. He could feel something leaving this world and entering into another. Concern quickly billowing into panic, he threw back his blankets and rushed to the door, his warra lending an unearthly speed to his form.

                A guard, awake but lulled into a state of near catatonia by the long hours of nothingness, started so abruptly that his helmet visor snapped shut. With a bothered swat he slapped it open.

                “Yes, My Lord? Is something amiss?”

                “Awaken the High King at once,” Canthus said simply, though his eyes were

alight with emotion.

                The guard opened his mouth to protest, but had been told by the High King himself to accommodate the elf’s every wish, even if it was something that would appear to annoy him greatly. With a nod, he stepped away from the wall and clanked down the corridor towards Good King Merrett’s chambers.

                Canthus leaned against the doorway. As the initial impact of the psychic backlash ebbed, its implications began to reveal themselves, like wax splotches through watered ink, though in truth, he already knew what had happened simply by how awful the loss had felt. A weight had been moved. The scales had begun to shift.

 

~*~

 

                The boy had forgotten his drink quite completely, so enrapt was he in Arachias’ tale. “So, is that how your youth was spent? At the whims of that... creature?” He said, unable to entirely keep the sneer off his lip.

                His mentor scratched idly at his chin. “Not exactly, my boy. Remember, there was a reason behind all of this. All of his proddings and all of his teachings had a purpose, a purpose I could have never comprehended.” He sat there, staring somewhat at Alec, but mostly into his mind and into the past.

                His student, becoming accustomed to these odd traits but not mastering them as yet, urged him forward. “Master? What was this purpose?”

                Without hesitation Arachias spoke to him, but did not answer his question. “Do you know why I let you call me Master, Alec? Why I allow it?”

                His mouth closing in surprise so quickly his lips made a comical smacking sound, Alec shook his head. “Erm… no, Master, I do not, I suppose. I had thought it proper to honor your station with a respectful title.” He paused, blinking. “Does this upset you? I am perfectly comfortable with using something else, you know...”

                Arachias smiled warmly, and shook his head in turn. “No, I prefer Master, for now.” He sighed deeply. “All my younger years, that word was used towards a being that knew nothing but hate and avarice, employed nothing but cruelty and pain. ‘So why do you ask I use it?’ your face queries me. It is remarkably simple, really.” He reached for his goblet. “Because I want to replace every memory I have using that word in a nightmare with ten such memories of it being used in a caring, considerate, thoughtful way. I want to reinvent its meaning to me. I have had several charges in the past, but only as very temporary, occasional instruction.” He hoisted his cup lightly in the air towards Alec. “You, my young friend, are the first live-in student I have undertaken.”

                Alec was surprised at this. Arachias seemed so relaxed, so confident in his

station that the young fellow was certain he had been doing this for years.

                “Every time you call me Master,” Arachias began again, “you undo a tiny knot of filth in my soul. It’s like erasing sin, one speck at a time. Remember that when you say it my youthful apprentice. It may bring a smile to your face every now and then.” He smirked and drained his cup. “Now, to answer your question.”

 

~*~

 

                So yes, there were many more harsh lessons and not a few beatings. Like I had said before, nothing was worse than that first day, but there were times when Mondo came close. I could see that it was becoming much more difficult for him to restrain himself when I was right than when I was wrong. When I was wrong, he had a greater degree of superiority over me, or so he believed. When I was right, I became more threat than student.

                Also, as I grew, it became clear that, should I wish it, I could fight back and injure (or even kill, gods stay my hand) the little bastard, so from the age of twelve or so on, he had bolstered his protection with a personal bodyguard named Kevett. Yes, the same Kevett that stands watch outside of Arianna’s chambers. Other than a few more scars and a bit more gray in his hair, he is quite the same man now as he was then. He is a great cave bear carefully concealing a heart of gold, that fellow. Needless to say, he took pity on me and my situation in Mondo’s house almost immediately, as well as an instant disliking to his employer. However, he was paid quite well so he never acted directly against the Sargath until he left his employ several years later.

                It was odd. The people to whom Mondo had first exposed me, that is, Farquid and the others, were quite clearly threatened with physical harm if they did not exact on me the torments that Mondo ordered. Yet, not only did they not do these things, they did the opposite whenever they were able and offered me kindness, hope, and tenderness. Kevett was much the same, in his gruff, abrupt way. He was tough and emotionless when he stood at Mondo’s side if I was in the room. He would shake his head at me when I would be on the verge of making a mistake, or he would tense his jaw and furrow his brow when I would start blubbering about this or that, but I could see why. He knew I was better than that. He knew I was stronger than that.

                Eventually I knew that his apparent callousness was actually pain and sympathy. Conversely, any time he was to guard me personally whilst the Sargath was away on business or just busy elsewhere in the mansion, Kevett and I would talk, tell jokes, and play games. When I was older, he taught me how to fight, both unarmed and with a blade. His style was brutal and unpolished, but also quick and effective. Delicious irony, yes? Not only was this man not actually protecting Mondo from me, he was giving me the tools and knowledge to carry out the very acts his presence was meant to prevent! Incidentally, I can attest without reservation that his teachings have quite literally saved my life on more than one occasion, and will most likely do so again.

                On with the real tale.

                When I was, oh, about twelve years old I suppose, Preporious Mondo began

teaching me the nuances of running odds on certain sorts of sporting endeavors, that is, illegal gambling activities. In Tallo, it had been strictly forbidden for there to be any sort of gambling of any kind within the city limits. Mondo, being the Sargath, had quite neatly corralled this entire market between his grubby little paws.

 

~*~

 

                Alec held his hand up to interrupt again. “Um, Master, how is that possible? Was he not the Sargath of the town? Why would he make illegal the very practices he would… well… practice?”

                Arachias smiled. The young fellow almost always asked good questions, and this was an excellent quality. “First off my boy, it’s not ‘how is that possible’. If you think on it, the answer is clear. He wanted to do it, he had the resources with which to do it, so he did it, that’s how. The real question is why did he do it? It was his city, and they were his

rules, to a very lax degree. Not all of the city leaders followed the mandates of the High King rigidly, and the Sargath of Tallo was particular amongst those who paid little or no heed to them at all, especially when you consider the vast distance between his lands and the capital city. He should have been able to twist the directives enough to make gambling acceptable on anyone’s veranda or back alley, if he really so desired.”

                Arachias shifted his position in his chair, as the light finally began to dwindle out past the diamond paned windows. “So. Why did he do it? Devilishly clever, really.”

 

~*~

 

                First off, you make much more money when you do illegal things. Illegal

gambling is hard to organize due to the amount of secrecy required, so you can charge

much higher rates, from entrance fees to ante minimums, than if it were perfectly acceptable to toss dice on every vendor’s table on every market in every city. Besides, the Sargath did not have to worry greatly about this, and no one would arrest, detain, or even bother someone under his mandate, regardless of the activity. In an even more fiendishly clever vein, you can have the proprietors pay bribes to you for an event from which you already collect a healthy percentage.

                Secondly, the more outrageous the “sport,” the more money you can charge for it. Mondo was smart about it though. He balanced outrageousness with reality. Activities involving relatively quiet contests of chance such as card and dice games, coin tossing, things of that nature can be set up and regulated virtually anywhere there is a roof over your head and a trusted accomplice to watch the streets for the guard.

                The more risky businesses involve sporting event betting, wagering on certain political activities, you know, who stabs who in the back and gets his position.

                There is also the game of numbered lots, where someone hiding in a hole somewhere under extreme protection rolls a big tumbler within which are dice tiles, or just about anything on which you can fit numbers. People put in a wager and an estimate as to what this number will be, the correct guesser wins the majority of the pot, the proprietor keeps a handsome percentage, and so on, and so on. And you will need several fleet-footed helpers to dash about the city taking bets and tickets, and then return with any winnings. Hm? Oh no, no horses. That would draw far too much interest from both city folk paid to dampen such activities, and those illustrious persons who vest themselves in trades of a similar nature and consider you expendable competition. Also, there are places that horses just cannot fit.

And then there is the most ambitious of the less-than-legal wagering events: Arena. Put a name to any sort of pastime where one person or thing hurts or kills another person or thing and somewhere in some dank, smoky, sweat-filled room, there are people placing ventures on it. Generally speaking, the bigger, uglier, and more dangerous the competitors, the more wealth there is to be strewn about, but, again, Mondo was smart about it.

                He knew that he could get away with a great deal in his city, but he did not want to get too extravagant, or he would draw unhealthy attention to both his town, and himself from just about every unpleasant (to him, anyway) source imaginable.

Competitors, moralistic folk from other realms, the High King himself, even a few

members of the upper castes of his own domain, would be drawn to such loud practices, and would see him nudged from his pedestal.

                So, he placed strict regulations on his pugilistic rings, limiting them to only man-sized or smaller participants. It worked marvels, for he put into motion several key incentives to make them irresistible to the ilk that frequented such events to compensate for the larger, more ornate affairs taking place in other cities or, sometimes, even out in the middle of nowhere.

                For instance, he had a graduated scale of payout percentages for the contestants. You win one fight, you get one percent of the take. You win two fights, you get two percent, and so on up to fifty percent of whatever is taken in by the betters, and, when fighters actually survive that long, their notoriety invariably seduced audiences that were large, bloodthirsty, and very, very wealthy.

                Also, he made rather lavish accommodations for the better fighters and the higher paying members of the audience, regardless of who won. So, even if you lost, your care was assured. Unless, of course, it was a fight to the death. Most did not see much profit in losing those.

                Lastly, the extremely high contributors to the wagering pool – and I refer to other sargaths, members of the clergy, knights, virtually all the sorts of people who should not be involved in such activities – could quite often determine the outcome of a contest, if certain fees were paid that usually involved things longer lasting than coin. Promises and favors were the most common.

                Nonetheless, Mondo knew my knack for quick figuring even under rather

extreme stress, so he took me to one of the fights to see how I would react. I feel that I

need not tell you that he was hoping it would terrify me.

                He was not disappointed. It was easily one of the most horrible things I had yet seen.

                The fight was to take place in the basement of a reputable jewelry shop,

which was owned by the headmaster of the Tallo University of Warricking. A true

philanthropist, he. The ring was about twenty feet wide. It was a simple circle of

whitewashed stones set at the edge of a shallow disk scratched into the ground. Four iron torches, eight or so feet in height, were placed evenly at the circles edge.

                The two combatants were of dwarvish descent, and were the first of that species of mankindred that I had ever seen. Both seemed as wide as they were tall – two squat pillars of muscle and bone. They were both without tunic or vest, and their thick muscles bulged under skin that looked more like carved stone than flesh. They carried only daggers, but O by the gods what daggers they were: as long as their forearms, barbed, hooked, and darkened with age and use. The dwarf to my right had hair and a beard the color of old straw. The other, rust and blood.

                A man whose entire face seemed a smashed haystack of scars walked into the center of the ring. Placing two hands that were both missing fingers on his hips, he voiced a loud, sharp word: “Ware!”

                The jumble of voices, curses, and frantic wagers that were swirling around in the immediate surrounding audience instantly reduced to whispers. All eyes went to this mediator, whose eyes were pointed fixedly in Mondo’s direction, awaiting a signal. Though it was dark, there apparently was sufficient light for the disfigured official to discern the Sargath’s slight nod. “At your death!” He suddenly bellowed and stepped out of the ring to vanish into the crowd.

                At once the rather relaxed looking dwarves dropped their stances to defensive crouches, one holding his weapon so that its blade lay flat against the outside of his forearm, the other holding his fist inches from his own throat with the cutting edge of the knife facing horizontally away. They took small steps in opposing directions while slowly advancing, their eyes locked on to each other’s and tearing, since they had gone without blinking for several seconds now.

                I had never seen any sort of serious scuffle other than a paltry fisticuff here and there on the street. More often than not it involved a handful of blows and then quick retribution as a guard snagged them by the shirts for an evening or two in the fourth district jail house. This confrontation was far, far different. This fight was not only

expected, it was hoped for, and the two participants clearly had more than a bruised eye or fat lips on their minds.

                Almost faster than my eyes could follow, the dwarf with the red beard lunged forward, jabbing out and down with his knife. With equally impressive speed, his fair-haired opponent stepped back to his left while twisting his torso to his right, letting the strike split empty air. As if anticipating this, the other dwarf reversed his blade and scythed it backwards, carving a shallow jagged gash across the fair-haired dwarf’s ribs.

                He seemed to hardly notice, but the patrons around us unleashed a torrent of shouts both ecstatic and dismayed, as money changed hands and more bets were placed. Scores and probabilities flashed across my mind, but I was so overwhelmed I could hardly pay attention to them.

                I stood there in mute shock at this brutish entertainment. At that age, only by

accident or by naiveté had I seen blood spilled, ever. Here it was being let with

abandon – even with intent, for an opponent with blood rushing from his body is an

opponent who will not fight for very long. I started to turn away, but Mondo obviously had been watching me more than the fight. His fingers flew to my chin and twisted my head back towards the horrible event. He leaned over and murmured in a harsh whisper, “If you look away again or close your eyes for longer than an eye blink you will eat rat entrail soup for a season.”

                He then released me, placing his attention on the two dwarves. Before, he would ask if I had understood his instructions or if they had been clear. Lately, he would merely state his command and leave it at that, reasoning that it was in my best interests to follow his words, which, of course, I did. Reluctantly but with few options, I focused my eyes on the spectacle before me.

                The blond dwarf had managed to trip up the redheaded one, and was now

driving his knife towards his spine, right between the shoulder blades. I clenched my jaw in preparation for the awful wound that was certain to come, but then gasped with

amazement as his foe jerked over on to his side and threw a forearm up, catching the

blond dwarf’s arm right at the wrist. So fast and unexpected was this counterattack that the fair-headed combatant’s weapon popped from his grasp and tumbled to the dirt floor.

                Seizing ravenously upon this opportunity, the redheaded swung his dagger so the blade would bite deeply into the other dwarf’s side, but he rotated just enough to his right to snatch his wrist in his hand, stopping the attack but off-balance and exposed. With a moment’s hesitation the redheaded fellow reached between his opponent’s legs and crushed and twisted what he found there in his grasp.

 

 

~*~

 

                Alec gritted his teeth and his legs jerked as he almost crossed them in the age-old male response to such an injury. “Gods, tell me that was the end of it!” He said in a pained whisper.

                Arachias shook his head disdainfully, but there was a touch of sympathy for the boy’s reaction. “No, unfortunately not.”

 

~*~

 

                The blond dwarf raised a fist and brought it down with great force on the red

dwarf’s offending forearm. I would prefer not to think what damage he did to his own

anatomy with this maneuver, but the horrid snapping sound of his opponent’s bones made it quite clear that he was now free. Flopping onto his haunches, he clutched his dwarfhood with one hand, and groped for his dagger with the other.

                The red headed dwarf, grimacing with pain at his broken limb, forced himself to his feet, holding his dagger with the blade pointing downward in his good left hand. He staggered towards the other, his teeth gritted as the surface of his forehead bubbled with droplets of greasy sweat.

                The other dwarf had gotten to his knees, his bottom lip seized in his teeth as he fought down the obvious urge to scream in pain. Noting that his opponent was advancing on him and had the advantages of both a more localized injury as well as “the high ground” as it were, tried to get at least to his knees before the inevitable strike was made.

                With a strangled shout that was both war cry and reaction to the pain the sudden movement caused in his broken arm, the red-haired dwarf slashed downward towards the blond. Up came his dagger and the blades skittered off each other, causing a brief spray of sparks that delighted the more fastidious in the crowd, most of whom shared the veiled box that Mondo and I occupied.

                Releasing his no doubt swollen accoutrements, the fair-headed dwarf snapped his palm outward, striking the other squarely on his broken arm. His opponent’s mouth curled into a puckered circle and his eyes pinched shut. No sound came to his lips, for the pain had driven every last pocket of breath from his chest. Shuffling backwards, he forced his eyes open and brandished his blade in a hand that trembled with pain. The other dwarf relinquished himself to the ground once more, clutching at external organs that would no doubt be less effective than he had been used to for quite some time. Heaving great, shuddering breaths, he seemed to lose all focus on the task at hand. The redheaded dwarf staggered forward, his dagger arcing clumsily downward towards the blond headed’s neck. Again it seemed that a brutal conclusion was certain, and again I braced myself for the first murder – for that is truly what I felt it was – of my tender years.

                A murder did occur, but not how I expected. Without even raising his eyes, the blond dwarf tossed his dagger in an almost comical motion, like he was flicking a fly from his wrist. It curled and twirled twice, and then sunk blade first in the red dwarf’s neck, right above the notch where his collarbones met.

                He dropped his knife and wrapped his fingers around the handle that had

sprouted from his neck, but his strength left as quickly as his blood did, which was a

pumping river of crimson so thick it could not spray, but poured, from his body. He collapsed. In seconds, he was dead.

                The official stepped over to the body, peered at it for a moment, and then

declared him expired. Stepping over to the victor, he lifted his chin in a quick, jerky

motion. I realized swiftly the gesture meant that in order to claim victory, he had to get to his feet. In a series of quaking, wincing movements, the blond dwarf did force himself to his feet again, a gleam of thin oily sweat coating his body.

                The official slapped one open palm against his chest, and then turned towards the luxury box where all of the wealthy audience members lounged. “Varl Kilgrig, victory 13!” He then bowed, and quickly exited into the haze of smoke that blanketed the walls so thickly it completely obscured them. The pent emotion in the crowd uncorked and a muffled series of cheers and moans rolled around the room.

                Mondo patted my arm. “Now that, my petty little charge, is what power can get you.” He gargled a laugh at his wisdom. “Two healthy, reasonable, perhaps even

intelligent beings, made perfectly willing to kill each other for a little coin.”

                I clenched my jaw, fighting back tears of disgust and disbelief. I cannot find

what words would suffice to describe my desire to be anywhere else, anywhere else,

than in that greasy luxury balcony with all those filthy rich scabs at that moment.

                Mondo smiled an oily, rotted smile up at me. “I take it that the festivities did

not agree with you?” He huffed a quick sigh and quietly clapped his knobbly hands

together. “How utterly marvelous!”

                He had never once asked me to run odds or percentages on the fight. Apparently, this had never been his intent.

 

~*~

 

                Alec sat in icy silence yet again. Arachias sipped at a nearly drained mead cup, yet again. Alec’s had been untouched for some time. Several clever, cutting quips came to Arachias’ lips, but he sucked them back down. It was an entirely Mondo-ish thing to poke fun at someone’s discomfort, and besides, he knew it was a personal defense mechanism of his own. To laugh at the unlaughable. To deride the serious. He was aware that there were instances when such thinking was not necessarily without its merit, but this was most likely not one of those times.

                “I’m sorry Alec.” He said finally through a thin, friendly smile. “I am not taking pleasure in your discomfort. And you are the first in quite a long time to whom I have force-fed this saga.”

                Alec seemed about to wilt. So much so in fact, that Arachias’ grin drooped

somewhat in concern. Then the boy found his voice again, and it was surprisingly robust. “You need not apologize Master. I am just amazed that you have been able to turn out decent in any way at all, much less as decent as you are.” He paused, weighing his words. “I am proud to know you.” He said this with a tremor in his lips and a glassiness to his eyes that moved Arachias much more than he would have ever admitted.

                With a flash of anger, he thought that a child of such natural virtue should never be a merchant or a politician. His rage quickly slipped away when he realized that, in fact, Alec would be exactly the sort of man that politics lacked.

                “Thank you, my pupil. I think you grant me too much, but your words touch my heart. If you are truly curious as to how I turned out at all benevolent, you need look no further than Madami and Mondo’s servants. Their contributions were my foundation, not Mondo’s retchings. I culled much from the knowledge that the fat little Sargath bestowed upon me, but his mind and mine never saw the same light.” He chuckled. “Indeed, I feel my eyes are the only between us that saw any light at all.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 23

 

                As the beings of Hildegoth’s earliest settlements advanced from crudely armed warriors to true military forces, a graduation of unit titles developed. These titles hold true to the High King’s armies, and most, but not all, of the subordinate kingdoms.

 

One Dagger – Four warriors

One Sword – Five daggers (20 soldiers)

One Spear – 5 swords (100 soldiers)

One Lance – 10 spears (1,000 soldiers)

One Aegis – 10 Lances (10,000 soldiers)

Some regional variations exist with their own rank designations, but the standards

are: Ensee, Private, Footman, 1st Footman, Corporal, Sergeant, Foresergeant, Master Sergeant, Lieutenant, Captain, ForeCommander, Commander, Colonel, General,

Aegis General

                The aegis generals are amongst the highest members of the High King’sarmed forces, and are particular to his military cabinet. So wise and powerful and ruthless on the battlefield are these mortals that their enemies swear they crawled from the bowels of the hells themselves, donning armor simply to hide the demons beneath.

 

                Zartothzorok was uneasy, which was a strange state for a demon. He lifted his entirely human-looking head and glanced at a spot of roughly circular black space

pulsating before him. Through this, he watched the greatly varied denizens of his

surrounding realm swell and glow with the sustenance gleaned from the holy man’s soul. He had deigned not to partake of it. He knew that such a spirit had no business being here, and thus doubted its merit. He did not want to appear too eager to sup on it, nor did he want to squabble over its remains with what he considered to be lesser beings.

                The rarity of something like this coming to pass was such that he could narrow it down to either a monumental mistake in a system that he had yet to see make one, or the result of a being of considerable power on the Primeal Plane mussing with forces that would almost surely consume it. He was almost certain of the latter, for he believed the being that had been tossing souls down to his realms was the same that had followed his astral influence from Camdur to Tallo, where he had been putting events into motion to forward a rather convoluted scheme of his own. As yet, there appeared to be no meddling in his orchestrations in Erathai, which had been carefully meted for the last decade, though perhaps this new interest had been careful itself and had hidden its own actions. Though he could not truly prove any of this to be fact, proof was not exactly a common commodity here. This was Hell, after all.

                The Thousand Hells was a place of forced existence, wrought from the simple need of placement. When men and its ilk rose on two feet and broadened their minds, new emotions and new thoughts were born. With thought and action is energy, and this energy can be put to many uses. At first simple savagery was the closest the thinking animals had come to evil, which was more about survival than treachery. However, as time expanded so did man and mankindred’s capacity for kind and ill. The strength of good was such that a mote of it could burn away an infinite comparison of evil, when applied the right way at the right time. The strength of evil was that it was much, much more common and much easier to perpetuate.

                As evil thoughts became evil deeds and evil deeds gave birth to fledgling evil empires, great swirling currents of malignant energy were generated and accumulated in the nether realms and the spaces between. Most of it would simply rage against itself and be absorbed by witless peoples to be turned loose again, but some of it did not. Some would take up repeated patterns of behavior that eventually coalesced into pieces of mind and awareness, much how the prayers and wishes of the devout, under the rarest of circumstances become gods, only much more prevalent.           

Many of these abstract infants consumed one another in brutal confrontations that would cause aetheric nightmares and move an impartial or even a good mortal’s mind and soul over the brink to darkness. Eventually these beings were reduced from hundreds to only a few dozen.

                Much more powerful and intelligent than their predecessors – indeed the very act of devouring their lessers imbued them with greater power and intellect – they agreed that their existence was unique in comparison with all other life. There was no other realm where its inhabitants could take up residence, so their very need created one.

                The term thousand is something of a misnomer as well. Since the few intact

entities of other planes or divergesses of existence that had visited its tortuous landscapes could tell that some lands differed from others, and that one could suddenly find oneself in a completely different area at seeming random, thousand was truly just an arbitrary term to attempt to categorize a realm that appeared limitless.

                In accordance with their agreement, the rulers of the Hells also agreed to feed only on energy they could gather from that point on, thus enforcing their place as uneasy allies rather than enemies. After all, there was still no shortage of vile forces upon which to dine.

                This worked well for several centuries, until a demon lord called Zar discovered in a dream that the arcane energies bound in all sentient beings could be sucked from their perches at the brink of death if they were burdened with sin. These souls could either be turned into the lowest of lowly demonkind and put to labor, or consumed outright, where the soul is disintegrated and then reborn much, much later. This nourishment proved much more viable, and each of the ruling rivalry made it a grisly form of entertainment to garner more than his or her neighbor. Thus a sort of infernal contest was created. An integral facet of this competition was the length of their name. The longer and more complex the name, the more power and prestige that particular demon had accomplished. A large discovery beneficial to all caused the greatest increase in this little game they played, and Zar became Zartoth. After a similar dreaming discovery, which revealed that sentient creatures could be influenced and even controlled through their dreams by demonic power if the mortal’s will was weak enough, Zartoth became Zartothzorok.

                So yes, it turns out that everyone plays games.

                Zartothzorok had become one of the most powerful demon lords in all the hells and he longed for more, as most beings of power are wont. However, his ascension was also due to caution at grabbing at power that came too quickly or from a source that seemed unreliable. He had learned this painful lesson long ago, and had made it among the foremost of criteria to dictate action. The fallen priest, his soul already torn into shards and tatters, qualified as such a questionable source. Souls are indestructible, but can be shredded, drained, and reduced to a seemingly limitless gaggle of petty fragments. The energy released under such tortuous circumstances is what feeds the devils and their ilk. Once this is done, they are discarded and may, after a great while, find each other and reform. Rarely, if ever, will a whole being arise from such a reconstruction.

                Opening his mind, he reached through his realm, touching on the lesser demons he had bent to his will. They showed no outer recognition of the circumstances nor cared very much about anything in particular, once their gorging had ceased. Of course, their existence often decreed that there was not much about which to care. Pressing deeper he felt them groan in misery, releasing brief energies that he idly absorbed. Still nothing. Whatever had sent Dumas’ soul to the realms infernal, these miserable creatures knew nothing of it. Of course, he could have conferred with peers or his few remaining superiors. They may have theories, if nothing else.

                No. No, he was not going to do that, at least for now. The lowly beings that had supped on that blightless soul were of no consequence, and what power they gleaned from it, however great, was hardly a threat to his station. He would wait. Caution and patience were easy companions, and he, as an immortal being, had a great deal of both.

 

~*~

 

                Anamu was relishing great power, power that it had not anticipated. Something was different now, something that involved the usurping of Dumas’ name and position. It was a surreal sensation, one that was so sublime it was almost frightening. Currents of raw primal energy were tapped into by Dumas’ empty vessels of induction, which were essentially the spiritual conduits Dumas used to channel warra. Decades of practice and usage had strengthened and expanded them to the point that they were so vast their upper limits were possibly not even known by him. It would be some time before Anamu could fully realize this potential. This coupled with the sheer strength of this body meant  that it would last much, much longer than any flesh he had thus far inhabited. This was a boon to the next progression in its grand agenda, a stage that would require greater patience and more subtlety.

                A stranger development made itself known shortly after he had stolen the high priest’s flesh. With a satisfaction that was somewhat difficult to describe, Anamu came to the realization that his essence and existence was male. Perhaps it was Dumas’ lingering presence, perhaps because all of the vessels it had so far inhabited had been male and all had been foul and evil to the core. He could not deny a kinship to such inclinations. Regardless, it became he.

                Standing in Dumas’ private study, he took deep breaths of air he did not need. The act, though, was invigorating, somehow… bolstering. He opened and closed hands that had once shown only kindness and loving discipline. With a thought, razored talons the sheen and consistency of steel sprang from his fingertips. An equal but opposite thought retracted them. Looking at the desk before him, he raised a hand palm upward at waist level. With hardly any effort at all, the heavy oaken construction lifted from the flooring, uncovering four shallow, circular dents that were the only mark of its placement earlier. With a tick of a smile, he released it, causing a booming percussion as it met the floor solidly. It was a pleasing sound.

                He lifted his eyes to his seething flock, their foul, jagged teeth bared and then sheathed behind leathery or glistening lips. They were a visceral, repugnant gathering, and their presence was violating the very air around them. Anamu grinned with delight. “Come my children.” He flicked his hand and the door to the study flew open. “Descend into the cellars and the southern wing and await my command, little ones. You will feast again, and soon.” The mindless swept away from him and scrambled to obey his command. After a brief cacophony, he was alone.

                He descended the staircase and made his way to the front of the central aisle. He idly walked down this aisle touching the pews as he passed by with some sort of new appreciation seen through the eyes of a great being, which, of course, he was rapidly becoming. It had suddenly occurred to him that godhood was now not an unreasonable goal, as his abilities had been godlike since he had first stepped into this world wearing the skin of a whore.

                On to business. The next step would be to subjugate the surrounding township, but not in the manner that he had embraced his other followers. This manner of induction would require much more delicate means. Eventually, of course, such care would be unnecessary as his power would be great enough that a single thought would crush the spirit of any who opposed him. Until that time, however, he would still need to resort to more subtle means, more clandestine methods. As difficult as this may prove to be, the malignant being had to admit that it sounded rather enjoyable as well.

                Stopping at the very center of the main hall, Anamu quieted all his thoughts other than the one that would invoke the greatest feat he had yet achieved. His new body provided a great deal of power upon which to tap, and his spreading influence, now infecting over a hundred souls, was an even greater boon to his ability. He quieted his mind and body and tapped into this reserve, conjuring a mental image of what he wanted accomplished, though in truth, it was a compound image. Its effect would cover a varied range of subjects, and would draw such power it would be permanent unless revoked.

                He drew his hands together, which transformed once more from human flesh

to barbed and gleaming talons. Between his palms an orb of green light coalesced and

then expanded as he drew them apart. He paused for a moment, infusing it with intent and direction. The transparent jade sphere encased him momentarily, and then he slowly returned his hands together, crushing the light back to its point of origin as he poured and bent and focused his warra. It brightened and flashed as he did this, and his hands began to quake with effort as they closed the distance between each other. Around him, a wind that came from no cracked wall or open window sprang to life, ruffling Anamu’s hair and whispering between the pews. The strain had become substantial and promised to grow deeper, but he did not relent. The flesh on his face pressed flat and then stretched taut over his features as he growled with effort and his eyes blazed with an emerald brilliance.

                The orb grew smaller and intensely bright, while the wind around him went from a whispering spirit to a howling demon, blowing the pews nearest him over, and rattling the others for several dozen feet in every direction.

                With a final roar, he slammed his palms together, causing a thunderclap that shook the windows nearly to the point of shattering. He then threw his hands apart to the limits of his reach, and the light soared in an expanding globe that enveloped the entire structure, saturating everyone and everything within it.

                The effect was instantaneous. Every last twisted, ghastly amalgamation of evil that served him was given a new skin to wear. Their exterior was restored to its former life, though it was really only a semblance of it. Beneath it, the ghoulish horrors that served him remained, ready to shed their façades at a moment’s discretion. He gave them a rudimentary means of speech as well, though he would have to direct any conversation beyond idle chatter, for they were still well and truly mindless.

                Secondarily, though even more monumental, he placed a spark of intelligence

and sentience at the church’s center, which was a storage room piled with old edicts and preachings of a god whose touch had been burned from this place. He added to this mind, allowing it to spread invisible tendrils and roots from this center throughout the metal and wood and crystal of the church. They twisted and pierced and convulsed, though caused no outward change in appearance. After this had been set, he breathed a hateful life into it. The church quite literally came alive, and it obeyed only one being: its creator, Anamu. It sought out a task from him, eager to please its master. Smiling, Anamu told it that, for now, all it needed to do was sleep and wait to be called upon. With a slightly melancholy aetheric sigh, it did what it was told.

                The last of the light faded, the last of the phantom wind died away, and Anamu found himself drained to the point of exhaustion, of vulnerability even – a sensation quite alien to him. He felt his power eddy and simmer, like a flame reduced to coals. It would be many hours before he could replenish it. No matter. There was much yet to be done, much that needed to be accomplished. While he yet lived and moved, he would press his destiny.

                He stood again at the center of the church, circled by a small ring of destruction. It was warm, and a pleasant sense of peace came over him. The last of the day’s light dribbled beams of multi-colored radiance through the crystal panes high above the floor. The lances of light were particularly evident, as a significant haze of dust had been raised by Anamu’s antics. This thickened the beams to the point where they appeared solid, as if you could touch them.

                With a start, Anamu found himself reaching for one of these beams. He grimaced and pulled his hand away. His thoughts and his actions were becoming

interwoven, which he believed to be one of his strengths. Apparently though, this melding of realities could spill over from one to the other. He looked at the beam, as the shifting whorls of airborne dust passed in and out of it. He seemed on the verge of profound insight, but could not ferret it out. What did this mean? Did it mean anything, really?

                The answer was clear. The beam meant nothing. The beam looked as if he

could touch it, so he reacted with an attempt to do so.

                That was all it was. Nothing more.

                He hesitated a moment longer, and then drew his false face around him again, forcing it into realism with considerable effort.

                “Very well then,” he said aloud. “Let the poor, good-hearted masses come to me.” He grinned, the skin creaking. “They have spent all their days worshipping a god that never walks among them. Until this day, no god ever has.”

 

~*~

 

                “The fact that we are sitting here leads me to believe that you did eventually

escape him,” Alec said, his speech touched slightly by the mead.

“Cleverly deduced.” Arachias replied. “Yes, I did get away from him almost ten years ago now, which would have made it my fifteenth year – my sixth under his tutelage.”

 

~*~

 

                Life had progressed at a quick pace, I can certainly say that. Repetition does not necessarily mean an existence of bored monotony, though that was included. I had seen bits and pieces of the world and found it to be interesting, in a bitter sort of way, but, always there was Sargath Preporious Mondo leading me on his barbed leash down a shrouded path virtually unseen by those around me. And when I was introduced by Mondo to some of his peers, I was a curious possession at best and a morsel lusted over at worst. Or maybe that was the best part. Sometimes it was difficult to tell.

                I attended many more fights. Once I had become desensitized to the horror and violence, I learned to calculate the odds of victory to a margin most gnomish statisticians ten times my age could not match. I had similar success in other arenas of chance, all at the side of my sadistic mentor. I made him very rich at these events, as I was his secret weapon of wagering.

I managed to detest him twice as much each new day as I had the day before, and, as time passed, it became clear to me that my escape was not an issue of having become fed up with his ministrations. It was simply a matter of sudden insight and opportunity. Kevett, bless his great heart, gave me the idea, Farquid and the others gave me the means, and all of them gave me the motivation. It is an odd sensation to feel good about having everyone enthusiastically want you to leave their house.

                I had completed my lessons for the evening, which had become more of a chore for Mondo than I for my knowledge grew faster than he could feed it. It was a cold Surcease night, the 61st day to be exact. The Sargath had finished ranting and raving at me about the ineffectiveness of charity, for it prolonged the lives of the useless. Mercy allowed the weak to survive and breed, which made for more weak people who needed care. I had several counterpoints to this, one of which was that a live person is always of some use to somebody, and that survival of the fittest, to me, means that eventually everything will boil down to one very fit, very lonely person.

                Of course, I kept my mouth shut for the most part. He no longer struck me when we argued, but he never conceded his point no matter how ridiculously outmatched he was, and it would only extend the lesson’s duration to the point where winning would have been meaningless, for much of the time spent with him was time spent on nothing worthwhile at all.

                He left his study in a huff and a cloud of curses, whilst I packed up my papers and writing stylus and then headed for the kitchen with Kevett in tow.

                “Interestin’ night in there, ‘Kias.” Kevett murmured out the corner of his mouth.

                “Yes. As always.” I replied, stretching my arms and back with a groan. “I hope there’s something good left over in the pots, I’m starving.”

                “Ya eat like a foal, young ‘un,” he said, chuckling.

                “Mondo has a way of sucking sustenance straight out of your skin and supping

on it without chewing. It’s how he stays so portly.”

                The hallways that had been my prison could have been passed without even

having my eyes open. If ever I did go out, it was with him, during which I was given his singular attention for even greater lengths of time than my lessons demanded. Consequently, though the interior of that castle had grown dreary beyond reason,

outings were not looked forward to either.

                I pulled open the door to the kitchen to reveal Farquid, Helari the cook, and the other servants chopping up various succulent bits of things in preparation for dinner. At the sight of me their faces brightened into a pack of genuine smiles. I presume mine did the same. Even glowering, taciturn Kevett was grinning and patting people on the back.

                A steaming bowl of chicken dumpling soup and a piping hot biscuit lathered with butter were in my hands before I was even fully seated, with a mug of chilled. Foaming ale waiting at the scarred and battered kitchen table. Then, as I had on so many other nights, I ate my real meal with them as a supplement to the meager trimmings I was

supposed to be getting at Mondo’s behest. This decree was so blatantly countermanded, though, that it had become something of a joke. Farquid used to say, “Leave some room in you gullet, Master Arachias, or yu’ll be too full to eat yer snack come supper.”

                Helari took a break from cutting a sizeable pile of onions into an equally

sizeable pile of chopped onions, and sat beside me sipping at a mug of citrus tea.

                “How went your lessons this evening, Arachias?”

                I shrugged slightly. “Meh. As good as can be expected.”

                Farquid snickered. “Somethin’ along the lines a’ havin’ the short hairs tugged out

then?”

                Helari smacked his arm, but her protest was difficult to fully believe, punctuated as it was with a barely stifled laugh.

                “We all know Preposterous” (her personal epithet for the gnome) “is a sack of goat spittle, but he does have a head on his sloped shoulders.” She turned her lined, homely face to me. “There is knowledge to be had, you just have to sift through the filth to find it.”

                I nodded, already knowing the truth in her words. The problem was, when would it end? Would Mondo just deem me ready for the world and turn me loose? Doubtful. Why would he set free someone who he knew hated him, and had been personally armed with all his tricks and traps? Yet, going to such lengths to instruct someone only to keep them locked up and away from anyone to whom you might wish to boast seemed equally preposterous. There had to be some reason.

                “One of two, actually.” I murmured out loud.

                “Eh?” Kevett said.

                “He is doing this for one of two reasons. One: he is training me to give to someone as a slave or as a very tightly controlled employee, and is getting a favor – most likely a very large one – in return. Or two: he is being forced to do this by some outside source to whom he either already owes a favor, or has been threatened.”

                Farquid looked at me a moment, then shrugged. “I at first thot that maybe he was dyin’ and wanted te pass on his know-how to a son he never had, but, that wouldn’ make much sense as ya seemed an awfly specific target.” He shrugged again. “In the end I guess It don’t really matter, do it? Why yer here may never come about. The fact is, yer here.”

                Helari pursed her lips. “In truth, I too had had my mind on the possibility that he wanted you to succeed him when he passed on, as some sort of false immortality.”

                Farquid nodded. “Or it could jes be he liked takin’ something’ innocent and destroyin’ it like, as some sorta’ sick entertainment.” As the words left his lips his face reddened and his jaw clenched.

                I smiled at them both, but shook my head. “I had considered all of what you have described but, with all due respect, I have discarded them. First off, though he is already older than any of you, his lifetime is hardly half over. One day he might want to pass on his vile legacy to a successor, but I feel it’s too soon for that. I am no physician, but if he is ill, he shows no sign of it.”

                I don’t believe that it’s for his own personal joy either, for he rarely shows any pleasure at it anymore.” I took a deep drink of the ale. As always it was cold, earthy, and delicious. “When I had first arrived my discomfort pleased him, but as my knowledge grew and he grew predictable, his patience and enjoyment lessened, yet, he persevered, which leaves me the final two possibilities.”

                The others at the table and Kevett leaning against the wall stood quietly, absorbing what I had said. Farquid glanced at me. “Have ya’ ever thoughta’ runnin’

away?”

                I smiled again. “When my thoughts are not occupied with work, they are

occupied with that very thing.” I looked at my bowl, blinking away old nightmares. “I

have looked at it, peeled it apart, trussed it up, stomped it to little pieces and put it back together, and never have I come up with a way to do it that would either get me past those monstrosities in the moat, not put you people in danger, or both.”

                “Well, I don’t even know what kinda’ creatures dey are, much less how ta’ kill ‘em.” Kevett said.

                “Well they hate citrus oil… but I don’t know if it actually kills ‘em.” Farquid

said.

                “How does that really help him, anyway? It’s not like you can steep him in the stuff like a teabag.”

                I chuckled lightly at the thought, though a melancholy mood had settled over

me. It seemed that that was how it always was, here, in this place. Tiny pieces of happiness poking through a choking bramble of bleak… wait. Steeped in the stuff? My face perked up and I suddenly got to my feet.

                “What is it, ‘Kias?” Kevett asked, leaning away from the wall.

                Excitement began to build in me as possibilities made themselves known. I could not believe it had not occurred to me until that moment. It was so simple! I may not be able to steep myself in citrus oil, but I could certainly cover myself with it. More importantly though, I could steep the water I needed to cross!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 24

 

                The office of High Advisor to the High King is one that is held for life. When a man or woman is chosen by the High King, it is a choice made with the utmost care and caution. Their relationship is more than advisor to king, subordinate to commander, or even friend to friend. Many times in the kingdom’s history did the High King look on his advisor as an older, wiser sibling. Thus, when one is lost, there is a period of mourning that goes beyond any official state ceremony, or concern for the stability of the country in his or her absence. The High King and many others, have lost family.

                And the pain cuts as deeply.

 

                Good King Merrett tossed another log on the fire. It sputtered and resisted the hungry blaze, but, as did countless brethren before it, soon succumbed to the heat and was the playground for countless rows of dancing flames. He leaned back in one of his favorite chairs, and watched the pulsing glow of the hearth at his feet, while the frigid night air whispered on his head and shoulders from a nearby window. The darkness outside was beyond most people’s comfort, yet he showed no indication that it bothered him at all.

                He held a dagger in his hand, one that had been given to him as a present from his father when he was barely out of his sixth year, who had in turn been the last in inheriting it down the generations from a grandfather titled with so many “greats” that it would have been exhausting to recount them all. He had been one of the last Warrior Kings of Old, a powerful but kind man. Merrett turned the blade over and over in his callused fingers, smiling slightly as a dart of firelight glanced off its surface. How many evil souls had this nondescript blade sent to the hells? How many desperate blows had it warded off? How many apples had it peeled by the fire? The number was too great to contemplate.

                On a small rough-hewn table that looked more like a stool was an opened letter containing the news of Othis’ death, translated several times over from several different clandestine ciphers. There was no indication that Greenwood had renewed the contract he had held for years with Erathai. The King thought of his quiet old advisor and the future and the past all together. The thoughts made his mind reel and shudder. Emotion took him in a powerful grasp, and he bowed his head.

                A sudden crackling cascade of sparks popped from the log, spraying the dying embers in a stilled fan across the stone hearth.

                A tear lifted from the corner of his eye and stole down his cheek where it fell into open space. As it passed his hands, the dagger slipped from his grasp and joined it in its descent.

                The tear shattered in a small spray on the hardwood floor. The dagger hit point first and stuck fast.

                Such are the ways of war and loss.

 

~*~

 

                Word spread quickly of the High Priest’s request. The people of the surrounding township made great efforts to spare what they could to help the afflicted guests of the High Church, whilst also protecting themselves. The normally festive streets which would have been choked with vendors the following Firsday were practically deserted, but the townsfolk had not shuttered themselves in their dwellings before a great offering had been carted up to the gatehouse at the foot of the church grounds. Crates and baskets of food, water, blankets, clothes, and medicines were stacked nearly half the gatehouse’s height. Their feelings for Dumas and Ummon himself varied from respect, to love, to fear, or even a combination, but the very real threat of a flesh-consuming plague would only allow their faith to move them so much.

                Anamu smiled grimly at their efforts, marveling at how these contradictory beings could both give of themselves freely yet shut themselves away from those for

whom they cared. However, this also provided him the finger hold with which he would wrench open their souls and fill them with the lies that would germinate his empire. He peered at the gatekeeper – a fat, oily old man holding a spear that looked even older than he was – and motioned for him to open the gate. After a surprised blink, he did just that, throwing open the latch and cranking the great iron portal open. With his head held high and his stride sure, Anamu passed through the gates and onto the wide street beyond. It was pretty, in a bleak sort of way. He had not before noticed such things, and again he was momentarily bothered by such observations. Hardly a second passed before he accepted it as his awareness obviously blossoming along with his power.

                “Ho people of this good town! I would beseech you to throw open your shuttered windows and cast away the boards that bind your doorways! Come with me

and observe what has come to pass!” His strength lessened but building, he added a healthy dose of suggestion to his summons, pushing the command as far as his mind

could push it, which left him giddy with the effort.

                It was enough. The home nearest him opened seconds after the last echo of his words had died away, and the houses lining the twisting, graveled street followed soon after. A wide-eyed monk stood amongst his brethren and looked at him expectantly, his hands held nervously at his sides.

                “High Priest?” He looked as if to speak further but found no words.

                Anamu smiled at him. “My son, you and your kin will become part of a

magnificent revolution, part of a new world made in the image of your god.”

                Others began peeking out of their homes. The monks looked down the street, and then back at Anamu.

                “What would have us do, my priest?”

                Anamu opened his arms, as if to embrace the entire throng. “Follow me my flock. Follow me to the future of this land, this kingdom, and this world!”

                He turned and made his way up the street to the church. The people of the

township, confused and frightened, were nonetheless moved by Anamu’s speech, touched as it was by enwarred suggestion. The first of them headed back up the street, followed by their neighbors. They either went of their own volition or under the urgings of their peers, as husbands tugged at their wives’ sleeves and mothers picked up their children. Soon all had exited their homes and made their way back to the priory that they had vacated, feeling to their cores that something monumental was grinding and groaning awake like a stirred volcano.

 

 

~*~

 

                So. The night of the escape and the beginning of a new world. Or was it the

return to the old? Bah. The old had been removed and reformed for so long that it might as well had been new. Even if it was a world worse than the one I was in, I would have preferred it simply because I would have been free. I had the rudiments of a plan, more or less. Oddly enough, the greatest of my planning involved what I was going to do once I had achieved liberty, not whether or not that liberty could be achieved.

                My decision regarding which day I was going to attempt my escape came

somewhat out of necessity, really. I was on my way to my morning lessons when Kevett passed me in the main entrance hall, his great armored bulk jangling and clanking as he moved at a brisk walk. When his eyes fell on me, an expression of relief passed over his face.

                “Ah, ‘Kias, am I happy to have found ya!” He said in a harsh whisper, grasping my upper arm to lead me to a dark alcove in the foyer. There, surrounded by dusty oiled wood and carpet as thick as grass, he told me a secret both wondrous and terrifying.

                “Mondo is takin’ you somewhere on the morrow young master, and I don’t think he plans on bringin’ ya back. When I brought him this odd lookin’ envelope this morn, somethin' in it made the little bastard’s eyes go big as saucers and his fingers go to quiverin.” He paused and looked around conspiratorially. “I thoughts to meself that was right strange, but, a ‘course, I didn’t raise any questions as he don’t take kindly to them and all.”

                Kevett’s roundabout way of relaying information was usually endearing in a

weary sort of way, but I found it positively maddening at that moment. “Go on then!”

I stammered excitedly. “What happened?”

                Kevett took a deep breath and blew it out noisily. “He asked me ta leave the room.” I gaped at him, stunned that all of my worry was over a horrible mystery. He seemed to notice this. “Hold ‘Kias, I aren’t done yet. So I leaves and stands right outside the door guardin’ against the wolves of nothing,” (his favorite description for his profession) “when Mondo bursts from the doors, shoutin’ for me to call down to the stables and ready the carriage and to send word to have two more horses ready on the opposite bank, so’s he can hook ‘em up to his carriage when it gets across the moat, and then he slams the doors shut agin, lockin’ himself inside. I grab Temi as he passed by and gave him the Sargath’s orders, and was about to go about me business when another thought occurs to me.”

                He glanced back the way he came almost fearfully, an odd emotion to attach to the man. “So’s I think to myself, ‘that’s odd, never seen ‘em in such a flurry to go out, ‘specially at such an hour.’ So I put my ear up against where the door meets the wall, there’s a bit of a gap there, felt a draft come through it one day, that’s how I came to know it,” I was literally about to grab him by his beard to keep him on track but managed to calm myself. “So I hear him and he’s talkin’ to someone but, ‘Kias,” his eyes grew wider, “I know fer a fact there aren’t no one else in that room wit’ him! I strain to hear the other side of the conversation, and, well…” he paused, looking at me as if afraid I would think him daft.

                I shrugged impatiently. “And? Well? What is it old man? Please!”

                He clamped a thick hand over my mouth as I had raised my voice. “Shhhh!

Arachias I know yer gonna’ think I’m outta’ me mind, but… I heard a voice coming from… from outside, somewhere.”

                I peered at him. “Outside of… what, the room? The house?”

                He shook his great shaggy head. “Naw young master. Outside of everything. I could tell something’ was speakin’ to Mondo, outside a’ everythin’ ya could see or hear in this world. That’s the only way I kin ‘splain it.” He paused for a moment, clearly shaken by what he had heard. “After a bit I could unnerstan’ what it was sayin’, and it wanted somethin’ from Mondo. It wanted somethin’ real bad like.” His eyes took on a strange light as he looked at me.

                “And that was…?”

                “You, ‘Kias. You!”

 

~*~

 

                Noal materialized in his typical specter-like way. Alec nearly jumped out of his skin. “Master Arachias, dinner will be served in fifteen minutes. Shall I take your tray and drinks?” He asked.

                Arachias, who was accustomed to the gentleman’s feline prowess nodded. “Yes, Noal, thank you.”

                Composing himself, Alec nodded as well. “Thank you, Sir.”

                Noal raised his brows. “Sir? Hm. Been a while since someone called me that.” He turned an incredulous look towards Arachias who waved him off, grinning.

                Alec watched in fascination as the slender old fellow departed without a sound, almost floating across polished floor. “Master, how does he move so? He seems more ghost than man.”

                “His former profession.”

                Alec looked at him. “His former profession…?”

                “…Is why he moves like that. I was answering your question.”

                Sensing another trick, Alec nodded sagely. “So, his former profession was one that required a quiet and non-interfering presence. Ah. So, what was his former profession?”

                “You mean the one immediately before this one?”

                Alec blinked, wondering if the mead was making Arachias’ mind as fuzzy as his own. “Well, yes.”

                Arachias nodded. “He was a servant.”

                “Being a servant required grace such as that?”

                Arachias scoffed. “Good heavens, no. A certain amount of poise is appreciable, most assuredly, but this degree is unnecessary.”

                Alec’s mouth opened as if to say something and then clamped shut. He looked positively baffled.

                Arachias snickered. “Before he had any sort of mundane employment, Noal’s profession was as an Erutuuta.”  

                Alec shook his head in bafflement.

                Arachias said, “A Werish assassin.”

                The lad’s mouth opened again, but this time hung that way for a moment.

                The swamps and tangled forests of Westenmarsh bred many an interesting and deadly foe, but few could go blade to blade with the Erutuuta, so brutal was their training and so total was their dedication to their trade. Several prominent officials had had their careers abruptly curtailed by their poisoned blades, and more than one High King had been threatened or killed by one. They were rumored to have hair permanently dyed green, a calling card, so to speak. Some would think this would make them stand out in a profession where blending in to the multitudes might be preferable, but such was their skill, their presence was not known until the killing stroke fell, crowds or not. They enjoyed an odd juxtaposition: Their work was invisible and secret yet their existence was notorious enough to frighten children with stories of their ruthlessness. Such was why Alec, even as young as he was, knew of them and why the sudden discovery of one that had been serving him snacks had so unsettled him.

                “He... he does not mind what he does?”

                “As a servant? Not according to him. He has his own private room and study, which he had built to his specifications. I pay him well. I hardly entertain guests…”

                Noal materialized again. Alec jumped. “But when you do, Sir, it usually involves a great deal of spirits, a great deal of mess, and, more often than not, putting out some sort of fire.”

                Alec stared at him, something that would not have been wise had it not been for Noal’s temperament. Noal winked at him. Arachias sighed. “Ah. I suppose you’re right. Still, there are worse lives to lead, are there not my friend?”

                Noal nodded with a thin smile. “Absolutely, my dear, sweet benefactor. Oh, and dinner is cracked lobster served with lemon greens and cubed plains fowl in a garlic chutney.”

                Arachias’ brows dipped. “I believe I have asked you not to do that.”

                “Merely being efficient, Sir.” He vanished.

                After a few moments Alec whispered, “What did he do?”

                “Well, I am not sure, but I am quite sure that my dear manservant can read minds. Just then, I was idly wondering what was for dinner.”

               

 

 

Chapter 25

 

                The western territories of Hildegoth are the youngest of the High Kingdom.

Though settlements had spread across the continent since before the reign of the High Kings, the nations of the west were the last to be truly brought into the fold and modernized socially and politically into some semblance of what they are today, over

a thousand years later.

                Of the western nations, Fruudosch is by far the wealthiest, for it is home to

Greann, the richest city in Hildegoth. A country of varied climates and peoples,

Fruudosch’s law of criminal slave labor has been embraced almost unilaterally across the High Kingdom. Other than the most dangerous of criminals, lawbreakers are sentenced to a period of enforced labor in either community or private ventures, depending on extenuating circumstances and labor demand. This has led to a sort of utopian society, as much of the paid manual labor force has been replaced with slaves earning their way back into society. Greann itself is a vast, towering spectacle of achievement, its richest merchants spending coin as easily as water flows. All policy is voted on and presented to a board of seven of the city’s most respected residents. These seven men and women are called the Septimet, and all final decisions regarding Greann are left with them. Only the High King can override their rule.

                Chaal is a land rich with commerce and tourism, as the oases spotting the vast stretches of desert are rumored to have restorative warra about them, and one of the realm’s main exports, Chaali crystal, is some of the purest crystal to be found in the entire High Kingdom. The proud and business savvy Chaali people are a race of seven-foot giants that have adapted to life in the harsh and arid climate by developing skin so dark it appears almost black on some individuals. There are dozens of tiny villages to be found in Chaal, but the capital of Chobastet is a thriving city, easily rivaling that of any other kingdom. Its only direct competition is the bustling metropolis of Tallo, under the hedonistic rule of the Sargath Preporious Mondo.

                North of Chaal is the kingdom of Olda Sett. The infamous wharf city Fremett

can be found in this humble land of woodlands and prairies, and nearly dominates the marine trade market on the west coast. Divided almost equally between wealth and squalor, Fremett has both realized dreams and crushed them into the dirt.

                One of the best-maintained roads on the western coast runs from Chobastet,

through Tallo, and into Fremett. This arterial trade corridor has allowed rapid transit of goods both illicit and otherwise, swelling the coffers of all who would place their coin in the right hands.

 

                “Me? Why me?”

                Kevett frowned. “Now I know that aren’t the first time yev asked that question.”

                “Well of course not, but this?” I leaned against the wall, knowing that in a handful of minutes Mondo would expect me to come through that door at the end of the hall. “What did this ‘voice’ say?”

                “It was difficult te make out, and methinks it was not simply because there was a wall ‘tween me and it. It stunk of warricking a’ some sort or another. It was sayin’ that it felt you were ready and that Mondo didn’t have te bear the burden of yer teachins’ any longer.”

                I remember reeling with this information, which was amongst my suspicions all along anyway. Of course, Mondo would be mentoring me about in such an unthinkable manner for the causes of another! But why? And for whom?

                Kevett continued. “Here’s the best part, methinks. Mondo spoke to this voice as a craven dog would speak to its owner ifn’ it had the tongue for it. He kept sayin’ ‘Yes my master, of course my dark lord,’ and such. So, the voice says that you will be trussed up and dispatched right away. Wit dat in mind,” he shook his head, “Somethin' tells me that all your lessons these years don’t have nothing’ to do with actual teachin’.”

                Again, I was astounded. What dark lord could acquire the deference of a

despicable, egocentric creature like Preporious Mondo? It was happening far too quickly, far too terribly, for me to absorb.

                “Is tonight when I find out? Is tonight when everything comes to an end?” I said mostly to myself, my eyes burning.

                “Little Master, me thinks one way or another everythin’ will come to an end

tonight. And one of the ways aren’t going to be one I can ‘zacly live with for the rest of my years.”

                His countenance softened then, and I knew what he meant. Wherever it was that Mondo wished to send me was most likely not a very nice place. In a flurry of thoughts and fears, my decision was, after all, an easy one. I needed to get out of there. Inspiration grabbed fear’s belt and then hopped on to its shoulders and started pointing.

                “Kevett, can you tell Mondo that I turned my ankle badly getting out of bed and that I will be a few minutes before I can get to him?” I asked in a harsh whisper. “I know that his patience now is even shorter than it usually is, but I need some time to prepare!”

                Kevett nodded. “I will delay ‘im as best I can, ‘Kias. You’ll have your time, one way or another.” A dangerous gleam came to his eyes that made me fear for his safety, but I knew the great old bear could handle himself.

                I turned to leave, and then looked back at him. He smiled thinly and stuck his chin out, but his eyes were shining with emotion. We both realized that this might be the last time we ever saw each other and the pang of it drove a spike into my heart. I moved to say something, anything, but he winked and abruptly turned the corner and stomped down the hallway to implement our ruse. I sucked back tears that never quite made it to my eyes, put everything but my escape out of my mind, and raced down several hallways and a staircase to the kitchens, where a vital piece of my scheme was stored.

 

~*~

 

                “My king, there are bad tidings from the West.”

                Good King Merrett lifted his head and looked at the page. She paused at the sight of him. She was small, delicate, and very young. Her life was most likely happy

enough with just the right amount of strife to make it interesting. She did not deserve to see her king like this.

                “What is it, my dear?” Merrett said through a tired smile.

                She grasped at her composure. “Sire, there are reports of an odd disturbance at the High Church of the West.”

                The High King’s skin prickled. “What sort of disturbance?”

                “That is all I have been privy to, my king.” The page bowed slightly at the waist as she handed the king the rolled paper she carried and stood at rest to be dismissed. Merrett waved her off as he broke the seal on the document. A puff of smoke and a flash of light showed that it had been enwarred. Sigils along its edge made it clear that this was a teleported message, which meant it was of particular importance. He unrolled it and began to read:

 

“For the eyes of High King Merrett the Good,

                In the apparent interest of sheer luck, agents of the High Crown have uncovered events of odd description at the High Church of the West. A priest from Fremett arrived days before the convention of this document, with several dozen wretches afflicted with some unknown ailment that turned the flesh on their bones black as pitch and withered it to naught more than strands and patches.”

               

He felt an icy stir in his belly.

 

                “They were let into the church, where our agents held back in interest of

maintaining their facades. Not long after, there was a great cacophony inside the church, which caused the timbers of the great edifice to shake and the windows to rattle. Soon the high priest himself emerged and made his way down the street of the township, which, according to the local peoples, is an uncommon thing. A few words were spoken to several of the townsfolk to which, unfortunately, our agents were not privy. Soon after, the townspeople reentered the church and, as of this writing, have not reemerged.”

                Our agents remain in hidden observation, and will send word if anything

develops.”

 

                There was no closing nomenclature, as was common for non-coded messages.

                At any other moment in his rule, he would have greeted such a message with

curious concern, moderate alarm and a measured, conservative response. Considering

current issues, it took a good part of his willpower to not send a warrick courier to the

dragons of the Kalda Mortu Mountains and beseech them to burn the church to the ground – for the sake of caution.

                The occurrence at the great church was not coincidence. He felt this to his

marrow. Malignance had taken hold there somehow, and he needed to discover its intent and its origins. Whichever of his agents had spent the extra coin to have it teleported here must have felt similar misgivings.

                “I am here, High King.” Canthus said, peering around a stone corner just as

Merrett had opened his mouth to send for him.

                “Canthus. There are events in the west that I cannot help but feel are linked to the horrors we are experiencing here. Is there any way you can seek out the truth? Some manner of scrying or teleportation, or whatever it is you godsforsaken warricks do?”

                Canthus softly shook his head, the gossamer silk of his hair swaying. “There are High King, but such warra would be easily noticed and followed to their source. I can send only messages clandestinely and ask certain persons to look into certain things and I will do so, but that is truly all I can do whilst remaining undetected. At times removing this cloak can be beneficial, but not at this moment. As things are, a brazen probe into the west would alert the source of our strife, and only force them into hiding.” He frowned. “This would complicate things greatly.”

                Merrett cinched his eyes shut and scowled.

                “High King Merrett, I am…” Canthus began. Merrett’s face was unchanged. “I am sorry for your loss. Othis was… a man of uncommon character and insightful mind.” The High King opened his eyes and stared at nothing, as the old elf’s words flowed into a vase with no bottom. “I know that he was more than an advisor to you, Good King. I know that he was your friend.”

                Merrett forced a smile to his lips. “Never… had I ever thought… that I would despise the past tense so much.” Canthus’ mouth snapped shut. The High King clenched his jaw and drew in a sharp breath. “Well, if you would advise against it I would be fool to counter you. What do you suggest?”

                Canthus was relieved to see both the High King steer back into the thick of things, and at having his foolish words put aside. “What we need to do, Sire, is something of a much more clandestine method. I will send a message of Warrick nature, yes, but it will be to someone of little consequence and it will be coded. In not half a day’s time, events will be put into motion that will provide all the information we need. With that information, we can then formulate a larger plan.”

                Merrett nodded, leaning out the window of one of Tyn Ianett’s countless dining halls. The wind again held the tang of Arden’s embrace, not the cool smoky breath of Sanguinneth. His misgivings were drawing near to lucidity, to illumination. His nightmares had worsened, their images more vivid and more horrific than ever. It was as if their message had been delivered, and now the face behind the message would be known.

                He could not discern which was worse: not knowing what troubled him so…

or discovering it.

 

~*~

 

                Alec had given up with the mead, finding Arachias’ tale too engrossing to muddle with drink, which the young lord found flattering.

                “Alec, remember something, will you?”

                Alec nodded. “Of course, Master. Anything.”

                Arachias nodded. He did not hold up his hand.

                Alec narrowed his eyes. “Ah. Remember something. I understand. I will take

something from your tale, Master. Much more than something I daresay.”

                Arachias grinned with approval. “You catch on admirably well, Alec. Your

father would be proud.”

                His pupil’s smile seemed thin and practiced at the mention of his father, which was unsurprising. The man shared neither the intelligence nor the scruples of his son. If Alec did not inherit both from the mother, then Arachias could not fathom where else Alec in fact got them. Or, the boy was even more intelligent than that and a marvelous actor to boot. Hm. Doubtful, but nothing was impossible.

                Such thoughts were troubling. He deigned to steer clear of the mead at that

point as well.

~*~

 

                I rushed into the kitchens, nearly overbearing Helari who yelped in alarm. I excitedly shushed her, threw open a pantry, and snagged two large burlap sacks. Spinning in a circle, seeking the next ingredient of my scheme, I soon abandoned the endeavor and

strode over to the cook. “Where are the oranges, Helari?”

                She was utterly stumped with my behavior and even more so by my question. “Oranges? Arachias, whatever for? Did Mondo…?”

                I shook my head in panic. “No! I need them right now! Are there any?”

                She nodded and indicated two large sealed crates. I rushed over to them and

yanked open their lids, fear and excitement augmenting my muscles. I smiled at the contents. Inside were enough oranges to fill my bags five times over. Moving quickly,

I stuffed in as many as the bags would hold and slung them over my shoulders, ignoring their encumbrance, which must have approached my own body weight.

                I stood and took a deep, cleansing breath. After a moment’s collection, I stepped towards the door that led to the main hall... which led outside.

                “So, this is it, then?” Came a gruff voice behind me.

                I stopped in midstride. How absolutely horrid of me. How selfish and narrow-minded and heartless. Oh, how Preporious would have been proud. I pivoted on one foot and turned towards Helari. Standing next to him was Farquid, as well as a few of the others, though not all. Farquid had a smile on his rough, kind face, and soot on his nose. Helari was covered to her elbows in flour. The other servants were in some or other stage of disarray due to their duties, but had managed to make it here, for whatever goodbyes a sudden, rash decision to leave could grant. Kevett must have tipped off some of them, who told the rest. Even if I could have found the words, the tears welling in my eyes would have choked them off – all but two.

                “Thank you,” I stammered out like a child.

                Farquid inclined his head. “It has been our pleasure, little ‘Kias.” A pained look came over him. “We wish we coulda’ done the truly right thing, and set ya free from the outset, but...”

                I shook my head. Even if they had succeeded and even if Mondo had not

punished them, there was little doubt that they would have found employment as sound as this. They all had families, of one sort or another. They were most certainly chosen by Mondo to have something to lose, should they lose their jobs. It was a rather tidy way of ensuring extra special care and endurance of abuse.

                “No, Farquid. I would not have been worth the consequences.” My mouth

trembled with the effort to speak. “I... shall miss you all.”

                Farquid stepped forward and shoved something into my hand. It was the elaborate brass key for Mondo’s tiny door at the entrance. “Leave it on the floor, on the inside of the room as ya shut the door. I’ll pick it up later.”

                I stared into his kind old eyes. My words failed again. I wanted to say more, but instead embraced the man. He stiffened at first but relaxed after a moment, and I was reminded of all those years ago when he had first scooped me up from inside the Sargath’s wagon, and had shown me the vital kindness I needed to balance the atrocity of Mondo. He seemed so much larger, then, though of course he had not changed. I had. This time, though, he patted me on the back and gently pushed me away. I could see there were tears in his eyes.

                “Now git, son. You have an ordeal ahead of you, and time is short.”

                I stared at him and the others one last time, forever ingraining the image into my mind. Much later I drew this moment from my memory and set it down in paint. It hangs behind me.

 

~*~

               

Arachias pointed a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the painting that Alec

had seen earlier of the servant types in the kitchen. Moved, he inspected it from this new

perspective. Their faces, so bland before, now seemed steeped in kindness and concern and sadness. The man at the center had to be Farquid. Alec felt shame at having dismissed them as strange common folk, out of place in their, at the time, trivial existences. He learned at that moment that nobility did not limit itself to, nor necessarily spring from, nobles.

 

~*~

 

                I flew down the hallway to the main door, and then shifted to my right where Mondo’s little entrance awaited. Gritting my teeth, I slid the key into the lock and turned it. It clicked and opened of course, though I was certain at the time that every god in the universe had decided to play a colossal prank on me and have the key snap off, or cause the workings of the lock to seize up this one time out of hundreds of uses, but no. It opened and I pushed it outward, removing the key and laying it on the floor near where the door met the wall. I locked it before closing it, then turned and ran across the landing and down the dew dusted staircase without a backward glance.

                The dawn was foggy and chill, and I had on only my morning breeches and cotton tunic with low buckled shoes. I realized with a grim sort of miserable humor that I was entirely unprepared for what lay on the opposite bank, nor willing to return to what was behind me. I was neither adult nor child, utterly broke, and in desperate need to fly as far from that fortified mansion as I could, yet would almost certainly be safer within it. It was a frightening collection of contradictions to say the very least.

                Thoughts of Madami in chains and Mondo cracking a rope against my leg Snapped those thoughts like the questing fingers of a clumsy thief. I would escape. I would prosper. I would burn the Sargath from his tower and spit on his ashes while Farquid and the other servants spent his coin on goblin troubadours for all I cared.

                I pulled open the tops of both sacks and withdrew several oranges. Using my fingernails and teeth, I tore through rinds off and rubbed them all over my body as best I could, paying special attention to my feet, legs, and waist, as they would be in the water the most. My fingertips were burning and my hands cramping into weird little meat claws by the time I was done, but done I was. I took the rinds and tossed them into the moat, trying to land them in increasing distances from myself, first five feet, then twice that at a tild, then a tild and a half, then two tilds, and so on.

                At about halfway across the moat, two unrelated things happened: I became

untidy with attempting to maintain my regular intervals of throws, and several dozen barbed tentacles rose from the water and thrashed about, undoubtedly quite displeased with what I had done to the water. They were even more terrifying than I remembered, rising six feet or better from the surface and shot through with dark veins carrying gods knew what sort of sustenance to their pale flesh.

                Trying most unsuccessfully to not think about it, I took both bags of oranges

and slammed them on the ground several times, and then laid them out and jumped up and down on them, crushing the rinds and the fruit within to pulp. Slinging them both back up over my shoulders, I gauged the path I had laid for myself, seeing that there was a swath about eight feet wide where the nightmarish limbs would not enter.

                I took one last look behind me, idly wondering if Mondo knew of his employees’ treachery or if they had their own schemes to set in motion. There were other guards, but they were paid only marginally better than they would be if they walked the streets of the city, and none would have stood up to Kevett, as he had become something of a commander of them. If the Sargath told them to go toe-to-toe with him they would have most likely failed, leaving Mondo to fend for himself. I smiled at the thought, for it would have been interesting to see that fat pile of greasy blubber whimper under Kevett’s attentions. Then I returned my eyes to the moat, for that dreary stone structure was not going to be the last thing I saw, if I were to die that day.

                I walked forward and stepped off into the water, which was icy cold. The

tentacles nearest me went into a pained frenzy and abruptly retreated further, as the

submerged bags probably gave off ten times what was already in the water. I made my way swiftly but tried to minimize how my feet disturbed the sandy floor of the moat, for I remembered clearly that Mondo had said there were three or four creatures to which these tentacles belonged, and since I had yet to see one of them, I could only surmise that they were buried under the moat floor, so I was walking across one of their backs for all I knew. I tried to focus on the opposite bank, which seemed more like ten miles than a hundred feet, most likely because a veritable wall of tentacles rose on either side of me, each attempting to reach me, but recoiling in disgust or fear, I knew not which.

                The water in front of me churned and frothed with their movements, and I feared that their actions would dissipate the oil on the water to the point where I would become vulnerable. I laughed. I think I passed up vulnerability several dozen steps ago. I shoved, I paddled, and I stumbled my way across that moat, at times physically pushing the beastly limbs away with my hands. They felt cold and hard, yet flexible, something like if ivory could move, and they recoiled with terrible strength at my touch, leaving foaming wakes that tugged at me like shapeless predators.

                Then, at about the halfway point, I heard something that stabbed more fear into me than any of the monstrous tentacles had been able to do.

                “You ungrateful, piss-bottomed, mindless son of a garden slug!”

                It was unmistakable who it was, but I turned back to the mansion anyway, just enough to see Mondo leaning out of his upper story bedroom window, his face twisted with anger.

                “You get back here this instant, or I’ll have my men hunt you down every day for the rest of your worthless little life, and the things they will do to you when they find you will defy sin to the very letter!”

                Part of me wanted to obey, of course. You do not spend six years of your life

under the yoke of such a monster without some of his influence permeating you to the

very core, especially at such a young age, but, in the end, it was a very small part. I

extended my middle finger at him in the age-old archer’s gesture of defiance, turned away, and smiled in spite of the circumstances at his choking gasp that I still managed to somehow hear over the splashing cacophony.

                This smile did not last long, for one of the creatures finally dislodged itself from its underground lair, causing a huge geyser of water churned white with its thrashing, to surge skyward. I cannot clearly recall its exact features. I remember that it was more than two dozen feet in length and about a third of that high, but in reality, this was a temporary form, for its body was pliant and not particularly attached to any one appearance. As it rose higher in the air, an uneven, cavernous maw, ringed with hooked and barbed fangs as long as my forearm opened on one side like a wound. Its gullet (a hue somewhere between pink and gray) was shallow yet broad, and the walls of this throat pulsed and gyrated like a jiggling wineskin. A gurgling, bubbly snarl boiled up from it. I am rarely certain about much in such situations, but I am quite sure it was very, very upset.

                I froze in place, terror locking my muscles to my bones. And then something

bounced off the side of my head, making the world tilt on its side and my vision swim

sickeningly. I remember a cloudy, frothy sort of fade in and fade out. I remember trying to tell my mouth not to open and take a breath because I was underwater. I remember my arms and legs felt like lead weights tied to my torso with string. And then everything went horribly, horribly blank. When I awoke, I’m assuming, only seconds later underwater, I was fully able to move again and crowned with a ringing ache in the head. The tentacles had retreated further to several feet away, and the one creature that had emerged had hidden itself again, hopefully far away from where I was. I lifted myself gingerly from the moat and felt my head. There was a swelling lump and a cut that bled quite a lot, but I was, for the most part, whole.

                “Burn in the hells you unforgivable tripe, you loathsome street maggot!”

                I looked back up to the Sargath’s window in time to see him spin away from

it, most certainly to put into practice his threats. I chuckled to myself. Street maggot?

                Sloshing through the remainder of the watery barricade almost casually I could see tentacles pulling this way and that under the surface, but none even attempted to come near me. I reached the opposite bank, and hauled myself out of the water. I may not have been exactly out of harm's way yet, but at least I was away from the mansion.

                As much as my head hurt, I was more pained by the fact that so many dear people, people who had quite literally placed their livelihoods as well as their lives at the whims of a monster for my safety, remained behind. I remembered their words and encouragement, though. They wanted me to escape and succeed. I had hoped to rescue them later, but… well, again, yet another tale.

                I pulled the sacks from my shoulders and tossed them into the moat. They

both opened and several dozen crushed oranges floated free. There was no natural

current in that artificial river, but the violent motions of the creatures had stirred up

the water nicely, and the flattened orbs of fruit bobbed away from each other quickly,

hopefully bringing a great deal of discomfort to the moat’s grumpy denizens.

                Just as I was going to turn away, I saw something else in the water, submerged just beneath the surface and slowly sinking. I reached down and plucked the curiosity from the moat: It was a gold gilded box, one edge of it streaked with blood. This was no doubt what the Sargath had desperately flung at me. I glanced back up at the window, nearly a hundred feet away. I had to admit, that had been quite a throw.

It must have been worth at least a draco or two, enough money to live comfortably on for quite some time, and the items in it – a pair of letter openers: one obsidianite, one silver – were worth significantly more. Laughing in disbelief at this single act of seeming stupidity, I stood and held it in the air. “Thank you, O Preposterous Mound’O Blubber, for this final gift! Your hospitality has been as sweet as a leper’s embrace, only not quite as cleanly!” I glared at the window where he had stood. “When I return, it will be to burn this stinking dungeon to the ground!”

                No one but a few lingering drunks and merchants who either hated the Sargath or cared about naught but themselves heard me, but this single, final act of defiance brought as much closure as if it were the period at the end of a very clever sentence.

                It had worked. I was free.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 26

 

                The role of the Presider, Governor, or Sargath (or its surrogate depending on the location) is something of a mayor, something of a magistrate, and something of a political representative at the High King’s court. Devised as an intermediary to maintain order as the realms of the High King extend far beyond his immediate reach, the sargaths of Hildegoth evolved into their own individual incarnations, reigning over their municipalities as they saw fit within the boundaries of the High King’s edict. In rare instances of great importance, the High King can execute an order recalling all of the Sargaths to Tyn Ianett, where they function as a high council of sorts, voting on measures that affect the entire high kingdom.

                Of course, there have been rebellions to quell as fractures in the dominion by separatists were inevitable, but, for the majority of the years since the High King’s inception, the sargaths have proved themselves invaluable intermediaries between the vast peoples of the combined kingdom and the High King.

                With that in mind, there are certainly examples of sargaths who will bend the law as far it can go without breaking – or clandestinely subvert it altogether.

               

                “Were there no other guards? What about the men-at-arms that had first kidnapped you?” Alec asked, his eyes wide.

                Arachias nodded. “There was one guardhouse on the same side of the moat as I, but the guards in it did not know me, nor had Mondo been able to get a message to them yet. Of the few within the mansion, who knows? Subverted by Kevett, too slow to muster any sort of reaction, or still asleep, I cannot say. Regardless, by the time any sort of action was taken, I was deep within the bowels of Tallo, selling my golden box and its trinkets.”

                “So that was it,” Alec murmured, flopping back in his seat.

                “That was the end to that particular, bitter bit, yes.” His eyes grew distant.

                “All those children? Dead. Madami? Gods knew where. And the training and

sheltering by a creature made of nothing but greed and hate... all put into play by hands unseen.” He shifted in his seat somewhat. “Yes. Everything was for the schemes of some creature to which even Preporious Mondo tilted his brow. I have delved into other areas of expertise and spent handsomely on warricks and seers and spirit-dancing demon ticklers, what have you – generally the sorts who well-versed in vocations that should have been able to discover who or what this would be. These inquiries have yet to unfold… satisfactorily.”

                “I...” the boy paused, his mouth twisting somewhat in frustration, “I wish there were something I could do to help you, Master.”

                “Ha! Allowing me to bend your ear for so long a tale is favor enough. Where was I? Ah yes! So, I received nearly twice the value for Mondo’s trinkets from a jeweler who bought my tale of being waylaid by highwaymen and being the sole survivor of my family.”

                Alec snickered. “So, you had plenty of coin. What did you do with it?”

                “For one so young, you rarely waste much time, my pupil. That is an excellent quality, because neither did I.”

 

~*~

 

                First, I bought myself a horse. I could have rented a wagon and saved a little

money, but waggoneers always return from whence they came with news of where they have been and whom they took. A few coins or threats, and my tenuous head start would become even more tenuous. Horses, I hear, do not talk much, and I could most likely sell it for a profit if needed. I had a passing understanding of how to care for a horse, both in books I had read and in idle conversation with Farquid, but no real experience. I remember the incredulous looks given to me by both the stable hand and the bloody horse as I asked silly questions and made pointless adjustments to tack and harness to appear knowledgeable. Hmph. Anyway.

                So, a horse, some new clothes, a nice short bladed sword, a map and three turns’ worth of provisions that looked more like roofing material than food, and, in hardly two hours’ time, I headed South to Greann. This was the only town of which I knew from Mondo’s teachings where I could bury myself in my trade and get filthy rich without standing out. Greann’s holdings, even then, rivaled Erathai’s. Now they nearly double it.

                As exciting as all this sounds, let me tell you, long travel by yourself off the

road (but not too far away from it since I had never done this sort of thing before) is

as unpleasant and unnerving an experience as one can have. Twice I was attacked by

roving bandits, and had the good fortune of a faster horse in one case, and an

appearance of knowing too much of what I was doing with my blade, thanks to

Kevett, in the other.

                Nearly three meandering turns later, a tired, weary me and an even tireder

horse plodded up to the gates of Greann with no food, filthy clothes, and a somber

acknowledgement to the gods that, no, I was not a man of the open road. Let my adventures be in the halls of governing and let my hardships always end with my head on a silk pillow. Yes, I fully admit that I am a man of comfort, but this does not mean I do not have my uses, does it not?

                I purchased a small cottage not even fifteen minutes from here, on a parcel of land much larger than it required. I planned to build there, soon, but first other things needed to be done.

                I found the nearest rich, pompous bastard (a now deceased spice merchant called Ernesto) and offered my services as a records keeper and financial consultant. He was extremely dubious at first, considering my age and position as a family-less, jobless newcomer, but, after tempting him with a few turns of work free of charge and under his unblinking supervision, he agreed.

                Arianna may have been right. Sometimes I may be a self-enamored, horn- blowing braggart, for I tell you now that the manner in which I restructured Ernesto’s books and streamlined his business practices was nothing short of genius. I had never truly done this sort of work before, but it came to me as easily as I breathe, as easily as you sit in your chair. Ernesto seemed so pleased, I was certain he would have placed me on his payroll immediately, but, like all stingy businessmen, he made sure to get his full time out of me.

                The first item I corrected: He paid his employees all on the same day, once every four turns. I showed him how paying them each turn on alternating turns actually earned him more money in invested interest, as he had a higher average amount of money in his accounts for longer periods of time.

                I also had him consolidate his stock in one place and then have his sellers draw from it as needed instead of attempting to keep each individual cart fully loaded, as the many smaller deliveries cost much more than one large one.

                And, you know, smart things like that.

                I made the rich old codger richer, and he came to love me like a… well, not a son, for people such as he really do not know how to do that. He loved me almost as

much as he loved money, and only because I made him a lot of it. From his employ I saved every last weg I earned, never tapping into my initial funds for I wanted to have them to rely on in case of hard times, of which there would be many.

In only a season I had enough to hire men and materials to build a small shop on my property. Oddly enough, I had the hardest time deciding what sort of wares I would carry, for I wanted something that was unique but still appealing for other than its uniqueness. I had narrowed it to two, really: a weapons shop, or a jewelry shop. There were already dozens of jewelry shops in Greaan, but the rich often would stop by all of them in an attempt to find just the right piece to complement their collections. Weapons shops were not as common, but everyone, at some time, needs a good sword at their side.

                Both sounded viable. So, what did I do? Why, I combined them of course. Arachias’ Fine Jeweled Daggers. At the time I decided to sell just dags, as finding distributors to make other than daggers was prohibitively expensive. In a more interesting bit of economic whatnot, I also I discovered that specializing in just one product could – not always, but could – make your wares more interesting to most buyers. Here I was blending the useful with the decadent, a combination that many wealthy customers simply could not resist.

                More coin in the right hands bought me the information I required to send proper couriers with proposals to the master craftsmen I would need for my endeavor. I made it clear that all involved would make a large amount of money with minimal risk, other than initial stock. Proposals went out. Receipts of acceptance returned. Then contracts went out. They would provide already constructed items of the type and quality I was seeking, and would be more than happy to make more once these had been sold.

Naturally, I made certain that they were smithed by dwarves, who are as gifted with such craft as you and I are to breathing. Instead of standard cargo movers or couriers, I decided to have them shipped by mercenaries. Though not exactly the most skilled transporters, they were the best suited to protecting that which was transported. Therein was another boon to daggers: They were not that large. I could have dozens of them, hundreds of ranyins worth, shipped in a large trunk. Two such trunks would fit on the back of a normal-sized wagon. The hire-swords could have stolen them of course, but I made it clear to them that, though I paid them handsomely, I would pay twice as much to the assassins who would bring me their eyes. It was evident to them that steady, relatively safe income was better than a large profit at the expense of an extended lifetime. All said and all summed, the establishment of contacts, the means of travel, and transportation involved, in moving dwarf-made, mercenary-shipped goods was one of those hardships which taxed my initial coin, but it was well worth the price and paid for itself many times over, and in record time.

I recall that evening very clearly. I was waiting in the scrubbed and polished space of my new shop, pacing in apprehension for that first shipment. Would it actually arrive? Would the mercenaries decide that simply stealing their cargo was worth any risk to life and limb and eyeball? Would they deliver on time and honorably, only to have me find a trunk full of shoddily slapped together butter knives, and hearing the imagined sound of a very distant, very nasty dwarf’s laugh ringing in my ears?

Ha! Of course, none of these happened. What did happen, was that a very large, plain looking locked chest was delivered by two very ugly, very polite and extremely armed men who took my payment with guarantees of future delivery if I should so desire, etc., etc. I unlocked and opened the chest, which looked like you could have dropped it off a cliff and do little more than scuff it. Within were two dozen rectangles of various sizes, sheathed in dark burgundy silk. I lifted one, surprisingly heavy, and slid it free of the veil. It was an immaculately crafted little carved maple box, about seven inches long, complete with hammered gold hinges, and an adorable lock in its face set with a tiny key. I turned it, and saw one of the most beautiful pieces of artful craftsmanship I had ever beheld. Even now, in both comparison and recollection I doubt I could conjure an image of its superior. It was a small decorative knife, more accessory really than anything else, but it was absolutely exquisite. I lifted it from the beaver fur lined interior, and held it up to the light. The sheath was leather and polished walnut, riveted very tastefully with gold pins. The handle of the knife was a darker leather, wrapped with alternating rings of gold and platinum. The pommel was a brilliantly polished gold and silver orb, with an opal at its very end, made somehow perfectly flush with the surrounding metal without leaving evidences of a single hammer strike… or whatever in the gods it was struck with. It looked like something beyond the ability of mortal fingers to create, yet here it was. I slid free the thin blade, pure imperithite, or so my instructions had decreed, and beheld it.

Have you ever seen this metal? No? There are spikes holding up the roof of the main council hall down town, but, of course, they are gilded in steel so you can’t actually see them. I am told that the spikes themselves are worth more than the entire building, and I am inclined to believe so. It is fascinating, extraordinary stuff, and no mistake – equal portions beautiful and bizarre. It appears as a piece of liquid steel frozen in time, an image of water trapped in a moment’s observation. It is rumored to be mined from the shifting stone near the lordless lands, which would make it most certainly charged with some manner of warra outside the realm of most comprehension. I am not certain if this is true, but it does not look like something natural at all. It shines so brightly it appears nearly white when even the faintest of light strikes it, and it tricks the eyes like they cannot quite decipher what they are seeing.

The sharpening and the forging of this metal needs to occur simultaneously, as it cannot readily be sharpened once its final shape is realized. Whatever edge is attained, is, more or less, the edge with which it is stuck. Only a master Warricksmith can hope to effect any change on its structure, and only at great cost of power and stamina. Of greater fun and interest is that falling short in the attempt can result in disaster far beyond the scope of simple failure. Rips in the tablecloth of the existential kitchenette substrata, or some such. Maybe. Anyway.

I stared at it. I swished it through the air like some sort of idiot. Then I realized I had been holding my breath. I recovered, sheathed it, and went about arranging it and all of its exquisite companions about my shop. Each of them were unique, deadly, and beautiful. The boxes themselves were works of art, so I simply displayed the daggers and knives within these boxes, (some were solid wood, some were of molded, hammered precious metals, and a few had polished crystal quartz windows) on top of the silk bags in which they were shipped. Once I was done, I stepped back and surveyed my handiwork.

Demons knickers, I was going to be filthy rich.

                The already filthy rich, after hearing about my wares from some very carefully placed advertisements amongst their serving staffs, began sending couriers and pages to my shop. All of these messengers left my establishment wide-eyed and impressed, bursting with news of what I was selling. After only two days, a weapons expert teamed with a master jeweler (an odd pairing, to be sure) arrived, hired at considerable expense by the upper classes to inspect my displays for quality and price. Naturally, in an attempt to dictate any possible prices (that is, reduce), they made attempts to demean my bejeweled blades. They called them, at first, of terrible construction and inferior materials. I then produced for them an official writ of authenticity and quality from the delvimor, the highly stationed dwarf blacksmith who created these blades. These grandmasters of craftsmanship have been known to start minor wars with those who question their products. This changed their attack from doubts of their manufacture to doubts of their utility.

                I remember smiling and holding up one of the imperithite blades and slicing

neatly through a sheet of steel use to make armor as if it were icing on a cake.

                With bitter laughs and shakings of the head, my visitors had to cleanly admit that what I sold was of superior efficacy and make. They also granted that my prices were reasonable, though I should expect at least some manner of negotiation over what sort of money changed hands, as haggling was both customary and impolite to overlook. I agreed, naturally. Half the price I was asking would have returned a modest profit, so anything on top of that was perfectly acceptable.

                In a few turns it was clear that my self-made income was five times what Ernesto could pay me, and would increase from there. I left his employ amidst his sobs and empty promises.

Though hardly a time without turmoil, it was a very exciting time for me, and no sign whatsoever of the errant Sargath sniffing after my whereabouts.  After a year had passed I was extremely rich and extremely well known. In very truncated terms, let us just say that after a series of interesting and unusual events I was ultimately and enthusiastically invited by the Septimet to join the Greann Commercial Council – unheard of offer for a lad of seventeen years. Such sudden fame and effrontery made many friends, many partners, and a few enemies who had posed as both. I studied at the Dellen College of Politicking and Higher Knowledge, uniquely paying my own way with a healthy degree of smug self-righteousness. It was here that I spent many a long hour attempting to locate the orphans with whom I had spent my early childhood, many of whom I knew only by first name... but have never forgotten. I believe I have already told you what those efforts uncovered. Onward.

                To answer the question that prompted this entire account, it was also during this time that I met the extraordinary Conciliator, Arianna Heathrow. We were on a balcony at the college, one that overlooked a rather poor section of the town near the gardens. It was an area that had become home to recently freed slaves, thus, it was an area where recently freed slaves found themselves again bound to servitude through evasion of the law. We shared an intelligent discourse and a few reserved laughs at the state of things in Greann and the world, and generally enjoyed each other’s company. Her mind was so fresh yet seasoned and mature, so adventurous yet wise and conservative. Clearly older, yet with a youthful vibrancy that superseded any conceivable age. She was – is –a remarkable woman, and at heart, a virtuous soul, if a bit too comfortable with justifying means with ends.

                Before you ask, no, there was never any romantic involvement between us.

There have been rumors rampant to the point of scandal, of course, but there is no truth to them. We were merely friends – at one point, anyway. Most recently, she engineered a scheme to have a woman my age meet me as if having sought me out, and feign being a survivor from the usurped orphanage of my youth. Arianna had received word that I was taking my investments elsewhere (which was true), but, clever as her ruse was, she did not take into account that my exhaustive research had already determined that none of the orphans but I had survived. My anger at her for the attempt forced her to admit her plots, but she apologized for none of them. Like I said, a bit too comfortable with ends justifying means. Things have not been well between us since.

                So, as I became a prominent councilman and grew even wealthier, I expanded my horizons. What Arianna did not know or had discounted, was that, though I intended to expand elsewhere, I was not ending my investments in Greann. They simply make too much money – even my original shop. It is there now, much as it was then, run by a dwarven friend of mine. You can meet him, if you like. I then bought a barley farm, a vineyard, a mine, a lumber yard, and several inns, and converted the basements and rooftops to gambling dens – a legal trade in Greann, though, I must say, flawed until my involvement.

 

~*~

 

                Alec eyed him incredulously.

                “Oh, must I delve into how and why I improved this sinful hobby?”

                Alec shook his head. “No, no, Master. I will take your word for it.”

                Arachias nodded. “Very well then.”

~*~

 

                And then, as it always happens when one is doing well, certain parties conspired to see me fall. I have to admit, if it were not for Arianna, I most likely would have. Perhaps. She warned me of a conspiracy amongst a trio of the wealthiest of businessmen here, one of which is still alive. Remember old Rogette Busch? He was at the head of it all. They were going to plant evidence of illegal slave treatment in one of my fields. This evidence was the bodies of three dead slaves, and they were to be placed in shallow, uncovered graves near one of my breweries. I know not if these poor devils were already dead or murdered, but if they were killed it was most likely the work of sellswords, as I highly doubt Busch and his cronies could commit these acts themselves.

                Armed with preemptive information provide by Arianna, I hired my own band of mercenaries and had them meet the killers as they stole on to my property. I had paid top dollar for my swordhands, recommended as they were by my old mercenary friends, and they made quick work of the alley scum employed by my nemeses. They killed all but one, a scum rat who sold out his employers with hardly a nudge. Horrible amateur. He was released to said employers with a note indicating that all of them had been discovered, but they did cut off one of his hands and put out one of his eyes, however.

                I then systematically eliminated all of my would be usurpers but Busch himself. Things quieted down very quickly against me, and Busch, uncovered as he was, has tiptoe-walked a fine line between aloof irritation and outright fear ever since.

 

~*~

 

                Alec gasped in shock. “Surely not! Surely you exaggerate to…”

                “To what, Alec?” Arachias leaned forward. “To add spice to the tale? To keep you awake? Considering the yarn thus far, do you really think it necessary for me to do so? Or do you merely think me unable to give such an order?” He lightly folded his arms.

                Alec looked positively horrified, yet the truth of Arachias’ words settled in. “Yes, I suppose you could… do such a thing.”

                Arachias nodded solemnly. “It was an unpleasant thing to have to do, but a

statement needed to be made.” He leaned forward, his gray eyes piercing. “And that

statement was this: Do not meddle in the affairs of Arachias of Tallo.”

                Alec nodded as solemnly as his mentor, but noticed something that had been

somehow irrelevant until now. “Master… what is your surname?”

                Arachias was quiet a moment, and then shrugged. “As far as I know, I don’t have one. I possibly did, at some point, but I never knew it, so the difference is

negligible.”

                “That… saddens me, somehow.” Alec replied.

                Arachias looked at him thoughtfully. “Me as well.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 27

         

                The religious order of Ummon is a hierarchical system of priests from district pastors to the High Priest of Western Hildegoth to the Primaxis himself. Rife with individuals exuding corruption and a lust for power as well as truly devout holy men and weomen inspired and moved by Ummon’s spirit, the Ummonic Church exists as a perceived necessary bridge between the greatest of gods and his flock. Ummon has quieted of late, but for several hundred years there were miracles abounding when deeds of surpassing goodness were committed. Strangely the last undisputed intervention of Ummon was at the start of the Garull Wars.

                Since the war has ended, his presence has seemed withdrawn – remote.

                His devout followers remain resolute, certain it is a test or a statement of some sort. The corrupt, however, see nothing more than opportunity.

 

                There was a rousing ringing of bells and good-hearted clamor at the High Church of Western Hildegoth. The doors were thrown wide and a path of wheat and

golden, Sanguinneth leaves led from its entrance to the township, where all of its

inhabitants whooped and shouted and celebrated. Enemies embraced and forgave long

dead ills, old men tossed away canes and danced with young girls, and guards dropped their weapons and mail and joined in the celebration like young men returning from a war. The monks joined with them as well, reveling in divine rhapsody. There was an all-encompassing feeling of incredible well-being and joy.

                Anamu stood near the gates at the top of the main street through town and stared at the festivities with a wry twist to his mouth. He found what he saw both revolting and uplifting at the same time. The witless sheep believed with all their feeble hearts the intricate lie he had inserted in their minds, a lie that would enable him to spread his grasp to the furthest reaches of Hildegoth and beyond. He had given them what they had always wanted: their god, in the flesh. To them, he had become Ummon incarnate.

                The task of creating the illusion was intricate and exhausting, but this final step of deceit was a simple enough ruse. He had brought them all into the church, every last one of them, and had shown them the mindless he had made to appear whole again. To them, they looked healed of their bizarre and terrible affliction. The fact that they seemed dull and listless was apparently overlooked for any of a dozen possible excuses from exhaustion to divine stupor.

With this wonder fresh in their minds, he humbly and with great wonder and stoicism stated that, he, Dumas the Faithful, Dumas the Devout, had achieved such a level of servitude with his god, that he had been granted the ultimate gift a deity can bestow upon a disciple: to be his god’s vessel. Not only was this utter falsehood easy to place, it was quickly and voraciously accepted. He had thought he would have to bend his warra to force suggestion through the ruse, but he did not. Throughout their meager lives, these men and women had known very few true miracles from Ummon. He seemed a distant and unapproachable being, despite their lifelong servitude. To have a striding, speaking incarnation brought him to a level they could more easily conceive. A conceivable god is a god easier in which to believe, and those eager to believe are thus easier to deceive.

                “Yes, my flock. I have come to you, for I have seen you hurt and despair all these long years. Though it pained me to watch you suffer so, I must tell you that it was necessary.” He beamed down at them. “Yes, I was testing you my children, testing your faith, your worth, and your persistence. And, I tell you now, all your hardships have come to fruition for I come to you wearing the flesh of your most holy representative, to lead you to the final day of days, where all who serve me will have not only a place in my tower, but a tower to call their own!”

                The effect was massive, powerful, and instantaneous. The hardest hearts melted and tears flowed like rain from child and embittered farmer alike as the powerful grip of collective hysteria took hold. A tiny man, twisted with injury and age approached him then, beseeching healing and blessing with what must have been painful kneeling and uplifted palms. Anamu regarded him with surprise he only just reined in. He realized that this again, was opportunity to further embed his power and benevolence. He told all who were so afflicted to come near him, and they did, touching him gingerly much to his amusement. He spent a small spark of power to shroud an old injury, or make lines of age fade. It was all cruel illusion, but their reactions were priceless to him.

                They believed in him, the evil entity, the antithesis of Ummon, that tired and

removed old god, and he awaited with excited trepidation for this supposedly all-powerful icon of good to make his presence known and save his believers. He did not.

                Anamu smirked. He knew the god existed. He could feel his banal benevolence pulsing a thousand miles away, but it was unmoving and unaffected. A part of him felt that it was because Ummon did not truly believe he was a threat, but he knew better. It was because Ummon no longer cared about his believers, if he ever truly did. He no longer watched and interceded when good teetered on the brink of collapse. He appeared to be asleep, and, for all he knew, awaited to be sent on to some other place, as his existence here was ending. If this was so, he fully admitted that he was in no place to dispute the wishes of a god.

                Now, Anamu, his name written in the hearts of the followers, his followers,

scribed his name with fingers formed of white-hot steel into the very stone of the church’s flesh, above the golden sculpture of supplicated hands so long associated

with the spirit of good.

                N’ommu. The people nearest him gasped and supplicated themselves.

                He was truly the antithesis in every way of the god that had forsaken these witless sheep for an existence of slumbering indifference.

 

~*~

 

                Good King Merrett’s spirits were clearly evident as he met with his military and civil cabinets. His face was drawn and haggard, as what little sleep he could claim was plagued with new nightmares: broken, slashed images of Othis’ last moments where he pleaded with his king to save his kingdom since he could not save him. And then he saw flames. He saw flames and death and ruin, as all that he cherished, all for which he toiled, was consumed by the as yet faceless, nameless evil that had arisen.

                Waking was no comfort, either. At least the dreams were not real.

                He addressed the gathering of a score or so commanding officers, civil

engineers and overseers, and their retainers. Canthus was buried in a pile of books in an adjoining room, and had deigned to remove himself from the current meeting.

                “Good morning generals, commanders, and others. I take it that you already

have some semblance of what has been happening.”

                Aegis General Mar Gorim, a great Chaali man whose skin was as dark as pitch, inclined his head. “Those that do have informed those that did not,” he said in his deep, gentle voice. He paused, weighing his words as he looked at the High King. “We grieve for Hildegoth’s loss of a great man, my king. Othis was an asset in more ways than as your chief advisor. If all kingdoms’ ears were bent to council such as his, many hardships would become obsolete.”

                The others murmured their agreement. Once again, Merrett had to gather the shreds of composure that would always unravel a bit more with each kind word of Othis’ absence. They were well meaning words, of course, but they served only to remind him of the tragedy.

                “Thank you, gentlemen and ladies. I believe with all my heart and soul that Othis would want us to put aside our grief for him, and focus on the safety of our lands, something he based his very existence on.”

                Another quiet chorus of concurrence was uttered. As he glanced around the

spacious meeting hall, his composure, tattered as it was by their well-wishing, now began to mend as his eyes in turn met each of theirs. Despite the situation and his frequent griping, Merrett found a small but potent comfort that there was not one amongst these men and women with whom he was greatly at odds. There had been small disagreements of tactic here and there, insubstantial differences of belief and implementation, but not one person from whom he felt out and out distrust or unfaithfulness. They cherished each other, and were aware of each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Also, they were all bloody geniuses, bloody deadly, or some combination. It was the obvious reward for having such high caliber persons in their stations for so long. They could do nothing but excel.

                He cleared his voice as they waited expectantly. “So. As simply as I can surmise and according to GrandMaster Warrick Canthus, a nameless, faceless power has come to sentience. Either through its very existence or through intentional focus, all threads and patches of evil life are, well, gathering. The effects have been bizarre and terrible, and very difficult to predict. And since this creature, if that is indeed what the damned thing is, is currently beyond our ability to locate, there is no center to cut out. No head to unshoulder. Consequently, we have a vast and unwieldy task before us, of both suppressing these outbreaks, and following their cause to its roots. And, once we find it, we kill it.” He paused, taking a breath and spreading his hands on the table before him. “My mandates have reached you all, by now. I request inventory on absolutely everything that can be of use in a large-scale conflict. How fares your progress?”

                Aegis General Demetrius Jordanis, his thick white beard contrasting sharply with his great bald head and polished, immaculate dress armor, huffed a short sigh. “As well as can be expected my king, which is none well enough. Our aegises exist in placement only, as the ranks are not truly filled. At best, we are looking at a total force of just over forty thousand men when there should be a fifth more than that in Erathai alone. And of those we do have, their training is marginal at best. There simply has not been need nor funds to keep them in fighting condition.”

                Aleenia Ilmastriai, a high elf Aegis General of the Archers clenched her trim jaw, her bright green eyes flashing. “The majority of my archers are trained well, as it is both cost effective to maintain archers and, since more than half of my forces are of elven descent, many served in wars past and remember them well. These bowmen can fully train those that are of lesser ability.”

                Merrett nodded. “Expected, both of you. I know that our forces have lost much in peacetime. In all honesty I would truly have it no other way. This simply means we have done our job, up to this point. If this world of ours were the way we would wish it to be, all our military would dawdle and dwindle to nothing… and take up farming, or baking I suppose.”

                There was a quiet chorus of laughter.

                Jordanis tilted his head at Aleenia. “Hmm. Could you perhaps core an apple for a pie with one of those arrows, Aegis General?”

                She smiled sweetly and fluttered her eyelids. “From across a courtyard on a galloping horse at night during a storm with my eyes closed, my dear Aegis General.”

Again, everyone laughed lightly, including Good King Merrett. He inclined his head towards Mar Gorim. “General Gorim? Your engineers and siegemen?”

                His dark face twitched. “Somewhere between Demetrius’ and Aleenia’s, I would think. The supplies and machines we have are of dwarven materials and gnomish construction, so are hardy and long-lasting. However, there has been little need for them, and much of our funds and manpower have been shifted towards agriculture and municipal refurbishment.” He leveled his gaze, which was a huge distance above the king’s. “It will take a season and then some at least to bring the machines and their operators back up to even minimal production and combat standards.”

                The High King nodded and began pacing with his hands clasped behind him.

                “I am neither surprised nor displeased. You have all done what you could with what you had. A great deal of your deterioration is due to mandates of my own

implementation. I grew excited and hopeful with the lack of conflict, and directed the

kingdom’s resources thusly. I hold none of this against you.”

                The conclave accepted his gratuities stoically.

                “Where do we go from here, my high king?” Jordanis asked. “I realize that reversing our forces’ current situation is required and I have my theories, but where do we focus first?”

                Merrett leaned harder on the table, looking at its time-marred surface. “First, we secure food, water, shelter, and maintenance, in that order. A starving army is an empty threat, no matter how well trained or equipped, and despite arguments of the strength that desperation can lend. Such strength is chaotic and short-lived. Elhembrius?” He nodded towards the gnomish Civil High Ordinator, Elhembrius Gastru, a swift speaking, fidgety, perfect example of a gnome, who was an utter genius with managing the drearier yet absolutely vital areas of food stores, farming, livestock, and all the trimmings and trappings therein. “How are our stores? And, once your particular brand of bad news is levied, how do we go about bolstering them?”

                The grizzled little gnome squinted with one eye. “They are low, low, of course, but this is a bumper harvest, a great deal of overstock in all areas, especially grain and corn, which are of a much, much hardier construction, as you well know, so will last longer. Livestock is healthy but of normal amount at best, with chickens amongst those faltering the most, I would think that…”

                Good King Merrett gently slashed the edge of his palm through the air. “Excellent, High Ordinator. Do you have means to stabilize where we are lacking?”

                Gastru took two short breaths as his mind raced and his eyes seemed to burn across phantom documents. “Well, urm, that is, nothing other than a few plans I had to restructure the whole damned thing from the ground up, and, well there are a few dozen ideas that just snapped into place in my head right now, for instance…”

                “Elhembrius.” Merrett waved the same hand good-naturedly. “That is good

Enough for me. I leave these areas of need in your expert hands. Keep me apprised.”

                The gnome, accustomed to people cutting him off, merely bowed, turned, and practically scurried from the room, his supporting staff following at his heels. Merrett smiled briefly at the mankindred’s seemingly uncomplicated appearance, for he knew that a mind as sharp and as dedicated as any general’s hummed behind his eyes. He returned his attention to the table. There were no refreshments here, no wine, fruits, or means to serve them. It seemed a fitting metaphor to their situation. They could fill this void with anything. He knew what was necessary, but getting from here, the point of conception, to there, the point of implementation, was overwhelming.

                “Well. Conceding the possibility that our High Ordinator will achieve his goals, that is, providing and storing food, water, and supplies, the next step would be in distributing it.”

                Aleenia tilted her head, her sharp features a balance of beauty and strength. “I would have thought that distribution would fall under his domain of expertise as well.”

                Merrett nodded. “It does, and yes, it is a vital one, though slightly less so than production and storage. I want him to pour all of his resources into those two things, at least from the outset. We will use the foot soldiers and horsemen of the armies to move these stores to key outposts and holding areas.” The generals, their logic and tactics stronger aspects of their personalities than their pride, nonetheless felt a smarting to their egos. Aleenia smirked. He continued. “Before you all mutiny, allow me to explain.

“First: as I said, it will free up more of Gastru’s means to work his wonders matching logistics to demographics.

“Second: It will allow our forces to spread literally throughout the lands to help with recruiting. Seeing vast formations of armed men ride into town performing good deeds does a great deal for morale and enthusiasm for enlistees.”

                “Until they see them yoking oxen,” Jordanis muttered through a bushy half smile and the others chuckled.

                Merrett grimaced. “Hush, dissenter. Yes, as with anything good there is something bad to counter it.” He blinked, as something tickled his mind, something

prime and subtle. He put it aside for now. “However, this swings back to its origin as well. I think it will bolster the backbone of our kingdom – that is the peasants in the field – to see the king’s soldiers bending to the same task as they for the same reason, simply in a much more immediate sense.

                “Now, thirdly: It will harden the backsides of our horsemen and the feet of our footmen to the rigors of travel. It will reacquaint them to the open road, which can be at once invigorating and sobering. It will show them the lands with which they will be entrusted to protect. It will forge them from the soft ore they’ve become into the unbreakable steel we will need.”

                The simple logic of it was apparent. An impressed hush followed.

                “Brilliant, my king.” Aleenia said.

                Merrett brushed the compliment away and pressed on. “Now: I know that all of you must be wondering about the very real possibility of conscription.”

                Gorim and Jordanis exchanged brief looks. Jordanis spoke. “I had thought the issue an obvious one, High King. Supplementing our forces with conscripts will be inevitable.”

                Good King Merrett nodded wearily. “Perhaps, but the point where such a ruling would be implemented has yet to greet us. For now, we will defer such distasteful mandates until they will be absolutely unavoidable. Snatching sons and daughters from their mothers’ arms will both make us look hardly better than the wickedness we combat, and will deteriorate morale to the point where their added numbers will be nearly as hindering as beneficial. If the need becomes apparent, it will become apparent to all. The people will believe that we have no choice. And they will be right.”

                Again, the steadfast reason of the High King crystallized.

                Merrett slowly rose to his full height, which seemed greater than its average

appearance. “I have the utmost confidence in your abilities, ladies and gentlemen. Take whatever scribes, papers, edicts, what have you, and speak with Master Warrick Toltor for any needs.” There was a gentle snort from Canthus in the adjoining chamber, who had been utterly silent up until that moment. The High King ignored it. “Well then. That is all for now. I will do my best to keep you informed of any developments. Please do the same for me. Treat any news you come across as unknown to me. I would rather have duplicate reports than overlook anything.” He nodded once. “Dismissed, and may whatever gods you kneel to guide your actions and steel your hearts against hardship, because there will be lots of it.”

                The generals nodded in acceptance and departed with their respective aides.

Merrett watched them leave, and then practically collapsed into the chair behind him. He was feeling the cumulative effects of Othis’ death and a night of very little sleep weigh on him like a giant pressing on his shoulders.

                “My king, you should rest,” Canthus said, materializing near him.

                The High King snorted. “I am. You’re observing me, resting, right now.”

                Canthus scowled slightly. “You know what I mean, Good King. You will have enough battles with which to contend in the days to come. Your own exhaustion should not be among them.”

                “Canthus,” Merrett said jadedly, rubbing his brow, “as you know any sleep I catch is corrupted with the foulest of visions. I awake more tired than when I lay down.”

                “Perhaps you will allow me to brew you something from the warricking stores? Normally such potions leave you groggy, but I can finesse them to where such effects are minimal.”

                King Merrett considered briefly. “Perhaps later, after I’ve dealt with a few things. I thank you, Canthus.” It was clearly a dismissal.

                The ancient elf looked down on him, centuries of observational aptitude listing nearly a dozen signs of near exhaustion in the man. “Sire, I truly believe that…”

                Merrett launched himself from his chair and towards the Arch Warrick until his face, a clenched mass of frustrated rage, was mere inches away. “I believe I have answered your question, elf! But, one more time so it soaks through that stone skull of yours, NO. Now, for the sake of your immortal skin, LEAVE MY SIGHT!”

                There was a tense pause as the mankindred stared at the High King. Canthus’

expression twitched only a little, and then he bowed meekly and turned back to his studies. Merrett watched him leave, his features still locked in anger. After the door softly shut, his hands flew to his face in shame.

 

~*~

 

                Thoris Greenwood released the little man’s neck and glared down at him.

                “Have I left anything muddled then? Is there any question about what I require, and when I require it?”

                The coach master shook his head whilst clutching at his throat. “None at all, Sir.”

                Greenwood held up one finger. “One wagon.” He held up another. “Eight horses. In one hour. I don’t care if you have to steal them, just do it.”

                The convinced fellow hopped to his feet and disappeared behind a row of stables. Thoris leaned against the splintery wall of the coachwright’s establishment,

ignoring the prickles that penetrated his tunic. He had paid handsomely to have Othis’

body preserved by a funeral warrick, and even more to have it carefully stowed in a casket for shipment to Erathai. It would be days before the gentle old advisor would have his proper burial, but have it he would.

                Thoris had no idea why Othis had come all the way to Neresta, the coastal village in which he currently found himself. His dying words were befuddling as well. He knew his contract was nearing expiration, but he would have simply sent word of renewal and continued service as normal until payment had been received. It bothered him somewhat, that word had not been sent to him first, but his mercenaries had done naught but dissuade pirates and smugglers or board the odd ship from Tull Ryedath for the last eight years, yet the High King had not requested a lessening of forces.   From what he had gathered from other sources and with his own eyes, his mercenary navy, though not under the high kingdom’s hire back then, had been the least affected by the quiet years since the Garull Wars.

                As for Othis’ assassin, he or she had disappeared like a shadow into midnight. He had sent a dozen sailors into the throng and the streets of the town (which was not very large) and into every inn and hovel that would open its doors, which most of them did with a few rightly placed words.

                Nothing.

                Thoris recalled grimly the moments of the attack yet again: the sight of the

killer slipping from behind a group of merchants with his dirk drawn, and Othis

completely unaware. He saw the green lock of hair protruding from his cap as he faced off with him, and knew this to be a mark of a Werish assassin, but this was ridiculous. An erutuuta would have sliced him to ribbons and vanished before his heart had even stopped beating. It was either a foolish imposter, or someone with odd tastes in hair color. He replayed the scene slowly in his mind, re-committing all the details that he could see behind his eyelids to memory, so that when he reached the court of the High King, he could levy an account bested in accuracy by only one other: the victim, who was dead, of course.

                Thoris sighed deeply, frowning. “Ah, Othis,” he said under his breath, “a servant of the kingdoms to the last, and truly the last servant of the kingdoms. Not a soul among us could do such a task more nobly.” Dozens of pleasant memories of long talks with the soft-spoken high advisor brushed his mind. The admiral found his heart tugged painfully. The sound of someone approaching tapped the feeling away.

                A gangly seaman turned a corner down the street, and, upon seeing his captain, jogged over to him. “Sir, we’ve found something down by the stream past Merchant Row. You’d best come look.”

                Thoris nodded and stepped away from the stablemaster, his thoughts darkening further with the premonition that whatever his man had found would not make things any easier. He followed his mate for several minutes past leaning hovels and sturdy taverns, politely sidestepping townsfolk who moved easily from the path of a man with his girth and visage. Finally, he was proven bitterly correct.

                “I’ll be twice damned,” he said thoughtfully.

                Near a small stream that had practically withered to its clay bones, was a body incinerated to a bare approximation of human form – an outline of ashes. There was a flask near where a hand had once been. It was scorched and warped but still recognizable. Greenwood knelt near, peering at it for some clue as to what had transpired. Using a twig, he poked amongst the remains that were still whole: a ring, a belt buckle, a pile of coins, and a small scabbard. It was of similar size as the dirk he had wrapped in waxed leather and stuffed into his belt. He was convinced that this was the mongrel bastard that had killed Othis, but what in the name of all the hell’s halls had happened to him?

                Thoris stood, placed his blocky fists on his substantial hips, and sighed heavily. “Fetch the constable. I think that our murderer has been murdered.”

                There was a bustle of departing sailors, and not long after, the constable, a relatively young healthy fellow, came trotting up with a trio of Thoris’ men in tow. He knew the man somewhat, and he seemed to be an honorable sort.

                “Admiral,” he began, “your men tell me you’ve found something that might shed some light on the murder?”

                Greenwood nodded curtly, “He was the chief advisor to the High King, Lord

Constable, and whether or not it helps is yet to be decided. One of my men found… well, whatever in the hells this is.” And he stepped aside to reveal the man’s remains, if it was indeed a man.

                The constable’s only change in demeanor was a subtle shift in his features to one of light curiosity. “Hm. Well, offhand I’d say he was burnt to a crisp.”

                Greenwood chuckled grimly. “I think we are a few stages past crisped, Constable. Any ideas as to how?”

                The constable squatted near the corpse. “I don’t believe this was caused by

anything as mundane as flame. None of the vegetation is burnt, or even scorched, yet there was heat enough to leave not a single bone whole.” He gestured idly to the immediate surroundings. “Someone set afire stumbles around in agony, setting ablaze whatever they come in contact with. And, if we’re talking about normal, everyday fire, only a furnace could furnish heat high enough to burn even bones completely to ash.” He shook his head lightly. “No. This person was incinerated with warra.” He leaned over and poked at the bottle with his finger. “This could be the culprit. Either he committed suicide in what may be the most painfully creative fashion I have ever encountered, or the oomed wretch believed that what he was drinking was going to have a much, much different effect than it did. Or,” he shrugged and glanced around idly, “some 3^rd party is involved. Tossed at him, timed to go off in a pocket, teleported into his stomach, etc., etc.”

                Thoris pursed his lips. “So. How do we find out?”

                The constable looked up at him. “I take it you’re sending Othis’ remains

back to Ianett?”

                The admiral nodded but then his face darkened as he guessed at what the constable was going to say. “Well gods and devils dancing. The victim and the villain delivered in the same wagon, and both of them dead.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 28

 

                “Prayer has many uses, and moves thoughts and energy in many directions.

Intent and concentration creates action, even if you cannot see it.”

-        

Primaxis Cathrynne IV

 

                Zartothzorok was pleased, though nothing was going the way he had planned. The reason for his contentment was that nothing could truly affect him to the point of hardship, so everything else was simply fascinating spice to the pot. His schemes of late had been disrupted, as Camdur’s stoats had slipped the net, which was a misstep that could potentially undo his entire ploy if he did not take very careful measures. And he felt somewhat conservative about pouring too many resources into doing this, for there were other matters that warranted attention.

                The being that had birthed and augmented itself on the primeal plane was either unaware that such actions drew attention, or foolishly believed itself so powerful it was beyond the ken of anything that wished it harm. At some point in the future, the demon lord would personally show it the folly of such thinking. For now, it offered yet more uncertainty, more intrigue to the aeonic doldrums to which his existence could, at times, reduce itself.

                He clapped his hands together in excited anticipation, their slender, pale appearance oddly counter-indicative of their abilities. Leaning forward he sent a mental summons to one of his older souls, a greedy shell of an elf whose name had been lost to his agony long, long ago. Zartothzorok felt him wandering the pens in the halls far below, lessening his own pain by inflicting it on the spirits most recently ensnared. Looking through his eyes, the demon lord could see the elf scraping barbs of anguish from his immortalized skin and layering it on to the spine of a woman who had been sucked into Zartothzorok’s realms only hours ago. The soul takes on a form similar to what it had in life, but its substance is much more malleable and fluid. The woman’s jaw dislocated and her face stretched horridly in reaction to the pain inflicted upon her. The elf had learned how to do this centuries ago, and the more crafty lords of hell would allow such activity, for though the torment of one soul was lessened, that of the other was much greater and thus more sustenance could be gleaned from it. That was why they were here, after all, to feed the kings and queens of the infernal.

It was at first deemed unfortunate when hell’s secret had been uncovered. The legend of the thousand hells had been loosed by intrepid adventurers – some on crusades of religious discovery, but most under the auspices of nothing more than curious exploration – who had managed to sneak behind the virtually impregnable curtains that shielded these realms and returned with tales of what happened to a being of sentience if they commit too many dark acts. It became a hovering instrument of final punishment that was used by warricks and instructors and religious fanatics ever since, in an attempt to keep the populace walking the path of goodness – or, in many cases, pay to think they were walking the path of goodness. Ultimately, though many potential cattle were lost to the sickeningly pristine halls of Ummon’s Tower, mortal tendencies still saw a satisfyingly large migration of souls weighted by their sins and thus moving too low and too slowly between planes of existence to escape the snapping jaws of hell’s voracious minions.

                The demon lord bade the elf to cease his petty feedings and attend him at once. He obeyed the moment the command was issued, and the female shrank and cocooned herself with her own limbs until she was a gibbering, sobbing clot of misery.

                Zartothzorok and his kind never went hungry, though simple survival was no

longer the intent. Each needed to have more than the other, and since few had more than the demon lord, he was a target of interest by many of his “brothers and sisters.” His discoveries in furthering their game had garnered as much jealousy as admiration amongst the other demons, and a recent revelation would exalt him even more. There was a cost involved, but the potential harvesting of what was sown was practically limitless.

                The elf arrived. He was a beautiful thing, really. Blackened and scoured smooth by centuries of torment that, though they would not actually destroy his soul, had shaped it magnificently. He appeared a thin, ductile wraith carved from obsidian. His already sharp elvish features were filed to points. He awaited at the aetheric vaulted entrance of Zartothzorok’s chamber, standing absolutely still, for motion induced more pain, and pain was all that weighed on his mind. With a small smile, Zartothzorok withdrew the mental barbs buried in the flesh of his soul to the point where there were virtually none at all. The elf’s eyes widened until they seemed they would meet in the middle, and his mouth fell open. A thin ribbon of tongue slipped from his mouth. The cessation of anguish was like the gentle touch of a lost lover, so rare was its presence.

                He found his voice, which was thick with rapture. “M-my master... why do you gift me thusly?”

                Zartothzorok chuckled deeply, the ivory skin around his mouth and eyes lining slightly under a smile. “I have duty for you, old meat. It will involve a return to the realm from whence you came. Shall I describe it to you?”

                The elf swayed back and forth, closing and opening fingers that had known

nothing but misery for centuries. The beloved loyalty he felt was toward the very being that caused him such pain, but the removal of it was a bliss so deep and enthralling that this fact hardly mattered. “Anything, my master, anything that you command.”

                Zartothzorok stood, his dimensions human, his garb dark and non-descript. He walked from the ectoplasm of his throne and stood near the elf. “Excellent. Now, for your second gift: Your name.”

                The shining ebony of the shell-less soul’s face folded and pinched with emotion. “My... name?”

                Zartothzorok nodded. “...Was Hareyamin. Several lifetimes under my care have buried this simple fact in whatever layers of self could possibly still exist in the fluidity of spirit, but it dwells there still. Take it. Feel it. Remember it.”

                If tears could have come, they would have. Hareyamin stood there in mute shock as this petal of memory drifted from the depths of his wracked existence to the surface of his mind. “Huh... ray... uh... min,” he whispered. The emotion of such a basic sense of self swept over him like a fog made of soft light. He sucked the entire lower half of his face into his mouth and sobbed noiselessly. Zartothzorok found the sight comical, in an annoying sort of way.

                “Enough, waste. Your task will be difficult and painful, but you shall be given something I have never before bestowed on one of my harvests: another existence in the world that you have so wronged.”

                Hareyamin gathered himself and nodded quickly. “You bless me with your

kindness, Master – ”

                Zartothzorok’s visage collapsed into a demonic sneer, his brow nearly touching his upper lip as his teeth divided into needles of black glass and his hair erupted in violet flame. Hareyamin fell to his knees and planted his face on the floor at the demon lord’s feet with such force that his nose would have broken instantly had it been made of bone. He whimpered plaintively.

                “Wrong,” Zartothzorok said, his voice dropping to a bass thunder that quaked the very walls. “There is no kindness here, only gifts to restore clarity. A gift need not deliver kindness, as you will see.”

                “What is it you would have me do?” Hareyamin whispered, not lifting his gaze.

                Zartothzorok’s appearance returned to that of a slim, handsome man of middle years. “It is twofold: I will send you back in time to the nexial plane to inhabit the body of a fatherless child still in the womb. Yes, it will be most unpleasant, for your awareness and experiences will be as they are now. Once you are born, steps have been taken to assure your placement in hands that will raise you so that you will eventually meet a man who will eventually become close to a vested interest of mine in this time. Befriend him or destroy him, I care not which. If you become his confidant you will be able to share in the relationship he will have with my vestment. If you remove him, you will take his place. Either guarantees a most interesting series of events.”

                Hareyamin looked up from his penitent position. “I am at your disposal, Dark Lord.”

                “Of course you are. You have always been at my disposal, meat. Now, though, you may actually be of some use other than as a garnish to a meal.”

 

~*~

 

                Dinner had been served and consumed, and was excellent. Noal’s skill in the

kitchen was masterful, and Master and student had supped in practical silence, a mute

tribute to the tastiness of a meal, when in pleasant company. Shortly after, Alec, his eyes glazed over from an exhausting tale, rich food, and more alcohol than he had ever seen much less drank, retired stiff-legged to bed. Arachias closed the door to Alec’s room and blew out the lantern glowing in its wall mounted sconce.

                He stood there a moment, staring at the door. He had had all the doors crafted by the same carpenter, a master of his trade that could work miracles in wood. Atop each door was a carved symbol in one of several languages, some of them ancient to the point of extinction. Alec had chosen his room at random, after having been given the full run of the guest rooms in which to repose. He had chosen the door with the dwarvish word for spuucruul, or the owl, carved into its face. It seemed very appropriate, for the two main traits of the owl were wisdom and freedom. Alec was not exactly wise yet as his years were not long enough, but his mind was certainly sharp which was often a portal to wisdom. And freedom? The youth had little of the reckless abandon so common to his age, but there was a longing in him, a longing to be detached from his miserly father and the bound manner of the world into which he had been thrust. The next season of Alec’s life would tell a great deal about the sort of man he would become.

                “He will do his father shame, Master,” Noal said from nowhere, the same nowhere from where he appeared. He punctuated his statement with a wry half-grin.

                Arachias agreed. “The gods, willing yes.” He turned from where Alec no doubt reclined in the grips of a slightly mead-induced slumber and started towards his study near the living room. “I have spent more than one evening injecting ideals and tricks into the minds of young people, Noal. Why does this lad leave me feeling so concerned over whether or not I will do a sufficient job?”

                Noal kept pace beside him, his hands clasped delicately behind his back. “You do yourself a bit of a disservice, Master. Yes, you have tutored youths in the past, though you hardly needed the coin. I had always felt it was a personal crusade for you, a venture in which you can give a brighter torch to young ones with which to illuminate their path.” He paused for a moment, weighing his words carefully, though truly, this was unnecessary. “The torch you were given burned your hands, as it was thrust into your grasp flame first. Then, after you righted it and salved your wounds, you had to pick the path that would lead you to the life you wanted. You seem to want to minimize these same trials in others, especially the young. I think you would do what you could to see that at least some of the future generation has members educated in areas of kindness and morality, as well as the parasite ridden ponds of politics and commerce.”

                Arachias mulled his unique servant’s words over. “Perhaps. I have spent several nights trying to find why I take on these cases, their shoulders still shining with grease from their parents’ greedy palms as they shove them into my care. I always end up at the same conclusion: because I want to do something wholesome. It seems revoltingly righteous at times, but that is a mondo-ish statement. Still...” Arachias peered down the hall. “...This boy has me worried about his future more so than any other.”

                Noal smiled again, his icy blue eyes glinting. “That is because he looks like you did, Master.” He peered at the closed door as well. “And he acts like you did. He is a living embodiment of an alternate future, for you.” Arachias was silent. “You may not be able to live it yourself, but, the hells and all its gnomish supporters be damned, you’ll see it happen.”

                Arachias fought off a surge of embarassment that he knew was both undeserved and pointless. Once it bled away, the cool wisdom of Noal’s statement emerged. “Yes, old friend. I think you’re right. I doubt that Alec would have ever really experienced hardship or become someone unsavory. He has deep reserves of goodness all on his own, but, with a little masterfully crafted direction, I can practically guarantee he will emulate his humble master and live the life of an honorable man.”

                Noal stopped suddenly and his eyes snapped to his master. “Honorable? Master Arachias, you mean well, but I have found far too many women of questionable repute tangled in your sheets to label you as honorable, and far too many notes of promised debt repayment scrawled with a panicked hand left in the post box by some pitiful wretch who owes you coin and fears the future should he not procure it. Cunning? Yes. Sneaky? No doubt. But honorable? Sir, please…”

                “That’s it. You’re fired.”

                Noal blanched. “Fah. Like anyone other than someone who used to kill people for a living could withstand your extremes. I wish you luck in that venture, Sir.”

                They arrived at the living room, which had been cleared and cleaned to the point where it looked unused. “I take it you will be up for a while, Sir?”

                Arachias smiled and winked, his features mischievous. “I slept hardly a turn ago, Noal. I feel fresh as a spring fawn.”

                The assassin-turned-servant inclined his head with a smile and turned from the room.

 

~*~

 

                Noal awoke almost exactly two hours later. He had long ago taught himself to keep track of time even while sleeping, and this skill had not dulled with the passing of the years. Neither had his innate sense of his surroundings, both immediate and without. Due to these finely tuned senses, he had arrived at the following: Something was wrong.

He lay there for a few moments. He calmed his breathing and his heartbeat, and then listened past both for disturbances in fields both mundane and extraordinary. Though not a true warrick or a mystic, Noal’s mind and body had been trained and honed so intensively for so many years that his sensory abilities and physique were passively and permanently tied to his warra, and thus bordered on superhuman. He was almost seventy years old, and, despite his appearance, was still at his peak physically and mentally, a degree far beyond what most mortals could possibly achieve. It was these same skills that allowed him to observe and categorize the myriad of facial expressions and body language of his master so minutely, that he could predict when he was wondering about dinner. The fact that Arachias believed him to be clairvoyant was innocent enough and amusing enough to leave as it was.

                At first, there was nothing, which he knew at once to be false. It was simply

that he had not heard it yet. He took a long, slow breath and then held it. A brief patter

of seconds passed as he filtered out the innocent sounds of the night and his own slow, quiet heartbeat… and there it was: a footfall on the stone path on the eastern side of the house. And then another. Almost in concert came another pair of footfalls, directly behind this one. Delving deeper into the unseeable secrets the dark held, Noal heard the faint movement of air yet another stranger was making as he breathed the shaky breaths of someone attempting to remain calm. Whether this was due to fear or excitement he did not know, but there was an amateurish air about this person. Sometimes this was more dangerous than skill.

                He slipped from the thin covering of his beddings and touched his feet to the

floor with just his toes, swiftly pressing his body weight into a curled crouch with no

sound that anything other than ears trained as well as his could hear. With a quick

movement he opened a drawer to a lamp table he kept oiled to the point of near silence – though with his senses opened as wide as they were, it sounded like the edge of a shield being scraped across a rough stone floor – and removed two items: his old serrated dirk (dipped in toxins so many times over the decades that it had taken on a permanent noxious quality to its edge) and a small crossbow, nocked with a bolt coated in a curious and very expensive paste that would burst into flame when it came into contact with blood. It guaranteed a very painful, messy death. He only had the one bolt, but it was to be used on one assailant while in full view of any others. Its message was clear enough

to change the mind of most wrongdoers.

                He set them quietly on top of the lamp table, and pulled a silk robe from its

hanger near the bed. Tying it quickly around his body, he retrieved both weapons, the dirk in his right hand, the crossbow in his left. Then he stood absolutely still, expanding his senses out and beyond the confines of his room again. The footfalls to the east had ceased, but he could hear them whispering now. He could not make out words as he did have limits at this range, but the act of hushed speech was clearly recognizable. The other had not moved, but his breathing had slowed appreciably.

                Noal crossed the expanse of his room like a spirit and pushed his door open. There was neither latch nor lock on this portal, a design he had implemented intentionally. It spared noise, and he would be very difficult to surprise even in sleep

should the roles be reversed and someone was trying to sneak up on him.

                He knew that no one had entered the house as yet. He took care to move quietly, but sacrificed some of his silence for the sake of speed. Only intruders of uncommon skill would be able to detect him, and, as yet, he still sensed and amateurish air about their harassers.

He stepped down the hall, stopping for a moment to listen for young Alec. After only a second he could hear the slow, rhythmic breathing of someone deep in slumber. Reasoning that this was good enough, he sped down the hallway, past the study where Arachias was buried in reading and did not even look up – and would not have seen much anyway – and into the kitchen, where there were two windows that looked out over the eastern grounds. He would alert his master in due time when he had more information.

He peered out into the murky night, letting his eyes relax and take in what little light could be had from the distant stars and shrouded moon. He knew that he was slightly backlit from Arachias’ study, but it was hardly worth any worry. They would see not quite half of a dim outline, and only if they knew where to look.

After a tense few seconds, he had them: two men garbed in cloaks and robes of dark hue to blend in with the night. They crouched in the gloom, unmoving. Noal stood silently, his eyes piercing the night and peeling back the layers like sheets of wax paper obscuring a painting. From his vantage point, removed from the center of the building where his chambers were, he could no longer discern the third individual awaiting at the outskirts of the wall, which probably meant he was still there.

                He heard the thin rasp of a blade slipping from its sheath. From the length of time it took to draw, he guessed it as either a long knife or a short sword. That was enough. Noal turned from the window and moved nearly soundlessly to the study.

                He murmured at just above a whisper in Arachias' ear, “Master. We have guests.”

Arachias, attuned in his own way to Noal’s mannerisms, looked up with

contained alarm. “Where? How many?”

                Noal stood at the doorway and pointed to the east. “Two.” Then he gestured in the opposite direction. “One. There may be more beyond the edge of what I can hear. The two to the east are right outside the mansion walls. The other is beyond the exterior wall, most likely the leader.” He smiled softly. “One has drawn a weapon.”

                Arachias clenched his jaw. “I there anything else you can tell me?”

                Noal nodded. “The two are reasonably well-trained, but not experts. An expert would have come in through the roof. The one near the street even more so. His breathing is erratic, most likely from nervous tension. “

                Arachias’ face grew deadly serious. “Alec?”

                “Is safely tucked away in his room, Master. We might consider moving him to one of the sub-basements if things get particularly tense, but for now, I think we should attempt to uncover more about our assailants. Without knowing what they know, we cannot assume, however doubtful, that they do not know everything about this house, and all of the ways in and out. Someone trapped beneath it, all exits but theirs sealed, may be exactly what they want.”

                “I agree.” Arachias got to his feet after grabbing a slim dagger of his own he used as a letter opener from his desk. “What should we do?”

                Noal considered. “It is too bad that they are not at the main or rear entrances. Your guardians would most likely be more than adequate to handle such a threat, as long as a warrick of some repute is not amongst them, though I am interested how they scaled the fence. Of course, if they attempt the windows, the traps set there would deal with them as well, though I can’t help but feel that they know this, hence why they’ve avoided both. For now? Let’s just watch and wait a bit.”

                Arachias’ jaw clenched again. “I am not much for waiting for things to happen, old friend.”

                Noal smiled grimly. “Then let us think of this as an exercise, Master.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 29

 

                Time travel is one of the rarest elements of warra that only few can achieve with any degree of skill. It takes a special precision and focus of power to send something or someone elsewhere in the timesphere, and is often imprecise and even dangerous. Only beings that can devote more than one human lifetime to the study of time and its eccentricities can ever hope to approach mastery.

 

                Hareyamin was being born – literally pulled from his mother’s body. It was as terrifying an ordeal as any torment that the hells offered, but much less painful. He

remembered his task, he remembered being warned by Zartothzorok that he would have his mind and memories but be locked in the body of an infant, and he remembered the name of the man whom he would eventually meet and befriend.

                The claustrophobic closeness of the womb was suddenly lost and blinding light took its place. He was smote by unbearably cold air, as the breath of the world is much crueler than the embrace of a mother’s belly. He stifled off the cry that jumped to his lips and then released it, as he knew this was the way of human infants. The sound his tiny vocal cords made was shrill and pathetic yet strangely satisfying, for it was the first cry of distress he had made in a thousand years that had been answered with kindness.

                As he was cleaned, he heard muffled voices and saw blurred images. He could not yet understand what was being said, but it was clear there was a great deal of activity, more so than what would follow a birth. He felt his tiny heart beating and his lungs moving so he knew the problem was not with him. And then he sensed it: Along the line of life giving connection between he and his mother, he felt the shuddering clutch of death. The woman who had birthed him was dying. An indescribable sensation of fear and loss filled him, and his cries came unbidden this time. Zartothzorok had insinuated some barb in his being, some venomous hook that had stolen the breath from this woman ensuring that he would be parentless. He could not remember his first mother. It would seem he would not know this infernal surrogate, either.

He had not felt the light of hope in so many centuries he had forgotten what it looked like, but, some tiny piece of him still recognized it. Unfortunately, he had been a fool in this life, as he had in his former one, which, of course, is how he ended up in the Hells in the first place. It would seem his blighted soul would know no end of torture even though it had returned to the world of the living.

Effortlessly tossed back in time as he was, he must trust in the scheme of his master, for it was he who had set this horrendous sin in motion. As the trauma of his birth and his birther’s death left him, he found that more memories of his mortal existence were returning, whether unbidden or granted by his master he knew not. The implications of this were enormous. Though physically an infant, he had the mind and recollections of an adult as well as a damned soul well versed in the application of pain, both subtle and overt. With careful application of these and, hopefully, with further instruction from his master, he would excel just enough to please him, and end his pain once and for all. Ultimately, that is a shared desire amongst the infernal and the celestial alike. Seeing as he was more instrument than recipient, he wondered if he would garner as much relief spreading this pain to the mortals of the primeal plane as he did the demons of the Thousand Hells. He also wondered how much he would enjoy it.

 

~*~

 

                “They are biding their time for some reason. I cannot discern why.” Noal

muttered.

                Both men crouched near the window through which they had observed the

shadowy figures do not very much.

                “I think there is warricking about them,” Arachias whispered. “At least one gifted enough to sense the snares on the main gate and windows, and the warra of the

guardians. They went another way around.”

                Noal agreed. “Yes, but I doubt they will be able to force the rear door or the

windows, Master. They are of too sturdy construction, traps or no. And if they did, they’d make a horrendous noise, even if they could circumvent the warra.”

                “Nothing is impenetrable, Noal. I don’t believe that they could get this far without some degree of certainty that they could gain entrance to the house.”

                “Unless they’re waiting for someone to come out?”

                Arachias chewed his lip. “I had thought of that, but whom? And when? They could wait all night for all they know, and they would be much harder to conceal in the light of day.” He shook his head. “They have something else in mind.”

                Noal made a brief silencing gesture with one palm, as he began to sense movement. “The two on the east side have pulled away from the house, and have left the grounds.” He paused, straining his ears. “They are moving in the direction of the third, in the street.”

                Arachias nodded. “Are they giving up? Did they see us?”

                Noal shook his head. “I doubt either. I don’t think that they would take such pains to penetrate the…” The curious old fellow glanced to his right but didn’t turn his head. “Our young friend rouses.”

                “What goes on?” A groggy voice said behind them.

                Noal and Arachias turned toward the noise and saw Alec shuffling out of his

room, his eyes puffy with sleep. Arachias lifted one finger to shush him and had the barest sliver of a moment to see Noal’s eyes flash wide when the old man seized him and shoved him away from their position. Immediately after this, most of the east side of the house exploded.

                Noal was thrown back against the opposite wall with terrible speed, instantly

knocked unconscious. Arachias fared better, as the combination of Noal’s quick thinking and the force of the blast spun him around and shoved him into a small table near the window. He was battered and stunned, but relatively unharmed. Alec had stood in shock the entire time, only closing his eyes as debris and glass scored his skin in hundreds of places.

                As the muffled roar of the blast drained away and was replaced by a piercing

ring, the boy opened his eyes again. He could see that Noal was still unmoving in a

crumpled heap where he had landed. He could also see that Arachias was groaning and lopsidedly attempting to sit up. He realized his mouth was open and closed it as the destructive haze only just began to settle, and then two thickly built men dressed in dark clothing from head to foot scampered into the house amidst the smoke and rubble. Once they spotted Arachias, they both pounced on him before he could regain his composure.

                His constitution was robust and they treated him as if this was known to them, for they wasted no time in binding his feet and arms together, and then linked the binding so he was effectively hog-tied. One wrapped a thick piece of cloth around his mouth several times to stave off his voice should he call out.

                Somehow petrified at first, Alec at last found his voice again. “Wh-what is all this? Who are you people?”

                One of the men held up a small crossbow and leveled a bolt sticky with some dark, noxious looking substance at him. At this range there was very little chance he would miss, and Alec was still too befuddled to dodge. He pulled the trigger and it streaked through the air. A half second before it struck the boy, it suddenly dissolved in a spray of smoke and sparks. Alec was pelted by specks of charred wood and ashes.

                A third figure stood in the hole where the wall had once been: a short being

cowled over with a black hood and shrouded by a cloak that wrapped around its body.

A raised finger indicated that it was responsible for the vaporized crossbow bolt.

                “Stop,” it said in a rough, gargly voice. “We don’t need unnecessary casualties. This heist will be difficult enough to pull off. If we’re caught, I’d rather have the boy speak to uncommon mercy, rather than the mute testimony of the murdered.” The other two looked at him incredulously. “Oh, for devils’ sake, just pick him up and let’s get out of here.”

                They hoisted a very angry Arachias up by his feet and armpits, and headed out the way they came in. Alec stumbled over to Noal, who was still unconscious and had a nasty gash on his head that ran with blood. The boy was furious, and spoke beyond what most would consider any sense of his own safety.  “Now see here, you can’t just break open a man’s house, and… and, steal him off like some sort of –”

                The little leader of the trio reached into his left pocket and withdrew a strange looking sphere the size of a large marble. He turned it once in his grasp and whispered a brief flurry of words. Alec felt his voice ripped from his throat, and his vision swam sickeningly. He tried to keep his feet, but the sensation was so disorienting that he found the world tipping in too many directions at once and very quickly found himself back on the floor. For a moment he struggled to rise but his head felt like it weighed more than the body to which it was attached.

                The kidnappers had fled long after Alec could even attempt to get his feet again, but this did nothing to keep him from trying. The bloody outline of his body he left on the tiled floor was blurred and smudged by his struggles. By the time he finally was able to

haul himself painfully upright, his eyes were streaming with tears.

                “Gods damn it all!” He swore through grinding teeth.

 

~*~

 

                The looming walls of Tyn Ianett were so large and ancient and so pockmarked and lined with repair that it seemed the limb of a great, scarred stone giant in slumber, reclining in the tall grass just outside of the Ianett township. They were fifty feet high on average though, if measured from crown to foot. in many places it was even taller where the uneven rampart negotiated the swells at its foundation. Its original architects could not flatten entire hills in quick response to the High King’s orders for construction, but wanted the top of it to remain more or less uniform. Consequently, the top was largely flat but the bottom followed the contours of the landscape.

                Behind this wall were several huge keeps, each of sufficient size to be castles

themselves. Between and surrounding them were hundreds of halls, barracks, blacksmiths, stores, warehouses, and housing for much of the High King’s staff. The

keeps had been built and engineered to be completely self-sufficient should the need

arise. That way anyone from Merrett himself down to the lowliest scullery boy could trust that long-term shelter was not very far away.

                Off center of the vast expanse of land that the great walls framed, and nearest the eastern-most wall was a structure that dwarfed anything mortal-made or otherwise for many miles in every direction: the main keep of Tyn Ianett. Known as Sovrigal, or King’s Helm, this sprawling, discordant structure was so enormous, it could have swallowed the nearby township whole. Seated as it was atop an artificial hill, legend has it that Garadeen Bay to the east was created by the immense absence of earth left by its construction.

                Nearly a thousand feet high from the base of the hill to the crown of its tallest spire, the upper parapets were at times wrapped in fog and invisible from the ground. Some jested that it was then that the High King spoke with the gods themselves.

                “Hrmph,” muttered Thoris Greenwood as he glanced upwards at the thick towers of the castle, like they were the digits of Erathai’s hand trying to scratch purchase in the sky. He bounced and jolted next to the wagon driver who had not said a word for forty miles. Twice he had had to fend off highwaymen and once even a small pack of goblins nearly by himself, as all the driver would do was flick stones at them from a crude sling, and his aim left something to be desired. All of these encounters occurred while on the main Harradreyen Road, which was a well-maintained and frequently traveled corridor. Practically unheard of.

                They made their way through tiny hamlets knotted between the vast girths of

redwood trees, to strange huts of bone skeletons wrapped round with hide. The

inhabitants either waved in a friendly manner or ignored them as if they were not even there, but all seemed uneasy. It seemed that there were none who had not seen or even encountered the increasing dangers of the road and the wilds.

They rumbled across roads that had not seen traffic for years, and then onto streets of packed earth so solid it was nearly stone. Thoris had mused on the greatness of these lands, a practice with which he was little accustomed. The wagon driver had been as indifferent as always, either so accustomed to these travels or so inured of it that nothing – even the surprising – surprised him anymore.

                As they passed from the rough country roads, so beset by the recent strife, to the vast scrubbed and safe streets of Ianett proper, Greenwood mentally dashed over the short list of concerns he would bring to the High King’s attention. He had dismissed the paltry offense of not having his contract automatically renewed. It seemed so shamefully trite now. He was embarrassed to have ever given it notice. As for Othis’ demise… It had shocked him at first, but as he entered into the realm of discovering the makings and stirrings behind it, he had been able to distract himself from it. By immersing himself so, he saved himself from its full view. You cannot see the corpse when you’ve buried yourself in its innards.

                As random and unpredictable as the previous clutches and clusters of buildings had been, the stores and homesteads and stables that they now rumbled past were comparatively uniform. They were of similar immaculate design, quite in contrast to the patched and rebuilt walls of many of the nearby settlements. The driver sighed and shook his head repeatedly. Thoris looked at him and scowled. “What are you shakin’ your head about?”

                He shrugged and uttered his first words in nearly two hours. “Just not someplace I’d wanna’ spend my days.”

                Despite his own outwardly cranky demeanor, Thoris felt a few barbs of resentment rise in his gullet at having such a resplendent collection of human achievement discounted so casually, but he had to admit, it did not exactly suit a man

of his bearing either. Still.

                “You know, the humans were nomadic dogs and squabbling lords before the High King came along. So, whether Ianett is a place you’d lay your head or not, it’s still not a place to shake it at.”

                The waggoneer shrugged again. “All the same to me, really. I never stay in one place long enough to decide if I like it or not. And the High King is more title than mettle.”

                Greenwood ground his teeth and felt his blood bubble. “Do you know what it

is you’re carrying?”

                The crusty fellow sighed with irritation, weary of the conversation – whether by

subject, length, or both, it was impossible to tell. “Yes, yes, the High King’s personal

somethin’ or other. No iron on my back, though. One less money-grubbing bureaucrat to…”

                The man’s lights went out far too quickly, far too painlessly for Thoris’ tastes, but the satisfying thump he made as he hit the flagstones made up for it to a degree. As he took the reins and the seat, he felt a slight moment’s regret on his part, as the dirty man’s presence on the street seemed completely out of place against the neat and tidy visage of the city, but he reasoned that he would be dealt with as was all the other trash in the jewel of Erathai. The few that noticed him, laughed. Apparently even Ianett was not so removed from depravity that the scene was completely unfamiliar.

                The townsfolk went about their normal ways, loading up wagons, shooing

children from their paths, shopping, eating, and drinking. The overall sentiment of the community was of prosperous happiness from the middle classes to the wealthy, a mentality lost to most cities. The people were for the most part well-cared for but hardworking, earning their stations and treatment honorably. It should have eased his misgivings and put aside his feelings of alarm and concern, but the opposite occurred. With every smiling child sprouted a foul blossom of worry. With every customer slapped on the back in friendship loomed a specter of doubt. By the time Thoris had arrived at the great iron gates of Tyn Ianett he was fairly bursting from his seams.

                A guard wrapped in gleaming steel addressed him courteously. “A good

morrow to you traveler! What business…”

                “Shut your woman hole and get word to the High King that Thoris Greenwood, Admiral of the Mercenary Navy is waiting for an audience and he’d be well advised to put aside whatever social rump rubbings he has scheduled and see me!”

                The guard, a tall, broad, well-trained man a decade the burly sailor’s junior

nonetheless blanched somewhat. He opened his mouth in retort. Thoris’ rebuttal was drawn and brandished before a word even found his tongue.

                “Don’t fret me, whelp. I’d as soon polish my fists on your pate as look at you, just to brighten my mood. Tell him my name and describe my face. He’ll know the rest.” He jerked a thumb towards the wagon. “And place this wagon in impound. The remains of High Advisor Othis and his murderer reside within. Guard it with your lives, and await the High King’s decree of what to do with it, and when.” He paused as the guard stared at him in disbelief. “Off with you!”

                He turned and stalked away, but gave the old admiral a long, steady glare that spoke of something much different than departing cowardice. Thoris had bluffed him neatly, for he was armed only with his dirk and covered in not a scrap of armor, but his temperament and razor-edged tongue often did the work of a hundred blows. He hopped off the wagon and left it where it sat. Either the dispatched wagon driver would come looking for it, or he would not. Soon it would not matter, for it would be safely locked away and would not be released to him until its contents had been removed. Once that was done, Thoris cared not a whit for the fate of either wagon or driver, and secretly wished he had given the man an even half dozen kicks to his ribs for his troubles. His

ire rose like a tidal crescendo…

                …And, like a candle puffed on by a giant, his rage fled him without reason, other than perhaps it had burned itself out. He felt old, and tired. And he was so very, very worried about why Othis had been killed and sad that he had not even a moment to say goodbye. He sat on a stone bench and waited for someone to send word that his audience had been granted.

                By the time his message had reached the High King’s ears, fighting back despair

took twice the will it had taken to fight off his anger.

 

~*~

 

                Arachias woke to the raucous shifting of a moving wagon. He looked around and saw only iron bars overlaid with thick planks of wood. There was a fading throb in his head right where his spine met his skull. There was also a bit of blood, but it had long since dried and the wound that had bled was closing. He shook his head, and the few cobwebs still clinging to his vision dropped away, and the ache vanished completely. He looked around again with a bit more clarity.

                There were no openings in the walls of the six by four box he was in, but there were nearly hand-sized holes in the rear corners, presumably so he would not suffocate.

                “Thoughtful,” he muttered softly.

                Since he did not know how many attackers were out there, he decided playing unconscious for the entirety of the journey would be wise. So, he simply sat with his hands folded in his lap and tried to think of why this had happened.

                Of course, the most unpleasant of possibilities loomed first: Could Mondo have finally caught up with him? It did not seem probable. It had been a decade and more since his escape. After he had become established in Greann and he could afford to hire some help, he received numerous reports that Mondo had spent considerable coin on locating him, but, these efforts did not last very long. At first he had thought the foul little bastard had died or moved on, but this was not the case. He was as healthy and present as always, he had just stopped trying, I had assumed, due to the cost. Consequently, though I had them peek into the veil of information from time to time, these same agents uncovered nothing new. If anyone had been taken under the employ to seek him out, he was confident he would have received some word of it. The cretins who had assaulted him seemed to have been sent from somewhere else, by someone else.

                Bearing this in mind he could not rule out the mind holding Mondo’s leash,

seeing as how he never did discover who that was, but... well, maybe that was it, by

elimination. It seemed the most plausible explanation, though the list of people whom he had “wronged” over the years was considerable. With a tired sigh, he slumped against the wall of the wagon. The list was topped by whoever Mondo called master, but extended beneath it endlessly. If he could just get a glimpse of who it was that now held him, he would know how to talk himself out of this.

                While attempting to ferret out who on this list he had made really, really upset with him over the years, he began to hear a muffled roaring in the distance. It was something like a strong wind in the trees, but with more substance. After a few moments he realized that what he was hearing was a waterfall. As the wagon jounced along nearer to it, it became so loud it sounded almost as if they were going under it. There were no waterfalls of that size near Greann, or, at least, not near any of its roads. Where the hells were they?

                Soon, the sound faded away behind them. Much later he distinctly heard the sharp report of shod hooves contacting stone. They were far too level and moving far too quickly for it to be the uneven rock of rough terrain, so he could only assume that they were on a stone laid road. There were only two regularly maintained flagged streets that were not actually in a city in all of western Hildegoth: One went from a merchant crossroads north of Greann through the vast deserts of Chaal and past Tallo to finally terminate at the gates of Fremett in Olda Sett. The other went from north of Fremett through two kingdoms and five hundred miles to the swamps in the northwest. He was certain now that they would have to at least pass through the city of his tattered youth, if that was not in fact their (his) final destination (shudder) – unless they veered off the road.

                As his ponderings were now split between who his captor might be and how

many hours it would take to get from Greann to the intersection where the road began,

a panel to his right opened. He was so lost in thought that the spectacle completely

stunned him, and he did not react until a loaf of bread and a water skin were tossed through this small square of light. He realized that he was parched and starving, but

instead of reaching for the victuals he lunged at the opening, hoping to keep it forced open to see who his captors were. He just managed to wrap his left hand around the panel as it was slamming shut to see through it. All he glimpsed was a large yellow eye Surrounded by pale folds of flesh and an extremely bushy eyebrow. The visible remainder of the face was enshrouded in a dark cowl. Then the panel was wrenched out of his grip and slammed shut.

                Arachias sat back on his haunches, and began to feel real fear for the first time since his assault and kidnapping. He had no idea who the robed figure was, and he never forgot a face. That probably meant mercenaries. Or, even worse, assassins.

                “Um, hello out there,” he began, furious with himself at the obvious tremor in his voice, “I was just wondering, uh, what you plan to do with me?”

                Silence. Worse than an improvement. Better than nothing. At least there was no punishment.

                “Oh, come now.” A bit of the old silver tongue returned. “Surely someone can tell an obviously disarrayed and helpless captive what lies in store for him in the near future?” A chuckle came from his left, and a sudden order of silence came from the right to whoever just chuckled. Aha! A fingerhold! He had done far more with far less, and he pounced on it. “I see that one of you at least has some sort of a sense of humor,” he continued. “Pray tell, who is the crabby fellow that won’t allow laughter amongst his cohorts?”

                The panel snapped open again, and the yellow eye he had seen earlier was mated to its neighbor this time. He could see that the right and left brows met in the middle forming a continuous ridge of hair that gave the eyes a permanent scowl. He could hear the figure murmuring something, while twirling a spherical stone the color of charcoal in a gloved hand.

                “Now, see here my Good Sir, I am hardly worth all this eff –” His voice was

suddenly wrenched from his lips, as if someone had pulled a snug scarf roughly from

his neck. The sensation left him gasping in astonishment. He pitched forward and clutched at his throat, at first thinking that he had been struck with something. He touched himself gingerly. No blood. No wound of any kind. He looked back at the cruel orbs staring from the depths of the cowl and tried to howl with rage at this horrible affront. All that issued from his mouth was a sharp outburst of air. The hooded face grunted in approval, and then slammed the panel shut.

                Arachias kneeled, trying to make any sound at all with his voice. Nothing, no matter how hard or soft he tried, would work. Right now, his greatest tool was his voice, and it had been taken from him as surely as a purse from his waist.

                He squatted there in the bare space of his bouncing prison as the memories of a long-buried childhood bound in fear and abuse came churning to the forefront of his mind from it depths. He knotted his fingers in his hair and felt now, as then, utterly, utterly lost.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Part 3 – Fate and The Sea

Chapter 30

 

                Graydon’s Wood is a vast forest stretching from the northernmost (and only)

temperate border of Chaal, through the eastern regions of Olda Sett, and into Fruudosch. Most roads circumvent it, a few penetrate the peripheral and thinner breadths of it, and none at all cross it at length.

                The darkest depths of this forest hold wonders and horrors that defeat the

imagination, and only the bravest of explorers or most desperate of outlaws venture into the thicker woods, and very few return. Of these, fewer still emerged unchanged.

 

                “Oh by the skin of my forefather’s nose…”

                “Hush,” she said, lifting a finger to her lips. She turned forward, fixing her eyes on a trembling clutch of figures. “Now you’re all very sorry, right?”

                The filthy bundle of rags and toothless gums that was once a man nodded

vigorously, as did the vermin behind him. “Yes’m, miss’um, w’er sarry.”

                “And you’ll never, ever, try to rob anyone or hurt anyone ever again?”

                He and the others shook their heads so violently JaBrawn was certain he saw fleas flung from their manes. “Nutta’ hair on ‘the hed offa hound, miss’um, nutta’ fly

onna pile ‘a sh –”

                “Watch your mouth!” JaBrawn roared with enough volume to split an oak stump. The failed thieves recoiled, one member clutching a wounded arm to his chest.

                Wendonel glared at them a moment longer, and then lifted her chin. “Go.” They scattered like leaves before a wind. “And remember your promise!” One looked behind him and raised a hand in agreement while bowing and nodding ridiculously, then turned and bent himself to whatever speed he could muster.

                JaBrawn shook his head, his fists on his hips. “That had to be one of the silliest things I’ve ever seen in my life. What a waste of time.”

                Favius giggled lightly, running a hand through the curious nest of hair atop his head. Wendonel smirked but there was a glint to her eyes. “Why would you go and say that? I think they learned an important lesson.”

                JaBrawn snorted. “Yes. Rob children: They give you a stern talking to, and then send you on your way.”

                Favius giggled louder. Wendonel huffed, glaring up at the towering man, who had shed more years since their departure from Camdur.

                “You’re impossible. Besides, it’s not like they got what they came for.”

                He raised a brow. Her frown turned into a smile she could not keep from her face. JaBrawn shook his head again, and peered down the path that wound its way from the edge of the woods where the would-be thieves had fled, through hip high plainsgrass and past an occasional bay and oak keeping lonely watch.

                “I still can’t believe you just let them go like that,” He said.

                “And what would have been better JB?” She had begun to call him that, much to his irritation. “Let you cut them into little pieces and feed them to the bears?”

                He blinked at the idea. “I have been raised not to lie to little children.” He looked down at her again.

                “So, the answer to your question is ‘yes’?”

                “Hmm.”

                They had been traveling for four days now, and had encountered many things perplexing and worrisome to the old warrior, but fresh and terribly exciting to the young ones. They had been beset upon by highwaymen twice, including this time. The first time JaBrawn had bade the children to hide in the wagon as he lopped and broke them into enough pieces to give a dragon a hearty meal. To his astonishment, his antics, veiled with censorship as they were, were met with harsh reprimand from Wendonel.

                “They’re probably just starving and don’t have any choice but to steal!”

                His jaw, stuck open in a painfully familiar gesture, had snapped back at her. “It’s by their choice that they live as they do! Escaped criminals, lifelong thieves yet to be caught, or worse! Their poor judgment put them out hiding in the underbrush waiting for innocent travelers, not some cruel twist of fate!” And with a laughable though inadvertent dramatic flair he had added, “But it will be my judgment that puts them where they should be.”

                She had pouted smartly and folded her arms. “I’ll deal with them next time.”

                He had rolled his eyes and said nothing.

                Once, near the withered carcass of some unidentifiable creature, they came

upon a pair of garulls, emaciated and lilting from one side to the other. The children had gasped and went white with fright. JaBrawn snapped up his sword, but the creatures’ eyes were glazed over with either famine or sickness, he could not tell.

                He had made calming gestures at them, but without taking his eyes off the beasts. “It’s all right, it’s all right,” he said.

They passed them without incident and he decided that discretion would preserve this, but their inexplicable behavior was as disconcerting as if they had attacked them. Well, not quite, but nearly so. JaBrawn had glanced behind them nervously for miles afterward, expecting something that never came.

                At one point they passed a slumbering ogre, clad from head to toe in mail made from some sort of chitinous animal that must have sported shells the size of tower shields. Near it was a club capped with the same material. JaBrawn had seen his share of the creatures, and had never seen one so well equipped. They might wear uncured leather tunics or scraps of hides, while carrying broken tree limbs or haphazardly hacked clubs, but nothing like this. Also, this brute’s weapon, crude as it was, was still stoutly constructed and probably outweighed JaBrawn.

It was also strange to see one where the trees were so thin, unless it was raiding something. The fact that it slumbered so blatantly in the open was stranger still. They normally denned in the darkest part of the wood, or in caves in the foothills. Ogres that live in the mountains were a different breed, and brooked no tenancy with their woodland cousins.

JaBrawn had spent many years wandering the woods, but even he found reason to avoid delving into the hearts of some of the oldest forests, and ogres were one of them. In the deep wood, often one would find unnecessary strife with little or no reward of making one’s way through it other than the inevitable tale of survival. JaBrawn was no bard, so such stories were useless to him. But eldritch creatures such as ogres, trolls, manjukai (a sort of arboreal monkey ogre hybrid, but in appearance only), and countless others made their homes in such places, and would have many a fascinating tale to tell – if they could talk, of course, and did not want to eat the audience so badly.

                Favius and Wendonel gazed at the massive creature in awe. It was easily twice as tall as JaBrawn, who was the biggest man they had ever seen. It’s brooding, brutish brow twitched as it snored in deep, grumbling breaths, and its greasy, leaf and cobweb clotted hair was tied back with a length of gods know what. It had a large flat nose covered with warts and, and its nostrils sprouted so much hair it was nearly a moustache. Two great yellow tusks protruded from its bottom lip and gleamed with saliva. It was the stuff of dark fairy tales and frightening stories meant to keep children from venturing into the sorts of places that were not warm and safe.

                Enthralled as she was by the spectacle, she still asked, “You’re not going to kill it, are you?”

                JaBrawn looked at her as if she had lost her mind, though he quickly realized she was asking for entirely different reasons than most would have. “No, I’m not going to kill it. I’m not even going to get near it. Without Silvermoon, I doubt I could kill it anyway. All I’d probably do with this blade is make it very, very angry.”

                Luckily it was the middle of the day, and, despite where it was, ogres have been known to sleep through their own disemboweling, so the cautious passage of a wagon, though still unsettlingly noisy, did not even stir it. Wendonel and Favius stared at the giant creature with wide eyes until he drifted out of sight around the bend.

                The children had gradually resumed some semblance of their former selves,

though they would never truly be the same. Seeing your father killed by an evil wretch of a human being would rattle even an adult, much less children – much less children that had already lost a mother, but, they had recovered more quickly than he had expected. By the end of the first day, Wendonel was speaking with him again, not at him. By the end of the third day, they both were laughing here and there. He knew that the travel and the encounters were distracting them from what was still tugging at their hearts, but he was not going to fret the idea much. If the pain returned when their journey concluded, he would deal with it then.

                He smiled inwardly at the thought. Even if he knew exactly who Derrig’s half-brother was and found him with little effort, he clearly was not going to simply drop them off with their uncle and depart when they reached Fremett. He realized that he had quietly and completely cemented himself in their lives, much to his surprise. They had moved beyond simple burden. Despite his best efforts, they had finally found their way into his heart. Ah, the hells with it all. They had taken up residence in his heart the moment he had first seen them in that field all those – days? – ago. “Ummon in his tower it seems longer than that,” he had muttered beneath a whisper.

                Skirting it though they were, the thickness of Graydon’s wood was a stone’s throw to the south of them, and at times was intimidating with its immediacy. It may have a dangerous reputation, but it was beautiful. There were oaks, and poplars, and elms, and ebonwood, and stone ash bordering the forest at its very fringe, but the relative sparsity between them did not graduate to the massive boles of the whalewoods and redwoods. The thin outskirts simply ended, and the dense flesh of the wood simply began.

Throughout their proximity to this ancient woodland, JaBrawn felt an odd stirring: a mix of fear and fascination. He was beckoned by the side of him that was of simpler, bestial attributes, and cautioned by the side of him that was, well, everything else.

                He pushed as hard as he dared for five days. Finally, a bit more than a turn away from Fremett, they made camp as they usually did, when there was a finger of red sky between the sun and the horizon. This time their respite was in a large grove of enormous oaks with trunks so wide that it took many steps to circle one, a trait that made sneaking up on them rather difficult. The sight of the oaks, so like home, tugged on the children’s hearts, but the feelings passed quickly enough.

                JaBrawn pulled down several large branches, scooped up handfuls of dried leaves, and, in fairly short order, had a comforting fire going. The evenings tended to be the most pleasant to endure, as the children seemed happiest during this time of day. They would sit around the fire with their bowls of porridge or seared and salted vegetables, staring into the flames and speaking hardly at all. Their faces were serene and content, and if any words were exchanged they were of wonder or affection idly muttered. JaBrawn would find himself in good humor at these times as well, despite having lost a weapon that was nearly a friend and buried in an expedition that he could have done without.

                Favius had taken to sitting right next to him, a practice that had begun the first night of their outing. After a few nights, the boy’s knee would lean against his, seeking some sort of comfort from his presence. At first, grumpy curmudgeon that he was, he tolerated it simply for the sake of the child, but, after the second night of this unfamiliar familiarity, JaBrawn found himself warming even to this. It was an odd thing: Here he was, a wandering loner for thirty years and preferring the company of his horse to most others, being won over to the lands of the affectionate by the idle attention of a child’s dirty kneecap. He supposed there could be worse things to pump life into the tired old vessel of his heart.

                What little conversation there was, was interesting as well.

                “You don’t have a wife, do you?” Wendonel asked one night as she gnawed on a salty twist of dried cheese. Unfamiliar with the stuff, she had taken a liking to it.

                He had given up trying to ferret out why she asked such things, so he simply

answered honestly. “No. I don’t.”

                “But you once did, didn’t you?” She looked at him with mild interest.

                He returned the look. “Yes. Long ago.”

                “She died, didn’t she?” Her question, despite its depth and inexplicable insight, was leveled at him as casually as any. He tried his best to duplicate this.

                “Yes. She was killed by a...” He paused. “...A monster.”

                She peered into the fire, as if reading something in its random patterns. After a few moments, she said softly, “You never got to say goodbye...”

                A dozen painful images, all the same but from different views, bloomed in his mind. “No. I never did. By the time I found her, she had just slipped away. I could tell by how warm her flesh was.”

                This time emotion crept into her voice, though she continued to gaze into the flames. “And your child? The boy?” She could see these things as casually as if she were in a great library of secrets, peering at book spines.

                JaBrawn must have blinked half a dozen times. “Niath. He was four.”

                Wendonel drew a small, short breath. “He died quickly. The pain never even

found him.”

                JaBrawn clenched his eyes. “Yes. His heart had been torn from his body in an instant. My wife...”

                Wendonel shook her head, her curls swaying lightly. “She took longer, but was not truly hurting either. She had made her peace – mostly because she knew Niath had been taken without having to utter a single cry.” Her features pinched slightly as the fire showed her something else. “Gods I can see it, JB... the fire, the monster... it’s awful.”

                Favius had slipped away to slumber by then, curled up in his fur-lined blanket by the fire’s edge. JaBrawn had carefully chosen dry leafless branches that would not throw sparks, as the children liked to sleep close to it. He reached down and lightly touched his shoulder, before pulling his hand away. “Yes. It had already driven away the men of the village. It slaughtered many of them when they tried to kill it, but... they could only lose so many of their own loved ones. With that number lost, the future of the village itself was threatened.” He paused, rubbing thumb and forefinger together distractedly. “I don’t blame them a whit for giving in when they did. Besides, it was not truly abandonment. They left to the nearest town for more warriors and a shaman – er... a warrick.” He paused again. “And me. I had been trading supplies and was supposed to be home already.” He lightly ran the very tip of his tongue over his bottom lip. “But, by the time we had returned, we were too late.”

                Wendonel spoke as if in a trance, staring into the flames with half-lidded eyes. “It killed everything. It killed the animals and ate many of them, but it kept killing even after its hunger had been sated.” She stopped, not even seeming to breathe. “It was satisfying a different hunger. A hunger for the pain of others.”

                JaBrawn said nothing and looked away from the fire, for even he began to see images forming in its restless fingers. Whether real or imagined, the effect was the same. And he did not want to see them.

                “It attacked your hut last. For some reason it attacked your hut last. Why?”

                He sighed. “It’s a long story. It began many years before this happened.”

                “Then just tell me how it ended.”

                Many seconds passed as he tried to boil it down to a single sentence. “I rejected an offer, and the one who made this offer was very angry with me.”

                “Yes... I can see its face now. It was so angry, that the only thing it wouldn’t kill... was you. You’d suffer the loss of your entire village, and it would make you believe that you caused it.”

                It was pointless to argue. “He was right, in a way. If I had said yes, who knows. At least it may have bought them some time.”

                “He,” she said, divining the fact. “I...” Favius stirred, as if the painful conversation had seeped into his dreams, “...Ivor.”

                At the mention of the ancient name, JaBrawn’s resolve wilted. “Must we speak of this? Of him?”

                “No, JB. Of course not. Next time, though, if you don’t want to talk about

something, don’t show me the way to your past.”

                His brow dropped. “I don’t understand.”

                She pulled her eyes away from the fire. “When you think really loudly about

things, especially the past, I can see it. And it’s never just one thing, like a piece of paper. It’s like a book cover, hanging open, with marvelous stories hanging from the pages.”

                He snorted. “Marvelous, eh?”

                A touch of a smile touched her sleepy lips. “Yes... marvelous doesn’t just mean nice, you know. Sadness and hurt can both be marvels.”

                He paused for a moment, turning the words over. And then he nodded. “Agreed.”

                “So, you killed Ivor?”

                “Eventually. I tracked him down after he had nearly killed me.”

                Something in the fire spoke to her, gently tugging her eyes back to its depths. “Giving you the gift you had refused.”

                He sniffed. “Somewhat. It turns out it had been in me all along. He had simply given it a route to the surface.”

                “The surface of what?”

                The flames seemed to reach higher for a moment.

                “The surface of me.”

                She turned away again, to the fire. “You used his gift against him. And you stole Silvermoon from him.”

                He laughed lightly, though it was humorless. “In a sense. She came to me on her own. She is a noble soul, and he had pressed her to villainy against her will for centuries.” He smiled. By the gods, he truly missed her. She had been a subtle company only noticed by her absence. “I buried her so far in his foul flesh I swear she was the one who sucked the life from his heart.” A frightening veil dropped over his face. “We both had our revenge.”

                Instead of reacting with fear, she returned the look with one of her own. “You, sure as the hells burn, did.” And then she grinned demonically from ear to ear.

                Again, Wendonel astonished him. But this time, instead of admonishing her,

he erupted with laughter.

 

~*~

 

                “My King, Admiral Thoris Greenwood is here in the…”

                The guard was muscled aside like a statue made of twigs, and the doors flew open as if pushed by an angry god, banging loudly on the stone walls. In strode Thoris, his grizzled face twisted into a snarl.

                Guards instantly converged on him, swords and curses drawn equally. The High King jumped to his feet and motioned for them to back away.              “It’s all right, men! Leave him be. In fact, give us a few minutes if you would.”

                The warrior nearest him gaped. “My King, I don’t…” A look silenced him. “Yes, Sire. Right away.”

                They moved from the room without hesitation, and Thoris was soon left in the high King’s lone company. They stood across the room in an uncertain checkmate and regarded each other unreadably for several seconds. The High King drew a breath, but Thoris’ mouth opened first.

                “I…” He began, and then his voice fled. Emotion overtaking him, the King rushed to his side, embracing the man as tears of his own flew to his eyes.

                “I know, old man.” Merrett said. “He was…”

                “…He was the last of the truly good men. The very last of the truly good,” Thoris sputtered. “The rest of us mean well, and good overturns evil in our hearts, and on and on, blah blah, but there was not an evil hair on his head nor a vile thought in his soul.”

                Merrett chuckled lightly through his tears. “Oh, he had a mouth that could reduce an ettin to tears if he so wished it.”

                Thoris rubbed a hand across his eyes and pulled away from him while patting him on the back, though a laugh had found him as well. “Aye, and gods bless him for it.”

                Merrett stood near him, smiling for a moment. Then, he said, “There has been more than a vacant position in this castle, since his death. I feel that a basic piece of the entire kingdom’s foundation has been torn from its place, a piece from directly under a pillar. Even now, the entire structure shudders from its loss.”

                Greenwood crushed his eyes shut. “I remember... long talks with him. About the sea. And the men who ride her.” He smiled. “And the women who ride the men who ride the sea. He was fascinated by it, though not because he wished to sample its wares. He simply thought it was a primal, sweaty, nasty example of what makes humans, dwarves, elves, what have you – so full of life, what makes this life...” He waved a hand, his eyes still shut, grasping at thoughts. “...what it is.”

                Merrett inhaled sharply. He had never known this about Othis, truly. Instead of jealousy that his advisor had not bequeathed such thoughts, he felt loss again at not having experienced this fascinating side of the man himself. “I am so tired of hurting, Thoris.” It was not an accusation, and the admiral knew it. “I am glad you are here.”

                The mercenary frowned slightly, and laid a broad palm against the king’s chest. He then shoved him hard enough to push him into a chair behind him.

                “Gods damn you, Thoris,” the High King admonished, but there was a grin

plastered across his face.

                “You’ll always be a pushover, little Merry.” Thoris replied.

                The High King of Hildegoth leveled a finger at him. “I told you, if you ever

called me that again, I would douse your head in oil and set it afire.”

                Greenwood laughed. “Aye, you’ve said that many times. And not once have

you ever made good on it.”

                “Hmph. A threat from a boy shoved into a pig trough can be taken much more lightly than a man who commands an army big enough to carry your navy in its pocket.”

                “Ha. If they could find it and catch it, perhaps. Besides, word is your army is

not as big as it used to be, and what is there, is a bit dusty.”

                Laughter trickled from the two men, laying a cool salve on the hurt in their hearts. Thoris sat down across from the king who loudly clapped his hands twice. A guard materialized instantly.

                “Everything is all right, Captain.” Merrett said. “Could you have someone send up food and drink? I think the good admiral and I are entirely too sober.”

                The guard nodded sharply, glanced once at Thoris and then vanished.

                “First things first, Merrett. Your guards need serious training. I should have never made it all the way up Ianett’s main tower in the state I was.”

                “And what, exactly, were they supposed to do? Kill you on the steps? Besides, your name and face are known here. And even if they weren’t, your reputation precedes you. Deluzsha herself parts the waves to allow you through.”

                Thoris nodded. “Fine, fine, but there had to be twenty of them just between the bottom of this spire and that door.” He jerked his head towards the entrance. “And not one of them could stop me. They ‘wait-wait-wait’-ed me and ‘Sir, sir’-ed me, but that would hardly stop an assassin’s blade.”

                “True enough, though honestly Thoris, not much could ever dissuade you from your path. Why, I remember clearly when you turned down Leah Barnsmitt for a rowboat despite my sternest words of disbelief. A rowboat Thoris!”

                Thoris looked at him blankly, the tips of one set of fingers laid across his chest. “It was my first boat Merrett, and that night was a full moon! The best time for a maiden voyage.”

                Merrett snickered. “Yes, but... wrong maiden.”

                Greenwood grinned broadly, chuckling. “Perhaps, little brother. Perhaps.”

                The High King looked at his elder brother with soft eyes, and his voice quickly matched them. “I believe I have asked you not to call me that, either.”

 

~*~

 

                “Get out. And don’t cause a wisp of trouble, or I’ll have three blades in your

stomach before you can even breathe.”

                Arachias grimaced. “Fair enough,” he said in a strained, hoarse whisper, the only sound he could thus far achieve. His entire head was bound in cloth so every sense was muffled except his sight, which was completely obscured. His hands and forearms had been wrapped in leather and cinched just tight enough to allow blood to trickle to his fingers.

                “So what sort of accommodations await me here? The Duke’s Repose? The

Seamaiden? I can’t think of many other inns in... what town is this again?” A sharp point of something poked him in the spine, right between the shoulder blades. A simple thrust would end him instantly. “Ah, Westenmarsh, then?”

                “Hush!” Came the rebuke, though a few chuckles again slipped from the lips of his hirelings. They were not very good. High-end sellswords would have been immune to his jibes. Indeed, they would have seen them for what they were: attempts to ferret out humanity, distraction and information.

                Truthfully, he knew he was near the coast, for even through his shrouded nose he could sense the obvious tang of the sea in the air, and the cries of gulls found his covered ears. Though he was not certain how long he had been unconscious, he did know that he recovered much more quickly than most. Taking this, the number of meals he had been given, and the travel time into consideration, he believed they had been on the road for more than a turn. His current state of cleanliness could attest to this as well, as he could not quite remember the last time he smelled this bad. With all of this in mind, he would have bet his house that they were in Fremett.

                He decided to play this weighty card. “So, are there many boats in the docks this time of day? Many witnesses to a group of armed men and a warrick leading a bound and blinded captive to wherever it is that they decide to end up. Of course, the Fremettian Guard, though ever helpful and cheery, is not the neatest of lawmakers, so a few dracos should turn their eyes – unless someone already owns them.”

                It seemed he heard a falter in the steps of all, even the grouchy leader.

                “I had been warned you were a clever one, Arachias of Tallo,” he said in a scratchy voice, “and that curse of silence should have lasted twice as long. I could just as easily expend another charge to shut you up for longer, but instead, how about we simply make a bargain. I understand that you value your skill in such things?”

                Arachias felt hope swell his soul like shallow water would a drowning man. “Why yes, good captor. Whether or not skill in such a trade is my gift, fascination with it certainly is. What sort of bargain did you have in mind?”

                “Excellent. First off, stop asking who we are. I will not tell you, and this question will answer itself sooner than I think you’d like. And stop hassling and baiting my mercenaries. They are not patient men, despite your entertainment value, and the

instant it becomes apparent to them that you jest only to cause them strife, they will hack off pieces of your body to continue their merriment in a fashion your wit alone cannot achieve. Clear thus far?”

                Arachias swallowed quietly. “As Chaaldian crystal.”

                “Now. Your return is simple. You won’t be harmed by my hirelings, my employer, or me even after I have delivered you, as long as you cooperate.”

                Arachias did not have many options at this point. “Agreed,” he said after only a few moments.

                Immediately his captor replied, “Well and done, then.”

                He would feel no pangs about renouncing his word should the opportunity arise, though. These were not beings worthy of such concern. He reminded himself not to place much value in their word either, for the same reason.

                He was lead from the wagon to a shady, quiet place, shut away from the din of the town. Most likely an alley of some sort. After several bumbling steps, some of which nearly toppled him to the curse of whoever caught and righted him, they again paused. A series of quiet clicks ensued, followed by a thin squeaking noise, like metal against lightly lubricated metal: a lock mechanism, no doubt. Something large and heavy was maneuvered with a labored grunt, and he was rather roughly shoved into a small room. He could tell its size by how close the air felt, and how quickly sound was swallowed by the thick walls. Mortar and brick most like. A loud clang and a hurried sound of the lock being reengaged, and his situation was as it had been in the wagon. Trapped and alone.

                After several minutes of twisting and pulling, he managed to free his left hand, which quickly extricated its sibling. He tore the shroud from his face and looked around, frantically shaking and massaging his hands. He was in a strange place, for it ran a great distance to the left, right, and above him, but was only a few paces wide, in front of him.  The wall behind him, (from where he entered) was stone. The one across was old rough-hewn planks, and also had a very old looking door. For all appearances, he looked to be in a very long, very tall hallway with two doors leading from it to… well, wherever they led.

Looking up, the top regions of his odd cell were lost in the murk, as were the narrow ends of the hallway. The only light that slipped in was through tiny slits along the beam that ran atop the door in the wood wall, and interspersed through cracks and holes down the walls. The floor was filthy. It was covered by a thick carpet of ancient dust and failed spider homes, broken only by the shuffling circles of his escape artistry and a few clumps of identifiable refuse. They were curled, mummified cat corpses for all he knew. One thing that was clear, was that no one had been here for some time.

                Realization beamed, suddenly. “I’m between walls...” he said quietly. Either between buildings, or an inner wall and an outer wall. A false room, somewhat. No doubt

unknown except to the privileged few, so hope of discovery by a random passerby was slim. He tried the first door, knowing full well that it would be locked, and, lo and behold, he was right. He tried the second. The handle turned, but maddeningly it would not open. A horrible tease with horrible timing. Time, patience, and the right tools might have seen the lock picked, but of the three he lacked the last. He discarded the possibility of forcing it, because whether or not he succeeded, it would create a great deal of noise. His captors would most likely consider this to be a rather blatant fracture of his vow of cooperation, and would probably bring swift, painful retribution As time passed, he would probably care less and less about this. For now, though, he would explore and contemplate.

He strode the faux hallway from end to end, seeking some other manner of ingress or egress. It was about sixty feet long, so it was part of a sizeable building. An inn probably, with lots of rabble and rousing to drown out the din of his cries, should he make them. He pressed his ear to the wood and could hear undefinable noises, that might have been voices. It may be early, or it may not be an inn at all. With a curse he continued to stalk up and down its length pointlessly, his eyes poring over features that he was passing too quickly to discern. Perhaps this was a desperate, personal trick to lead him into thinking that there was more cause to pretend to seek out a solution that was not there, than to admit there was none.

                Kicking a piece of filth across the floor, he gazed upward. After only a moment he was struck with epiphany. The walls were only about four feet apart. Turning perpendicular to the long axis of the hallway, he placed one foot against the wall opposite him, and his back against the wall behind him. He took a deep breath. “I have no idea if this is a good idea,” he said softly to not even himself, really.

                With a small effort, he raised his other foot and set it next to the first. He was now braced about three feet off the floor. He tried to slide a foot forward and then meet it with the other, but his back caught on the rough surface of the wall. He then tried to lean forward a bit, and slid down about a foot. Dropping his feet and standing, he tried again. He got a few inches higher this time, but the surface of the wall behind him was too rough to slide up. Even if he had removed his shirt and endured the pain of scraping his spine along it, he believed there would simply be too much friction. He dropped his feet to the floor again and sighed deeply, fending off frustration. Again, after a few seconds, an idea came to him. Turning around, he placed his palms on the wall instead of his back, and set his feet like before, only pointing down this time, of course. With considerably greater effort but more progress, he forced himself up the walls. The hindering quality of the rough wall now became its greatest gift to him, as handholds and toeholds were readily available. He was no mountaineer, but it was easy enough. His strength, always quick to return and easy to call on, was taxed nicely. He found it invigorating, in fact. After a minute or so, he was fifteen feet off the ground and still gaining steadily. Craning his head around, the top of the hallway finally came into view, twice the distance above him that he had already covered. A quick check of himself told him that he had enough reserves to complete the journey, so he pressed on.

                It soon became a series of small achievements for him: foot after foot, handhold after handhold. Also, it became clear that looking down was beginning to make him uncomfortable so he made certain to keep his eyes on his hands. Sweat, an uncommon phenomenon for him, sprang out across his forehead after another ten feet. By the time he had reached the ceiling, when the small of his back bumped it and caused him to gasp in alarm after such concentration, he was quite exhausted. As he held himself there, a slow stir of panic squirmed in his belly.

                He would not have enough stamina to hold himself there, much less for the trip down, which he was certain would be just as difficult as the ascent. He tried to brace himself on his elbows, but this put more stress on the small of his back and his legs. In desperation and with considerable effort, he turned over. Now, his body was braced firmly on his legs without greatly straining the muscles in them, and his arms were completely unburdened. He gathered his strength and looked around.

                The effort appeared as if it had been for naught. The stones were as solidly joined here as they were at the bottom. He tried shifting sideways but slipped a few feet and involuntarily looked down. He was soberly reminded that he was four stories off the ground. Plenty of height to break a leg or even kill him.

                “Gods damn this life of mine. Where has it lead me this time?” It was not the

first time he had put the question to whatever divine beings were listening, but it was the first time aloud in quite a long while, so high in the air, and so dirty.

                He took a deep breath and looked up at the thick, pitch-soaked timbers of the

ceiling. He did not truly know if they were the bottom of the roof, or the bottom of yet

another floor above him. He knew Fremett rather well and he knew of several old

buildings at least as large as this one appeared to be, but he was not so familiar with the city that he could tell where he was – at least not by scaling the interiors of one of their secret passageways. Barring this, he tried to think of any sort of secret passageways he had been in, other than his own. With this brief thought of his home, came the images of Alec and Noal. Alec with his eager inquisitiveness, full of youth and wonder. Noal with his quiet and soothing presence, a friend as deadly as he was dear. With a pang of guilt, he realized that it really was the first time he had thought of them since his capture, so bent was he on deciphering the who and the why of it.

                He hoped with all his heart that they were alive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 31

 

                The Unknown Lands are a large expanse of central Hildegoth that has been

rendered uninhabitable by Ummon himself, as his tower is at its center. It has been so long since any true ventures were made into its boundaries that most scholars have

dismissed it as a perpetual unsolvable mystery. From high peaks at the Unknown Land’s periphery, however, the great gleaming needle of Ummon’s Tower itself can be seen. Only its border has been charted.

                Immediately south are the Lordless Lands, where the creatures, the jungles, even the land itself has been irrevocably altered by Ummon’s first passing, thousands of years ago. It is a place where the chaos of life has taken irrevocable root, and is homage to the power of Ummon. While not immediately deadly like its northern neighbor, it nonetheless is completely inhospitable in any permanent sense. Creatures exist there that are equally marvelous and terrible, and explorers recall how they had cut and burned back the green encroachment of the jungle only to watch it regrow before their eyes. Much of the open land is vertical, and most of the intrepid explorers who have penetrated it at all and lived spent the majority of their time sleeping in the open air.

 

                JaBrawn lay awake again, peering at the stars. He had bedded down a few hours earlier, when Wendonel had drifted to sleep next to her brother. He had carefully lifted both into the wagon as the fire had dwindled to coals. Some smarter predators wait for this very moment in a fire’s life to attack, for they seem to know it to be the time when a two-legged prey’s eyelids are the heaviest. His nose detected nothing but the savory musk of the smoke on the wind, and he had found the noises of sleepy oak grove that they called home this evening to be soothing.

                There were enough trees to hide a few small animals and their nervous lives, but not enough to house predators larger enough to cause them any worry. The only way one could be there would be if they had snuck up on them during the day. Between the acute senses of Grendel and himself, this was highly unlikely.

                As his mind often did when stargazing, it wandered to the past: the recent, the long since, the ancient. He remembered seeing Derrig bleed his life out in the grass near his home, to the witness of his children. He recalled when he first stepped on these shores, fleeing from a dark and bloody history that was truly not his doing, yet could have been avoided perhaps, had he made a different choice than the one he had made. And further back than that, he watched himself yank Silvermoon, newly acquired, from the vast form of his nemesis, as he smiled and softly cursed him.

                “Forever there’s strife, JaBrawn,” He had said, among other things, through blood bubbled lips. “So forever there’s you.” And then, an eye blink later, he crossed three centuries and returned to where he was.

                He used to jerk back into reality when he did these wanderings of his, as if

starting from a dream. It would sometimes leave him shaken and cross, a mood that could take hours to dissolve. Now though, he simply blinked a few times and took a deep breath. They were just memories, no matter how vividly he could see them in his mind’s eye – or Wendonel’s, however it was she did it. He focused on the twinkly banner of stars again, uncaring whether or not his mind stayed where it was or drifted off where it may.

                Oddly, a patch of them a score or so feet off the ground and a hundred feet away, winked out, swallowed in blackness. He focused on it, thinking perhaps it was a tree leaning in the wind, though there was hardly a breeze. It could be that his mind was playing tricks on him. He kept his eyes trained on this blank patch of sky. It remained.

                He squinted, hoping this time that it was a cloud, or something of that nature. More slowly, the stars reappeared. If not a cloud, then perhaps a creature of some sort. Concern stirred. A very large creature.

                He sat up and called for Grendel. With a concerned chuff, the warhorse trotted over. It was clear the animal was perturbed, and more than simply by errant clouds. JaBrawn grasped his reins and hauled himself easily to his feet. The patch obscured again for a few more seconds, and was then uncovered as whatever was in front of them moved to its left. It was not airborne, whatever it was. He took deep wafts of air into his nose, and even dropped to a knee and sniffed the ground. He found the spoor of a half dozen creatures but nothing unusual. That telltale sense of alarm that stroked the back of his neck with jagged nails once again made itself known, and he once again reminded himself that he would be a fool to ignore it.

                He put his mouth in his horse’s ear. “Guard the children with your life.” The horse nickered quietly. “If something happens to me, knock this wagon with your hooves until the children awaken, and then convince them to get on your back.”  Grendel huffed an annoyed question. “They’ll know. Trust me, they’ll know.”

                The horse leaned forward and touched his big blocky head to JaBrawn’s. he chuffed with concern. The big man patted his neck. “I don’t know. That’s reason enough.”

                Grasping an unlit torch and flint from a saddlebag and his blade from its place under a stack of blankets, JaBrawn stalked down the path a few dozen steps and moved into the underbrush, testing the air for scent with every breath. He looked back, where the melancholy glow of the nearly dead fire very faintly illuminated the front quarter of his horse, who was staring at him intently. The rest was draped in shadow.

                He slowed, as he was getting close to where he thought the obstruction had been. He sniffed the wind again, desperately seeking some clue. He had to admit, he was nervous. He keenly missed Silvermoon, right then. It seemed that she extended all of his senses somehow, those both mundane and supernatural. Without her he felt ill prepared, naked – weak. If he utilized his other gifts he could easily…

                Again, he denied it. As before, he would not go down that path. As before, he

did not need it.

                The scant wind died down completely and he froze, seeking any disturbance in the ground: trees, grass, anything. There had to be some indication as to where and what this thing was, as it was too huge to hide. As he focused, the wind picked up again from a different direction. A scent he had never encountered before found him, and his fear redoubled. It was sharp and deep, like an ogre’s, but not wrapped over with their characteristic foul reek. He was unsure how to proceed, so he simply continued with the course he had chosen. He advanced as slowly as he could, cursing mentally every time a twig snapped or some damned animal spooked from its perch. His night vision was decent, though still well within human levels. A silvered flash of something, doused with moonlight and meaningless, flittered across his vision fifty feet from where he crouched. The strange scent was coming from the general direction in front of him, but it was too wide and uncertain to announce actual position, and too foreign to give him any clue as to its nature. Disturbing enough in its own right, but not very useful. Damn it all. For once, he was too small to be threatening, yet too big to move with subtlety.

                Enough of this he said in his mind, I could be right on top of it and not know

it. I may as well shed some light on things.

                He pulled the torch and flint from his belt, intending to light it and reveal the

dangers that hid in the night and deal with them, whatever they might be. Just as he placed flint to stone, he felt a sudden stillness and silence in the air, a stillness that he

had encountered many times in the past. Without another thought, he leapt to his right, smashing through brush and ferns and landing awkwardly on his side. The shock of an enormous impact lifted him from where he was and deposited him face first on the ground. Not resting a moment, he pushed himself to his feet, struck the flint, and flared the torch to life. Raising it aloft he sought what attacked him.

                In an instant, he half wished he had not.

                Towering above him at easily three times his height was one of the largest creatures JaBrawn had ever seen on two legs. His comparatively short and rotund trunk was wrapped in a crudely stitched leather apron. His legs were long and gangly, ending at

huge feet in almost comical proportion to the rest of him. His arms were thin at shoulder and mid-arm, with thick forearms corded with muscle and bristling with hairs so thick they were nearly spines. And his face was a flat and squashed mask of rage ringed with a dark chaotic mane where the hair of his head seemed to just turn into the hair of his of beard.

                It was little wonder why he had not recognized his spoor, for indeed he had never encountered one of his kind before, but, his size and visage were well known to

him through tales and study. It was a hirrgog: a hill giant. They were twice as tall, twice as strong, and twice as mean as an ogre as well as being a good deal more intelligent. With a brutal tug, he pulled free the war hammer that had buried itself in the earth, its striking end an immense square stone with a mass similar to JaBrawn’s entire body. He snarled and swore at him in a deep unpronounceable tongue whilst raising the hammer over his head to deliver another stone crushing blow.

                JaBrawn, momentarily stunned by the presence of the monster, dodged again as the strike came, barely avoiding it, and again the hammer buried in the ground, causing a shock wave so strong that the surrounding earth rippled outward in a circle like water. A small tree uprooted and slowly fell over because of this.

The soldier in him slapped him back to reality as opportunity of a sort presented itself. He sheathed his sword and raced between the creature’s legs, spinning and seizing one enormous heel in his powerful hands. With an effort that made him roar with strain, he yanked the foot backward and up, putting the giant in an unbalanced position. If JaBrawn had seen his face, he would have seen a look of uncommon surprise, as anything as small as JaBrawn should not have been able to do that. With another massive tug, the old soldier pulled the giant’s leg back and to the side, causing him to pivot on his other leg and nearly topple.

                The hirrgog, annoyed yet grudgingly impressed, let go of his hammer and swung his arm in a brutal horizontal chop towards JaBrawn’s midsection. With reflexes honed by decades of conflict, he managed to leap up and over the attack and, upon landing, whipped his sword out of it scabbard and slashed deeply through the creature’s forearm. He howled in pain and stepped backward, holding his wound.

                With another thunderclap of a curse and a motion too quick for JaBrawn to dodge this time as he was too close, he grabbed him around the torso with a hand that was more than a yard wide. JaBrawn nearly burst from his fingers in an instant, so the hirrgog put aside his ego for the moment, and held the obstinate man with both hands. His arms pinned and with his sword pointed uselessly downward, he twisted and jerked this way and that in the giant’s grasp, causing the creature to grasp him even harder to keep this surprisingly strong little man thing from escaping. If JaBrawn had had any true leverage, he very will might have.

                The giant lifted him until they were eye-to-eye, curious as to what his opponent could possibly be. His captive ceased struggling and glared into the giant’s face. The giant glared back, taken aback by the audacity of the man. JaBrawn should have been terrified as soon as he saw it, and if not then, certainly by now – and yet was clearly not. . With a grumpy, dim intelligence, the hirrgog realized that this was not the case.  fact, if anything, he looked annoyed.

He opened his mouth and roared at JaBrawn, who closed his eyes and turned away as the noise and stench were tremendous. The hirrgog smiled, as this was the first sign of true weakness he had yet seen. Slowly turning back to face him, JaBrawn drew in a huge breath and roared back at the giant with just as much ferocity, making the huge brute wince. Furious at this defiant act by what he considered a lesser creature, he snarled viciously and hurled him away like a man throwing a kitten.

                JaBrawn careened through the trees and into the fields beyond. He hit the ground and tumbled through the long grass, keeping his sword tightly in his hand but pointed away from him as best he could. He ended up on his back, listening to the thudding footfalls of the creature coming towards him, no doubt hoping for a mashed and bloodied corpse. Maybe he could use this to his advantage. He heard him break the cover of the trees and emit a deep bark of triumph as he spied his still form. As he shambled nearer, JaBrawn could not conceive what one of his race was doing in these lands, as they lived far away near the western foothills of the Unknown Lands. He would have never ventured across so many developed areas where he would have been hunted by men out of sport or fear, and even if he somehow had crossed such a massive expanse, he would not have taken up residence near the plains or the woods singly, where packs of predators could harass him.

                The dim stars were suddenly extinguished, as the giant had reached him. He paused and emitted a great “Harrumph,” as he attempted to comprehend why JaBrawn was not a bent and bloody carcass.

JaBrawn kept his eyes slitted, in the event that he decided to give him one last blow with his hammer, but instead the creature wrapped an immense hand around his midsection and hoisted him in the air. Hoping that, though brighter than his ogrish cousins he was not so sharp as to remember that corpses do not normally cling to swords, JaBrawn awaited a moment of opportunity.

                It never came. With a cry of evil glee, the hill giant slammed him into the ground, making even his sturdy bones quake. As he tried to extricate himself, the brute brought his foot down on JaBrawn’s head and upper shoulders, literally driving him into the earth. He stomped on him again and again, each blow burying him further. Light and air and awareness flittered and dimmed. After a few seconds there was another great weight pressed on to him from above. This pressure did not relent, as if something huge and heavy had been placed on top of him. His inhuman constitution would shrug off the horrible damage done to his body, but for now he lay there in the ground, inert and drifting towards unconsciousness while the monster strode back towards the grove. His arms and legs would not respond to his commands. His last thought before blackness swept away his mind was a prayer that Grendel had gotten the children to safety.

 

~*~

 

                Canthus peered at the corpses with restrained discomfort. It was not the sort of

discomfort caused by the dead, though the collection of black ash and charred flakes of

bone that was the attacker certainly was distressing to see. It was the sort of discomfort

attributed to the acts that one being could perpetrate on another. In his lifetime on the earth, it was one of the few things with which repeated exposure could soften his resolve, not steel it.

                The High King stood nearby, his hands clasped behind him, his face a drawn and cinched sheet.

                “The constable was right,” Canthus said softly. “This is the work of warra, not mundane fire.”

                Merrett nodded. “Thoris had said the attacker was young, hardly more than a boy. He had also said that he was skilled with a knife, though not overly so. A mere assassin I wager. Used to striking at helpless backs and then vanishing.”

                The grand warrick furrowed his thin brow. “Hm. Does he remember if the

attacker had green hair?”

                Merrett thought hard, pulling the unpleasant conversation with his brother from his memory. He shook his head. “I believe he did, though he mentioned that it happened so quickly that he doesn’t remember much about his appearance other than vague generalities.

                “I recall reading something once, about such a calling card as hair dyed green. What does it mean?”

                “Green hair is the mark of an erutuuta, also called a Werish assassin.” He waved a bored hand. “They’re a deadly conclave of kill-for-coin men and women so swift and skilled in their trade, they strike like winds armed with knives. Most hardly even remember their presence. They have declined somewhat of late, though their ranks have degenerated even further than I had thought if the good Admiral could best one in single combat. My guess is that it was a ruse to make any who saw him believe it was an erutuuta, to strike fear and stir confusion.”

                The Good King raised his brows in doubt.

                Canthus sighed. “Yes, yes, I know that Thoris is, among other things, an

accomplished knife fighter, but, the Erutuuta are selected from children that have only just learnt to walk, and are trained to kill until their death.” He idly prodded a lump of ash that had, until recent events, been part of a person. “Whenever that comes.”

                Merrett still had his reservations about a combatant that could defeat his stout brother, but he again had to remind himself that his entire lifetime would be as barely an afternoon in comparison to the elf’s. Much could be known with such time to learn.

                The ancient elf turned towards Othis’ body. The High King’s eyes looked down, as if thinking some sort of invasion were going to take place – an autopsy or other horror. The elf looked at his friend. “Perhaps you should go. I’m not certain what I can glean from Othis’ spirit, but something tells me he can shed much more light on who killed him and why than any forensics, mundane or otherwise, will tell on this side of the grave.”

                Merrett nodded. He turned to leave, his capes nearly billowing behind him, but he looked back at his most unusual guest. “If you do find him, tell him… tell him...”

                Canthus stared into the eyes of the human leader, trying to seek his answer for him, but Good King Merrett needed no such aid.

                “...Tell him he is missed terribly. And that I loved him as much as if he were my own kin.” He stuck his chin out as emotion overtook him again, and then fairly spun away from the elf, stomping out of the room.

                Canthus sighed, his heart aching for the High King. “It will be my personal honor to pass on your words. If I can find him.”

                Merrett continued out the door and down the hall finding several dozen urgent tasks with which to distract himself and a fresh carafe of expensive wine to aid him. Canthus stood there a moment, letting the feelings wash over him and then ebb away. And then he went back to work.

                Canthus held his hand out, palm down, over Othis’ still form. The advisor was draped with a sheet and his countenance was strangely untouched by the ravages of decay. He looked pale, but nothing more. Canthus knew that the good admiral had paid to have his flesh preserved by a funeral warrick, but the old elf had easily dissolved these simple warra upon arrival, which should have caused the body to decay in earnest. It did not. He believed this to be attributed to whatever toxin had entered his body, and such a toxin could possibly be traced to its source. He would eventually draw some of Othis’ blood for further study by arts both mundane and warrick, but he wanted to ascertain the man’s last moments and there was really only one way to do this: by asking him.

                His spirit had departed of course, but there are always fingerprints and earmarks left behind of a being’s demise, whether peaceful or otherwise. Canthus focused his warra sight on these, and found several. Through this altered vision, he peered at pale marks left in the space surrounding the corpse. These were left by the clutching filaments of a soul in departure and were common enough. However, filling an encompassing three-dimensional area much larger than Othis’ body was an excessive amount of this astral spoor. They carved a series of crosshatches and intersecting slashes in a tortured geometry that was difficult to absorb, much less define. This was not surprising. Othis was a man of rare servitude and dedication, and he would not have easily departed the world he so long worked to protect, especially after having died so violently. But, after a valiant struggle, let go he did.

                Canthus was certain that the spirit of the man had moved on, once it was clear that the life of its vessel was irretrievable. However, the next world was not so hard for one such as Canthus to peek into and ask around for a new resident, especially with one so familiar to such locales as he.

                He closed off his senses to this world of mundanity and mortal prancing and prattling, and watched his surroundings become insubstantial shadow as the High King no doubt began drinking again, seeing that his consultant had once more entered one of his “elf witch fugues”.

                Sound became muted. Color and texture drained away. He was present in both realities but looking from one into another. The moment his mind was ready for its journey, he took hold of Othis’ frigid fingers and used them as a material bridge from this world into the realm of the recently departed, following the path his spirit had taken to the Extiris Aerathi, or the plane of aether. The sensation of moving between worlds was not uncommon to him, but, as is the sensation of spurring a horse into a gallop or jumping from a high limb whilst clinging to a rope, you never truly accustom to it.

                There was a subtle yet unmistakable alteration to color and form around his

vision, and suddenly he was rushing down a swirling tunnel made of dark and unidentifiable shapes and motion. He had spent centuries trying to get glimpses of what they were so he could record them and had done his best, but never to his satisfaction. He believed them to be pieces of space and time compressed as one traveled, but only in perception, for he was fairly sure that actually constricting such things would leave a physical sign of some sort – a wake, if you will. After only a few teasing seconds, a portal of light appeared in the distance that was passed into and through almost immediately after it was perceived.

                And then, the Aetheric Divergess.

                His no longer physical eyes registered sights and sounds that, though fantastical, were at least perceivable. All around were deep, vast curtains of fog and multi-colored mists that shifted softly, quickly, and in some parts, violently. Though not immediately visible, he knew that massive cyclones of terrible force could be found here, caused by disturbances and anomalies spiritual in nature, instead of physical as in the primeal plane, in which most of reality resided. Some of these aetheric typhoons could tear a soul to pieces, a ruin that can take millennia to repair.

Travelers in this realm usually do not spend more time than needed to discover what they sought in this plane, whether it is information from one of its residents or a path to another world. Bearing this forward, there are definitely times when the residents of this place are something to be avoided altogether.

Occasionally, when enough of a soul reconnects to have sentience but not memory, it will forget its task and never gather the rest. Some of these wistae, or near-beings, find their way back into mortal reality. There, they will often become the witless haunts manifesting in keeps that never knew a murder, or homes that never knew evil, but were labeled thusly simply because the haunt arrives and causes mischief in its blind, blundering way. Other times, souls that make their way into the aetheric plane or arrive after their body’s demise become lost or distracted by the environment for too long. These spirits find their sense of self leeched away by the endless currents, and either wander as a shell of a shell seeking itself, or they fragment and regather into an entirely new kind of wistae. Eventually, after enough time and enough wandering, they can find an identity again, even if it is not their own.

                Canthus cut short his sightseeing, and refocused on his goal. He needed to find the soul of Othis, or some mark of its passage. The trail left by such a powerful spirit could be distinct, but could just as easily be swallowed and obscured by the plotless currents of this place, as following a spirit was against the way of things.

                After several hours, it was proving more difficult than he had originally presumed. He could sense the man’s passing, feel the currents of aether he had touched as he had passed through this place, but they were fading quickly. Even if they had not, it was like seeking a person who had slipped through a door and into a room full of other people clothed similarly. You might sense their presence, their scent, the influence that their passing may have left on others, but not outright direction, not without some sort of clue. And normally the practically non-sentient or at least awareless members of this plane could tell very little without specific instruction or query. It was like said room was full of eyeless witnesses who spoke in two-word riddles – when the mood moved them.

                He reached out with his mind and his voice, startling shell-less souls who had forgotten how to communicate decades ago. Some made attempts to speak back to him, but sounded only as shifting winds to his simulacrum’s ears, and as dotty gibberish to his mind. One wistae responded with unadulterated fury at his query, lashing out at him with a tendril of hateful energy that would have torn a lesser interloper to shreds, but Canthus’ ancient mind, so honed by countless attacks by powers beyond what one can touch, instinctively erected a dense shield that caused the wistae’s unprovoked assault to shatter into fragments, the result of which shot waves of agony through the attacker.

                Annoyed, Canthus began to move on, hoping that whatever rumor mill the plane of air employed would pass on that he was a visitor best left alone. Then a notion occurred to him. The wistae that had attacked him was of quite a powerful variety. It had either been a potent being in life, or it had accrued its might after gods knew how many centuries wandering this place. In any case, it may actually be possessed of a consciousness with which he could communicate. He turned his attention to it.

                “Hello there,” he said aloud.

                There was a hiss and undulation of air, simultaneously like a wind forcing its

way through a sea cave and a sheet flapping in unseen hands.

                “Why is it that you are so angered by my presence? I would think that after as many years as you’ve been here, the conversation would be welcome.”

                There was a pause as the air spirit gathered its resources for the effort of speaking. When it did, it sounded like a forced whisper, wrapped round with effort and shot through with intent. “Becausssse... it hurtsss... to hear... your wordssss... they are... like cymmmbalss... to a man... who has lived... in sssolitude... all his life.”

                Canthus felt a bit of regret for his inquiries now, though honestly the spirit did not have to react as violently as it had. He lowered his voice to a whisper himself. “My apologies. Is this better?”

                There was a gathering of mist that seemed dimly lit at its center. The wistae’s voice came from this center. “You ssstill sssound... asss someone... ssshouting in a sssmall roommm... but it isss bearable. What... do you want from meee?”

                Canthus lowered his voice even further, to the point where he could barely hear himself. “I shall take as little of your time as possible. I seek the passage of a spirit. One that belonged to a man recently entered into this realm.”

                “Baahh,” the wistae said. “Ssso many wannndering sssoulsss... passs thisss way... that it ssseemsss... an endless parade of... lossst childrennn.”

                Canthus frowned. “This particular man was of surpassing virtue and character. It is my experience that people of such caliber take these qualities with them in death and Stand out a bit from other souls.”

                The gathering of fog seemed to shift with annoyance, and the light took on a

crimson hue. “You ssspeak truth... but it mattersss little. Even sssoulsss... of exsssceptional quality... are numerousss enough... to be unnncountable. And tiiiiiime… doesss not passs… here asss it doesss elsssewhere… in faaact… it ssseemsss to not passs at all… at timesss…” The fog began to pull apart from itself. “I am sssorry elf. But I do not believe... that you will find the sssoul you ssseek... in thessse formless landsss.”

                Canthus had feared this. He had only a few pieces of information to increase

the rarity of Othis’ spirit. Hopefully the wistae could pick apart the vaporous mass of its mind and find his memory. “He had been killed violently, with a poisoned weapon.” The aetheric creatures seemed clueless. “And, he was advisor to the High King of Hildegoth,” he added desperately.

                “Oh, himmm...” the wispy spirit muttered. “He ssslipped passst here... only

reessscently. He wasss ssso angry... and ssso sssad... every consciousss being... for a

great dissstance... in every directionnn... began weepinggg.” The mists gathered again, and practically flared scarlet. “The noissse wasss unnnbearabllle.”

                Canthus’ hopes lifted greatly. “Which way did he go? What was his destination?”

                The wistae sighed miserably. “He headed off... towardsss Extirisss Teraxsssa. Now pleassse. Let me beee.”

                “Thank you old spirit.” Canthus paused a moment, as the being began to discorporate to the state in which he had found it. “Is... there any way I can repay you?”

                It paused. “I cannot remember... who I wasss... nor do I even know to which

raace I belonged, though I think it mayyy be dwarf... asss I feel irritation at your

presencssse...”

                Canthus smiled. “Perhaps.”

                The wistae continued, though the strain at maintaining the conversation was

taking its toll. “I know that I wasss murdered... and that thisss murder took place... in

the firssst daysss of the...” Canthus was astonished to notice a rudimentary face had formed in the wispy cloud before him. All he could glean from it was that it was male. This face furrowed its brow with effort. “...the Ar... dett?”

                Canthus was shocked. “The Ardett Marsai?”

                The vague impression before him, nearly as large as a house, smiled tiredly.

“Yesss... odd that I would remember that... but not my own naammme.”

                Canthus shook his head. “For those unjustly killed, the participants in their murder are usually the strongest memories that remain the longest.” A powerful tug of

sympathy clutched at his heart. “Though it would seem you’ve been here so long that

even that has begun to fade.”

                “Yesss,” the wistae replied. “I ssstopped counting daysss long ago.” Its

countenance began drifting apart in earnest now. “If you could... but uncover the

meansss... behind my death... and return to tell me...” it was nearly a translucent fog

now, “I would consssider my servicesss repaid tenfold.”

                The elf nodded. “I will do this, if I can. One more compensation for one more life wrongly taken.” The wistae disincorporated completely, fading back into the vague fogs and mists that made up its realm. Canthus focused his mind on the plane of earth, and his surroundings shifted again into a whirling vortex of indefinable shapes and spinning light. “One more promise made by an old elf with not nearly enough eternity to work with.” His spirit form stretched into a bright dart as it shot off into the limitless distance, and then was gone.

 

~*~

 

                Arachias was the filthiest he had been in his entire life. Upper class existence had definitely softened him, at least in certain areas of resilience. Withstanding being absolutely covered with dirt and grime everywhere, as it turns out, was one of them.

                He had come to be in this sad state by way of losing his hold on the wall in front of him when he was about eight feet off the ground. When he hit the bottom, a great plume of dust and dirt erupted, and he had to spend several minutes with his eyes pinched shut and his face half-covered by his shirt, using it as a filter for the uunbreathable air. Now the dust had settled mostly, but every square inch of his body, sheened with a layer of sweat that was a perfect medium to which the dirt could adhere, was coated in a generous layer of filth. And, of course, he was no closer to an exit as he had been over an hour ago, when he was at least comparatively clean.

                As the air around him changed from a fog of dirt to more of a thin mist, Arachias put his hands on his hips and went over his meager options once more, as he had several times. As always, his prospects frustrated and angered him. Inspecting the room had revealed nothing. The door he came in and the door he had not been through yet were the only ways in and out of this dreary hallway. He supposed that there may very well be an alternate hidden door, but he doubted this. The manner of egress into this skinny dungeon was most likely already hidden, so the need for yet another concealed portal was excessive and therefore unlikely. Uncomfortable as he was with the idea, all he could think of that he had not yet done was to attack his abductors when they returned for him. If they returned for him.

                He leaned against the wall for a while, his arms folded. He then started to pace again, his mind, unfocused, wandering to this and that. After this grew boring he carefully lowered himself to the ground to sit, trying to minimize the dust that he disturbed. Above all else he waited. He waited for someone or something to retrieve him, though it burned his soul to be at the whims of such a creature.

                After an indeterminable amount of time, the door leading deeper into the structure opened, and a thin old woman appeared. The lengths of neck and arm that

could be seen were wrapped tightly with black silk, giving the impression that this

continued over her entire body. Over this she was draped with an impossibly complex

scarlet robe interwoven with strange, indecipherable sigils. Her eyes were a blue so bright, the irises appeared nearly white. The visible skin on her face was stretched and

waxen, and shot through with veins. She was all in all a very uncomfortable person to

look at.

                Arachias had been sitting on his backside with his knees drawn up and wrapped round with his arms. His head was laid against his forearms in a gesture of resigned supplication to an unseen tormentor. It was a pitiable stance, and a ruse. When someone drew near, he would spring into action and – well, and do something, but he was not too certain yet. At the sight of the woman though, this plan drained from his mind. Firstly, he was not at all confident that he could attack a woman. Secondly, attacking this woman would involve touching her, and he really did not want to do that for some reason. Perhaps because she was absolutely revolting, but he sensed there was more to it than that.

                “He looks like dung,” she said, squinting her baleful eyes at him.

                “Yes,” came a reply from a hidden source not ten feet away from Arachias,

causing him to leap sideways and sprawl comically. New whorls of dust erupted around him. The bushy-eyed leader of his captors shimmered into view, rotating some gleaming bracelet that encircled his wrist. He had been there for who knows how long, perhaps the entire time, watching him beyond his senses. “He is also resourceful, strong, and poor at following orders even on pain of death.” The little fellow’s eyes crinkled in an obvious smile. “He was entertaining to watch.”

                “You son-of-a-bitch,” Arachias muttered. “Did you ever leave? Did you just shut me in this hole, watch me tear free of my fetters and have a long, silent laugh at my attempts to escape?”

                He shook his head. “I laughed quite loudly actually. I was not under a spell of invisibility, my young patrician. I stepped a bit out of this divergess but not quite into another, and was able to observe from whence I came, but quite beyond detection.” He chuckled, his voice an irritating grate. “I could have shouted my opinions of your escape artistry in your ear and you wouldn’t have been the wiser.”

                “Enough,” the hag said quietly, waving a hand that looked like twigs wrapped in

wax paper. “Your meager skills are, as always, a testament to the will of the inferior,

Meelatori.” The little man snorted at this, and it could have been at either her scalding

opinion or the mention of his name. “And you will, of course, be paid in full. Now: Gather your mercenaries and have the abomination moved to my keep.”

                Arachias jerked in place as if struck and finally found his voice. “Abomination? Exactly how did you arrive to define this word in this manner, if by its definition I am an abomination?” He got to his feet in righteous indignation. “Testy? Perhaps. Admirable? Most definitely, but abominable?” He clenched his hands into fists, but retained as much composure and dignity as he could, buried as he was in the bowels of some building, covered from head to toe in dirt, and at the whims of a rather indefinable audience. Still...  he seemed unable to shut up, either. “Do you have any idea, do you have the slightest clue, what I have endured in my life? Torn from the only mother I can recall, thrust into repugnant servitude to a heartless patron, withstanding horrendous abuse and torture at his hands, risking life and limb in escape, and finally making a life from this existential debris only to be kidnapped from my own abode by you reprobates with the last image of that meticulously constructed life being my friend and my innocent student lying senseless and bloody amongst the ruins of my home, and I am the abomination?”

                The hag regarded him coldy, her face a stone study in unreadable thought.

Arachias thought for a moment that he had maybe misspoke himself when her mouth

pulled into a thin line. After a moment Arachias realized it was her version of a smile.

                “You are right, Meelatori. He is entertaining.”

Chapter 32

 

“Ogre, Ogre tempt me not,

Ogre, Ogre vex me not,

Too easy to play hide and seek,

Because of your nasty reek.”

- Children’s nursery rhyme

 

                JaBrawn awoke with a muffled shout of alarm, forgetting where he was and what had happened. By the crick in his neck and the aching soreness in the muscles of

his shoulders, back and chest he knew he had been horribly injured but could not recall how. He was also buried in the ground and had not drawn a true breath for quite some time, the result of which was a distinctly horrible feeling in his chest and a blue pallor to his flesh. He would not die, but if he did not draw a clean breath soon, he would eventually enter a torpor from which someone else would have to rescue him. A slim chance, if any, of that happening.

                He twisted and turned until his feet were beneath him, and then began pushing upward with all the strength at his command. A rift opened, letting in cool night air, which he devoured in great, heaving breaths. As he pushed upward, he encountered more than earth above him. He dimly recalled that there was a great weight placed above him, set there by someone his groggy mind could not withdraw from his memory. For now, it mattered little. All that truly occupied his focus was escape. He pushed upward again, trying to tilt this mass to the side. He sensed some progress, but it was minimal. He repeated his effort. And then he repeated it again. And then again. He dropped and rose in a mind-slumbering pattern, as his world faded away and became nothing more than this task.

                In the small amount of space he had made for himself, he slowly, over an indeterminate, claustrophobic stretch of time, managed to at last rock this great weight aside. Then, grunting with pain he drew several deep breaths as he extricated himself violently from his impromptu grave, throwing great chunks of earth in several directions. He turned to look at what the weight had been, and was not overly surprised to see a large stone, massing probably seven or eight hundred pounds. As he absently mused at this, the last of the misaligned bones in his torso adjusted themselves back to where they were supposed to be with a loud series of snaps and cracks. There was an odd sort of painful satisfaction to the sensation. Feeling much better, he stepped from the crater his body had made, and, dirt streaming from his clothes, struggled to recall how he had gotten there.

                He had been buried alive once before, when an explosive created by several

gnomish comrades had been detonated accidentally, dropping the better part of a mountain on he and his cohorts. No one had been seriously hurt, and they had managed to safely excavate themselves after several hours to find a very nervous but admirably brave (to wait for them and whatever revenge they wanted to take out on his hide) gnome engineer, patting and wringing his hands and pacing.

                JaBrawn chuckled lightly, shaking dirt from his hair as he remembered the look on his face. The little fellow’s eyes were open as wide as they could go with terror and worry. They were a striking bright blue, just like...

                ...just like...

                His smile vanished, and he leapt nearly twenty feet in a single stride, landing at the verge of the copse. He took another huge jump, branches snapping under his strength, birds launching into the air in alarm at this creature that did not belong in their domain. He landed, jumped again, back towards the clearing, back towards...

...he burst into the clearing where they had made camp that night.

                “No...” He sprawled in a heap, stumbling forward onto his stomach and staring

in disbelief. “No, please, gods, no…”

                A choking force rose from his belly and took hold of his face, twisting it with anguish. The camp had been destroyed, the wagon smashed. Grendel was nowhere to be seen, though he could smell horse blood.

                The children were gone.

 

~*~

 

                If the aetheric divergess had been a study in indeterminate chaos, Extiris

Teraxa, the divergess of Earth, was like a brief glimpse of that realm frozen in stone.

The sky here was massive vaults of rock lifted miles above him. Twisted, broken stalactites and stalagmites pierced the stone endlessly, as if seized in the jaws by countless dragons of unimaginable size. There were frozen seas of obsidian, both smooth and razored like glass. And, of course, there were the curious local population of teragga, or the earth elementals, that ruled these realms.

The teragga themselves are as varied in size as they are in composition, from animated talc statues the size of children to lumbering granite behemoths that could seize a titan in their fists. They are by nature peaceful and slow, much like the material from which they are composed, but, stir their ire and they can be amongst the deadliest foes any being could face.

                As for navigating the plane of earth, one usually got around by walking, and,

despite the tangible stuff that gave the realm its namesake, you could find yourself crossing limitless sandstone plains and then suddenly stumbling into the sand maelstroms at the verge of the aetheric plane or slipping into vast churning lava flows at the threshold of the plane of fire when you had just turned a corner you had taken before that lead to a different place. Canthus often took long walks in these realms, musing on the ageless conversations of the teragga, joining in on them as best he could, for speaking with creatures who could take a decade to decide on a retort could be time-consuming, but, for once, time was something Canthus did not have.

                He tapped into his warra, murmuring the unlocking phrases that would grant him the speed and maneuverability of flight. In moments his feet broke contact with the ground. Leaning into balmy winds, he flew like an arrow that had slipped from the pull of earth’s skin, causing some unrest and dishumor amongst the locals. Despite being creatures steeped through and through with warra, the teragga did not actually take kindly to overt demonstrations of it. An elf lancing through the air as a minnow in a stream was quite and truly upsetting to them.

                Irrelevant. His task was beyond local custom, as long as in bending these norms he did not do so to the extent that they were angered beyond simple offense. He was uncertain what would happen then, as he had never truly ticked off an earth elemental. No matter, he would repay his transgressions somehow at a later date.

                As he streaked over the landscape, he summoned an image of Othis’ gentle, wise face and used this as a compass to follow his path through this realm that all beings enter for a short while. Even those not buried in the earth’s ancient embrace do eventually turn to dust, and with such a transformation one’s mortal shell once again becomes equal with all else before and after. Othis had to have come through here as certainly as he had to have passed through the aetheric plane.

                Canthus had grimly resigned himself to a long affair of expanding circles in the air, covering every last pebble and monolith of the plane, when a strong pull against his mind told him that Othis’ soul had been here very recently.

                It may be here still.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 33

 

                “Traversing the divergesses of reality involves invocations of the fantastic and the mundane. The fantastic is the focusing of the warra or ones uum or spirit self or whatever nonsense you want to call it. The mundane is letting yourself see something that has always been there. To look at instead of over. To slow one’s perception not in the sense of time, but in the sense of careful observation. Often when you pore over the contents of your pantries for that one packet of herbs you know you had placed there, slowing down and looking will reveal that it was right in the middle of the shelf in plain view the whole time.”

-        

Canthus, Grandmaster Warrick of Hildegoth

               

                Meelatori approached Arachias holding a pair of steel shackles and the shroud with which he had been blinded in his grubby little paws, no doubt to blind and bind him once again. Unsurprisingly, the route to the crone’s keep was to be kept secreted as completely as the journey here, though he had figured out their whereabouts easily enough. Perhaps he could do so again, given the opportunity.

                He went over those last three words again as he glared sideways at his kidnapper until he was certain the little fellow could feel two circular patches of skin on his forehead heating up.

                “Now, now half-breed. Might want to reserve your wrath for a later hour. I’m neither worth the effort nor the cause of your troubles.”

                His words echoed the words of a kind old gentleman from fully two lifetimes

ago now, and Arachias felt emotion sting his eyes. He fought it off with great difficulty, but it came swimming back again, and he could not help but let his brow twitch slightly from it. And then, as something else the filthy little bugger had said flashed across his mind, the memory vanished.

                “What do you mean, half-breed?”

                Meelatori’s eyes, still the only part of his face that was visible, went wide.

“Arachias, you must be joking.” The young politician’s eyes spoke differently. “You

mean you truly don’t know? You’ve never discovered...?”

                Arachias frowned. “Don’t know or never discovered what?”

                The scroungy little black clad fellow paused, staring at him... and then chuckled rather darkly. The mercenaries glanced at each other. One giggled nervously, simply because he thought he had better. Arachias felt a deep, rarely stirred temper in him flicker to life.

                “Meelatori – if that is truly your name – since all of my pride and self-worth has been sucked away, grant me this small boon and answer my question.” He clenched his jaw.

                Meelatori waved his hands. “Oh, I had every intention of answering, Arachias. I have no true qualms with you, so why torture you? I had simply found it humorous that despite all your enrichments you lack such a basic one as knowledge of your heritage.”

                Recalling the creature’s admission of standing just outside his senses and laughing at his attempts to escape his prison, Arachias had difficulty believing his claims but let it pass. “My thanks. Go on then.”

                The reply was quick. “Have you ever heard of a demodar?”

 

~*~

 

                “I’m hungry.”

                “Shut up.”

                The four horses tugged at their reins and seemed wound up and shot through with tension. Something was spooking them terribly, to the point where they would have bolted had they been given the opportunity. Three of the mounts had riders draped in thick cloaks, with the third riderless but strapped down with an uneven bundle. They were trotting down a narrow, rough trail that cut a zigzag through a thick growth of trees. They had moved from the plains to the woods less than an hour ago, and had to slow considerably else they would founder the horses or lose their way in the deep blackness of the night-shrouded forest.

                The fourth rider, a hulking figure that nonetheless exuded a strange grace in poise and movement, spoke in a deep gruff voice again to the foremost. “Corbin, I tire of waiting. When do we eat?”

                The one at the head of the line answered without turning his head. “I tire of your mouth. Shut… up.”

                There was a grunt of annoyance from the fourth. It did not sound human. “Corbin, we haven’t eaten all day. My stomach is twisting in knots and murmuring so loud my ears hurt.” The lead rider sighed with annoyance. The fourth continued. “Are our stores getting that low? If so I will gladly hunt down a meal large enough to feed all of us.”

                Corbin yanked hard on his reins, causing his mount to rear and nicker in fright. Clamping his knees down on its ribs, the horse calmed but its reaction passed quickly through its brethren, causing a brief bout of equine disharmony as the riders struggled to regain control of their mounts. He pulled his hood back, revealing a harsh, scarred human face set with eyes as dark and still as a pond at midnight.

                “I realize that you are ruled by your belly and little else, orc, but splitting up

at this point would probably be a bad idea. The guardian from whom we stole our little prize is quite a formidable foe, or so our employer has told us. And that is just one thing to worry about in this forest.” He pointed out into the enveloping blackness of the trees behind them. “You go off into those woods, and I may lose the blessing of your company.”

                The orc’s face, though mostly unseen under his cowl, was tangibly pulled into a smirk. “I had no idea you were so concerned about my safety.”

                “I’m not,” the lead rider said. “I simply want to maximize the number of targets between our burden and me, should he somehow catch up.”

                “Could that be possible, without his horse?” The second rider asked in a soft tone. He turned back briefly, checking the rope that fettered the packhorse to his own.

                Corbin shrugged, returning his mount to face forward. “I dare not assume a

favorable scenario. Less surprises that way.” And he looked up into the unpiercable blackness to his left, where the massive form of the hill giant could be sensed as clearly as an approaching storm. Every once in a while, he could feel its footsteps. “Why in all the stinking hells did I take this job?” He said under his breath.

                The second rider answered. “Because you are being paid extremely well. As are

we.”

                The human opened his mouth to protest, but the orc was faster with his tongue. “Elf, you and I are not a ‘we’ other than in the strictest sense of our current arrangement.” The quiet menace in his voice was apparent.

                The elf sighed with what almost sounded like pity. “Of course, brother orc.”

                The orc snarled at the back of the elf’s head and bared his teeth, two of which on top and two on bottom were nearly tusks.

                “Enough!” Corbin said in a harsh whisper. “Even if that demon doesn’t close the day long head start we’ve gained, we have a very tight schedule and a very unforgiving employer.” The other two calmed. They all disliked one another, but were very good at their jobs. “We are pressed from either direction 'comrades' – the worst kind of race. Let’s not lose sight of this fact over squabbles? Once we reach the den we’ll stop for a day. That will leave us six days to get to Fremett.”

                “Why don’t we just go straight through?” The orc asked. “It will slice the travel time in half.”

                The leader snorted. “Of course, it would. But there is the slight problem of

having to drop our …erm… borrowed friend off here. Arrangements had been made to make certain that he is returned to the outskirts of the Unknown Lands so he can make his way back to his people…”

                The second rider looked towards the seemingly unoccupied space where the hill

giant strode. With every step the sensitive ears of the elf could detect its footfall like a

felled tree.

 

~*~

 

                The rage in him was not the sort of emotion that can be described by one being to another with words. There were no words that could effectively convey it. This was, in part, because it did not limit itself to anger. Frustration. Sadness. Guilt. Helplessness. These were twisted into his heart as well, but the rage eclipsed them all.

                He could do this for a little while. He could stymy it, hold it in check, and think like a man. He could force it back with his mortal willpower, the same will that allowed him to refuse the beast its hold on him all these years. He had, after all, turned from the moon long ago. He was no longer a slave to her whims, but, the rage that burned in him, the rage in his heart that had been there all his life, even before Ivor had uncovered the curse his blood bore, was proving the greater force to overcome. Greater than the moon. Greater too, than his will would be, eventually.

                He had found Grendel’s trail first. He had not been killed right off, and had

fought the children’s’ abductors, just as he had told him to. He had either been injured

to the point that he was no longer aware of his surroundings, or had been knocked

unconscious and then awoke later – only to wander off in these strange woods and die

alone. That was part of the guilt, though part of the frustration was that he knew the noble old warhorse would have died to protect them anyway. That was his way. That was the way of both of them. His friend was hurt or killed, and he would be damned if it would be in vain, even if that friend was a horse.

                He was on foot and running twice as fast as any man could. He leaped over creeks and streams. Any tree he could not brush aside he would smash out of the way or skirt. A camp of the very same thieves that Wendonel had spared scattered from his path and his bare feet – his boots had shredded and fallen off long ago – carved huge ruts in the ground as he followed the faint spoor of the abductors. The terrified face of one of the highwaymen filled his vision for a moment and then was lost. Like a blow he heard Wendonel’s little voice as she admonished them in flight.

                Remember your promise!

                He gritted his teeth and tears sprang to his eyes. His flesh bulged against the flimsy constraints of his armor. He roared and the beast roared with him from within. It wanted to help him in its simple way, and it could. If he unleashed it and tossed aside his humanity he could cover ground twice as fast as he was and nothing short of a dragon could fend him off once he had reached his destination, but he feared that he would lose sight of what he fought for.

                An hour passed. Two. Twice he caught himself running on all fours, his hands thickening into paws, bristles poking through his skin, saliva pouring from his mouth in ribbons as his jaw distended. He cried out and tumbled to the ground when he felt his teeth stretch into impossible canines and stumbled when he heard not his voice, but the inhuman snarl of the beast instead. As he lay there in the dirt, for one horrible instant the beast surged from his soul and instead of pushing it away, he opened his arms. For one horrible instant, he felt himself swallowed by a curse he had denounced decades ago. And then he heard it. A voice, a tiny child’s voice touched his mind.

                JaBrawn, get up.

He lay there in the ditch his body had made, inert.      

Get up JaBrawn, we need you.

                This time it was the voice of more than one child.

His mind filled with light. His will returned. With a shove that had nothing to do with his muscles, he hurled the beast, screaming with fury and betrayal, away from his mind and back to the depths of his soul. And he got up, and started running again. The beast lay where he had pushed it, snapping its teeth and howling. It started clawing back up at him, as determined to claim him as he was to keep it from doing so. Eventually, it would have him, but not yet.

                He could do this… for a little while.

 

~*~

 

                The shiny pate of Aegis General Demetrius Jordanis glinted in the late morning sun, as did the plates and mail of his field armor and the barding of his warhorse. At his right side he carried a sturdy long sword, and across his back was the short length of a footman’s spear. Forty thousand men had assembled haphazardly in lop-sided formation at the base of Tyn Duugramahr, far to the west of Tyn Ianett. It was a sight of disturbing dichotomy. It was at once both compelling and distressing. Such a vast gathering of mankindred and men was a sight to behold, yet this alluded to both sides of the spectrum. Not in thirty years had so many armed servants of Hildegoth gathered, and, by the looks of them, they had seen very little reason to do so. All were willing (if confused and a little frightened) soldiers, though their appearance was nothing short of hideous. Of those few that had complete uniforms, many were rumpled, stained, or otherwise damaged.

A few though, a very few, stood proudly at attention with tunics pressed, boots shined, and weapons and armor polished. Jordanis made a note of them. In a clenched whisper he said, “By the gods’ will, at least some of them held on to their pride.”

                With a curious eye, he saw that not all of these men were of aged stock. Many of the cleaner troops were of enlistment years. He smiled. Whether tales passed down by their elders, sheer pride in their country, some combination, or blessed something else entirely, clearly something pressed them to such measures. This small example stirred his own pride, as well as his hope.

                He dismounted and strode from his horse, as his own retinue of soldiers did the same. Their broad feet thumped the packed earth of the approaching road that lead from the broad gates of the buried dwarven city-castle to the gathered forces awaiting his inspection. He glanced at his personal guard to his left and right. They were possibly some of the best-trained men in the kingdom, perfect examples of what any armed force should be. They were as skilled with arms as they were with maintaining their detached and stony demeanor, but the strain of seeing the better of the High King’s army in such a state forced shame and disdain to their faces more than once.

                “That’s enough of that, lads,” Jordanis admonished. “They’re the way they are because there’s been no need for them. No war. That’s a good thing.” He smiled good-naturedly. “Try and remember that.”

                They contained their emotion and stiffened. “Yes sir,” they said in unison.

                “Good.”

                As he closed the gap between him and the first row of ragged soldiers, he

noticed with irritation that they actually backed away from him, collapsing the ranks

even further. He held up a gauntleted hand. “Peace, brothers. Please, reform the line.”

A well-meant but ultimately ugly attempt was made. The scarred old general slowly smiled. And then he brought both of his armored palms together in a great clap, making the ragged line jump.

                “Lads... we have a great deal of work to do. And I am very eager to begin.”

The men who could see and hear him looked at each other and him. They had no idea what he meant by this, but after a few days it would become very, very clear.

 

 

Chapter 34

 

                “The warra itself is a very silly, contradictory thing. Imagine spending all this time and energy to tap into a force that at once lets you know that everything is much simpler than you might think.

                It is akin to bashing your way through a stone wall to find out that yes, a glass of water is very refreshing. After bashing in the wall, however, you then notice the open door, just to your right.”

-        

Canthus, Grandmaster Warrick of Hildegoth

               

                “My king... there is something I believe you should see...”

                The High King looked up from a collection of inventories so thick it had to be bound as a book to keep the pages in order. “My good man-at-arms, I am extraordinarily busy.”

                The young man’s lips turned into a pinched line. “I understand Sire, but... I

wouldn’t have brought it to your attention if I hadn’t thought it was important.”

                Merrett sighed as he set aside the documents, looking up at the young man with weary eyes. “You’re right, of course. In fact, I believe my exact words were ‘Only bother me if it’s very, very important.’”

                “Yes, my king. So... with that in mind.”

                The High King got to his feet, his joints creaking. “Very well, very well.” He made his way to the doorway, the guard stepping aside as he did so. “Not to ruin the surprise, but is this matter a thing or a person?”

                The guard fell behind the High King as they made their way down the stairway.

                “People, Sire.”

                Merrett’s brows rose. “People? Interesting.”

                “Yes, Sire. A woman and a monk. From Fremett.”

 

 

 

~*~

 

                The diminutive and mysterious captor known as Meelatori stood before Arachias just inside the main entrance of the decidedly cheerful keep as two of his mercenaries stood to his side and two more stood behind him. The hag had disappeared into some dank patch of shadow unknown to him, which suited him just fine. He was still mulling over the word that Meelatori had uttered. One he had read on occasion and found strangely fascinating yet, until now, unrelated to him.

                “Demodar…”

                Meelatori took a knife from his belt and slashed at the cord binding his wrists. As he expected there was no resistance. “Yes.”

                “A half-demon.” Arachias said through barely parted lips. He looked up gingerly. “What’s the other half?”

                “Immaterial, apparently.” Meelatori opened a door into a richly appointed and furnished study and beckoned Arachias to enter. He did so numbly, without a word. “Sit. Madame Uranni will be here shortly.”

                Arachias did as he was told, still lost in his thoughts. The forefront of his mind wanted to laugh at the absurdity of his claim, yet something held back. This something was uncertain. Or, even more unsettling, all too certain. His captor turned to leave.

“Wait!” Arachias’ hand shot out with blinding speed, catching his sleeve. The mercenaries jumped, their hands flying to the hilts of their weapon, but Meelatori did not flinch and waved them away. “How do you know this?” Arachias hissed at him, though not truly with anger. “Where did you discover this?”

                Meelatori paused, nearly at eye level with the seated young man. A strange

softness seemed to edge into his eyes, and at that moment Arachias knew he was not truly evil. Distasteful. Cold, perhaps, but not evil. This was a job to him, nothing more.

                “According to the Madame Uranni, she was told as much by your father.” He disengaged his sleeve from Arachias’ grasp as his fingers went slack, and turned to excuse himself, but not before placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder.

                “All will become clear, Arachias. I don’t know if that’s truly what you want,

or even a good thing, but it will happen.”

                He abruptly left.

                Arachias stared at the floor as disbelief and numbness battled each other. This just could not be possible. It could not. His father?

A door quietly closed and he lifted his eyes from the floor to find yet more impossibilities. There stood the emaciated Madame Uranni, her scarlet and black ensemble unchanged. Next to her, regally ornamented from sole to scalp, stood the venerable Sargath of Tallo Preporious Mondo himself.

                And he was grinning from ear to grimy, filth encrusted ear.

 

~*~

 

                JaBrawn composed himself beyond what will he ever thought he possessed.

The beast raged in his chest but he had reined it like an impossible mount, an unimaginable hound. Yet, instead of tugging him or leading him, it ran at his side.

Seething to be loosed, but satisfied with at least being acknowledged. He had forgotten what a shard of him it had become, founded and fed by his essence, but separate from him.

                “Soon,” he soothed it, unknowing if he was truly lying or, if he was, if he could truly fool it. “Soon I’ll set you free.” It roared in his ear, and JaBrawn could not fathom if this was rage at his uncertainty or true bolstering fury. “You will feed, but please, please, hold on to enough of me to see that the children are untouchable. You cannot hurt Wendonel and Favius.” Glaring eyes regarded him and he felt inexplicably weak at such a statement. He gritted his teeth against the shameful embarrassment. “I don’t care. We were charged with their protection and delivery, and if you are so weak you can’t control

your own hunger than I am done with you. Forever!”

                The beast seemed cowed by this. Truly, it could not embrace logic in its purest sense, only threats. Perhaps that is logic in its purest sense.

                “Soon, then. Soon. Soon.”

                The old warrior, his hair practically free of gray, his face unlined other than what would be present on a man used to a life in the outdoors, streaked across the ground, the spoor growing richer by the mile as he closed the gap between himself and his quarry.

                “Soon... soon... soon...” This one-word mantra was all that he had left to

placate the beast. It was a promise of blood that he may never undo.

 

~*~

 

                “Are you hungry?”

                The massive creature regarded the orc with almost disbelieving contempt, as if

beyond insulted that the tiny male thing would even dare speak to him. As large as the orc was, he was dwarfed and then some by the hirrgog, even though the giant sat and he stood. He bared brown, blocky teeth and exhaled a small cyclone of a hiss.

                He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” The orc turned away, making his way to the fire when he heard a terrified squeal behind him. When he turned back the hill giant had the packhorse seized by the throat in one huge hand. Before he could say anything, the giant snapped the animal’s spine like a twig, causing it to convulse and dump its cargo to the ground, where it squirmed and shrieked. Opening his cavernous mouth, the grotesque humanoid sheared clean through the horse’s neck with a single bite. Blood streamed down his chin.

                “Corbin!” The orc shouted, rushing to the bundle and untying it. Two heads, one red, one brown emerged. Wendonel and Favius, battered and dirty, looked up at their captors.

                The leader whirled towards the hulking mankindred. “You fool! If you’ve

allowed a single hair on their heads to be harmed, that stinking demon whore Kr –”

                The orc’s eyes snapped wide open. “I am the fool? You would dare speak of

him like that, he who can hear a fly land from a province away, and I am the fool?” He struck a gnarled olive fist against the thick leather of his armor. “Besides, I allowed no harm to them. It was our peckish hired thug that caused this.”

                “You’re all fools,” came Wendonel’s tiny voice, as she dusted herself off and helped her brother to his feet. Both were stiff and sore from their rough transport on the back of the horse. “And none of you will learn from this and be better because of it.”

                The elf, perched on his heels and haunches on a stump nearby and apparently

oblivious to the entire debacle until now, turned his delicate features toward her. “What do you mean?”

                She sighed and leaned back, stretching out painful kinks in her back. “I mean

that none of you will live to see the light of morning.”

                All three glanced at the tiny girl. The orc chuckled with quiet uncertainty. As her eyes quietly bored into them, the chuckling ceased.

                The elf sat completely still and glared at her. “Corbin... something in my old bones mislikes what the girl child says.”

                Corbin absent-mindedly waved away the elf’s words. “Pay her no mind. Her

protector would be a day behind us if he lives at all, and this gap will resume and grow even greater after we’ve rested a bit.”

                Now Favius chuckled weakly, the soft laugh of the weary teacher amused at the slow wit of an impossibly dull child. Wendonel trudged up to the fire and then plopped down on her backside. “He’s much more than he looks. Your giant hurt him, but he heals quickly. And even though he has no horse, I believe he can move much faster than you think he can.” She looked into the fire, and it immediately began to tell her stories again. Her eyes widened slightly. “Much faster.”

                The elf squinted slightly in thought. “Can we slice open her tongue? Not cut it out mind you. Just make it painful for her to speak.”

                The orc glared at the elf again and moved his hand to his belt, where a small thin blade he used to trim his beard was kept. “Mayhap the forest fairy speaks half a truth. Right idea, wrong tongue.” He grumbled. The elf shot him a look for the degrading epithet but said nothing.

                “Be silent, the both of you. You know as well as I that they are to be delivered unspoiled.” Corbin squatted near them, his dark eyes looking at each of them in turn. “I mean you no harm children. I am simply a businessman. I was hired to take you from the charge of your friend and deliver you to my employer, a very rich man who will no doubt take very good care of you.” Favius gritted his teeth and scowled. Wendonel shook her head, but did not remove her attention from the fire. The mercenary held up a hand. “I swear that I am being honest. I have no reason to lie. I simply want us to understand each other.”

                The orc chuckled with a bit more certainty this time.

                “Whether or not you are telling the truth doesn’t matter,” she said softly. “And you will not have us much longer, even if you fled with us now.” She turned towards him, her eyes the last to follow. “I am sorry.”

                Her cold demeanor should have unsettled him, but instead he was infuriated. He leaned in close to her. “You little witch,” he practically whispered. “I could have your hands bound with razor cord so that every deep breath would slice your flesh. Or I could place you in finger irons, where you have to flex your fingers to keep blood flowing to them so they don’t rot off, but every movement brings agony.”

                The elf had lit a long thin pipe and absently blew a small series of perfect smoke rings that smelt of cinnamon. “Or we could slice open your tongue,” he muttered.

                “Hush!” Corbin hissed, snarling.

                Favius set his jaw but was visibly shaking. Wendonel, however, merely shrugged. “You may do all of the things you said, or none. It won’t change anything. What will happen won’t happen because I’m saying so.” She turned back towards the

flames, as did her brother. “I’m saying so because what’s going to happen is going to happen.”

                Corbin stood, and stared at the top of her head. Without another sound, he struck her across the face with the back of his hand, sending her reeling across the ground. Favius let out a strangled, helpless cry. The orc’s mouth hung open, and even the elf seemed shocked.

                “You said... I thought...” The orc stammered.

                When Wendonel looked up, tears had finally found her eyes. Corbin smiled crookedly. “Better,” he said softly.

                Wendonel shook her head, a bright red blotch on her cheek. There was a small bleeding welt rising near her left eye caused by a metal stud on the mercenary’s leather glove. “You poor, poor man. You will listen to everyone else die, and be saved for last.” She pinched her eyes shut, as if the image of what would happen to him was too much for her to see. “It will be short, but horrible.”

                Corbin stepped towards the child again, but the broad palm of the orc lay on his shoulder.

                “Stop!” He spun him around. “You have already broken your bargain, human fool! What would you do now: kill her and lose everything? Even your neck?” The

mankindred’s yellow eyes fairly burned, but he retained his composure. “Calm yourself, Corbin. Soon enough we’ll deliver this nasty little beast, explain away her injury somehow, collect our fat reward and be gone. Then you can take out whatever you want on any whore, beggar, highwayman you like.”

                Corbin glared at the broad, craggy mankindred’s face, but his reason quickly

filtered into his mind and his features slowly unwound. “Gods... you’re right, Hob. My apologies, I nearly cost us everything.” He rubbed his face. “We’d best keep our distance from the little witch.”

                Hob nodded. “Aye, wise words, leader. Posias?”

                The elf turned lazily toward him, his aloof attitude apparently reseated. “Mm?”

                “Bind them, if you would?”

                The elf turned away. “Bind them yourself. The very thought of touching either of their filthy man hides is an even more revolting prospect than waking up with my face nuzzling your armpit.”

                The orc opened his mouth in a retort when a roaring laugh came from behind him. He whirled with his hand flashing to his sword hilt, and there, amidst the reeking

piles of horse parts it apparently did not want was the hill giant, holding his belly and

laughing so loudly the very ground shook. Apparently, he found the elf’s words to be quite funny.

                Hob could not help it. He actually gulped in fear at the sight of it. With a shake of his head, he got hold of himself again. “Glad we could at least provide entertainment.” He bent near the children, who, after a moment’s hesitation, dutifully held out their hands. He glared at each of them. “Now: Neither of you will be giving me any problems, aye?” They nodded in mute unison. He sighed and tied their wrists with surprising gentleness. “I am truly regretting ever signing on with this job.”

                “You have no idea how right you are going to be.” Wendonel said quietly.

 

 

Chapter 35

 

                Travel across the vastness of Hildegoth has many modes. On foot is the most common and the least effective. Horseback or on the back of some other beast is second, and extends the range appreciably in both speed and distance. There are much more exotic beasts upon which to travel. Some have been known to train the griffon and giant eagles of Graydon’s Wood and other realms, and a few have even laid claim to reining a dragon.

                For those with either severe emergency or deep pockets though, teleportation is the preferred method of crossing truly vast distances in minutes. Significant concern does exist in the facts that: a) should something happen to the teleporting warrick those being teleported will be forever lost between worlds and b) care needs to be taken by the warrick to make certain that where his charges arrive is in a wide-open area easily visualized. Extreme precision is difficult and, often times, mistaken with deadly results and c) those being moved and the mover are rather easily watched and traced by warricks with sufficient skill and awareness of the telltales of teleportation.

                All of these taken into consideration, a transit of a few hundred miles can cost half a dozen ranyins, as it is a difficult skill to master and does put the warrick at

considerable risk.

                More commonly transported this way are messages, as they are much smaller, hardier, and can be more stringently enwarred to show up exactly where they need to be, as well as unreadable until the recipient reads it. It does not do a warrick spy much good to know when a message arrives unless they know what is on it.

-        

Canthus, GrandMaster Warrick

 

                A dreary, muggy night had settled over Tyniar. The light of the moon was present, but its glowing face could not be found. Biting, stinging insects, their numbers swelled by the strange weather, swarmed late-night travelers and establishments opened to the night air in a futile attempt to cool their interiors. And a monk sipped wine at the table of the High King whilst his exhausted traveling partner Merva slumbered like the dead in a guarded stateroom a floor below.

                Merrett steepled his fingers and stared at a space somewhere on the table. “I believe you Brother Daniel. I truly do. But, you must understand, claims of such an... elevated nature must be substantiated.”

                The tall, shaven headed, square shouldered monk set his goblet down. He was not much for the drink anyway. “Of course, High King Merrett. That was what I had hoped the next step would be.”

                The High King nodded. He then leaned forward. “I must ask: Fremett is what, a thousand miles from here? And you saw these creatures not two turns ago?” Daniel smiled a bit and nodded. The High King continued. “Sooo... how did you cross such an expanse? A horse that didn’t need to eat or sleep couldn’t cover such a distance in such a short time, even on flat ground with perfect weather. Teleportation by a skilled warrick would have brought you here in minutes, but something tells me that is not the answer either.”

                The monk laughed quietly. “No, no warricking was involved.” He cleared

his throat and sat back a bit, as if choosing his words carefully. “We Ummonic monks

have a few skills that allow us a bit more convenience than most would enjoy. One of

these is the ability to traverse great distances at speed. While not nearly as quick or

convenient as what a warrick can do, it is much better than nothing and nearly untraceable.”

                Merrett relaxed slightly. “I know of these abilities. I read many manuscripts and anthologies on the disciplines of the Ummonic Order. Some believe these skills are actually a form of warricking, simply a different path to the same power.” He felt the stirrings of a great ramble, so he cut himself off and returned to the subject at hand. “And you never actually saw this creature that Merva described?”

                Daniel shook his head. “No, but yet another skill we have at our disposal is actually mere observation touched with this same uumic influence. Unless the speaker

is a very well-trained actor or has other powers of sheathing his, or, in this case, her, true intentions, we can tell when someone’s sincerity is lacking. I do not know for certain what she saw, but Merva was telling the truth. I’d stake my faith on it.”

                Merrett had his own methods of divining the truth and they had nothing to do

with uumic spirit tapping. They were all founded on his inherent shrewdness. He was as certain that Daniel was being forthright with him as the monk apparently was with his companion. This conviction, in concert with his studies of Daniel’s faith, were all the proof he truly needed. He was curious about only one other thing. He took on an air of bafflement, which was not at all difficult to do. “The High Priest of Fremett... by the dead gods’ beards. Did you know him?”

                Daniel could not hide the very small frown that tugged at his lips. “Only slightly.”

                Merrett did not exactly pounce, but it was close. “You didn’t care for him then?”

                He furrowed his young brow. “High King, I never said that...”

                The High King smiled as meagerly as Daniel had frowned. “Not out loud, no.”

                The tall monk laughed deeply. “Your legend of sharp perception is hardly legend, then. No, I did not care for him at all. He was the worst sort of liar, High King, the sort who believed his own lies. Still...” his eyes drifted. “...I do not believe the fate that he suffered was one he truly deserved, though.”

                Both men squirmed inwardly as their imaginations spun Merva’s description of Jerom’s lifeless sleeve of a corpse crumpling to the ground as the glistening mass of flesh that had fled it rushed into the stained priest’s body, supplanting whatever tugged its strings of life with its own foul moorings.

                Merrett, though unsettled by the image, chose this moment to allay his final concern. “So... was it this dislike that kept you from aiding him?”

                The monk paused. “I am sorry?”

                The High King leaned forward. “From aiding him. From heading back to his

estate and helping him, or at least, squelch out this evil while still in some form of infancy.”

                The monk sat there with his mouth wavering around words that confused him. “High King... I honestly do not know. I had not thought of it, which is very odd for me. I would have helped, yes, under other circumstances. Once it was clear that Merva was not lying, I took her to my rooms and we left for Tyniar at first light. I can bind another to me as I invoke my traveling ability…”

                “…Uuma Nomasu.” The High King filled in for him, his knowledge of the monk’s skill designed to throw him off further, though he believed that the holy man’s confusion was not due to any sort of falsehood but something else entirely.

                “…Yes, that is what it is called.” Daniel said, impressed but not unduly derailed. “So, I took Merva with me to here, knowing the entire time that it was the right thing to do, but not ever truly questioning it until just now.” He blinked, amazed at this revelation. “It... it must have been Ummon’s will.” He swallowed as the enormity of this statement at once weighted and uplifted him.

                The High King could not keep from rolling his eyes slightly. “Or the meddling of an old pointy-eared trickster.” The monk either did not register what he had said, or possibly was not even listening. Merrett pressed on. “At any rate. I am pleased that you made it safely. I will inform my intelligence network of your claims. You may stay in Tyniar as a ward of the kingdom for as long as you feel the need.” And he sat there staring at Daniel, who stared right back. And the entire odd exchange was over.

                After a few moments the monk realized he was being dismissed. “Oh. Um. Well then, I suppose that is all you can do at this point.”

                The High King nodded. “Indeed, it is.”

                Daniel hesitated while still staring at the kingdom’s ultimate monarch. His hair and beard had been trimmed and combed, and his regal finery free of wrinkle and stain, yet there was something unkempt about him. Something thinned. He turned to leave. Right before he got to the door, he looked back.

                “My high king... I am not certain if I have made the gravity of the situation

clear to you. I am not known for any particular blessing with the spoken word.”

                The High King had apparently not taken his eyes from the monk as he looked just as he did moments before. “Brother Daniel, horrific things have been in motion for longer than you or I or our greatest of great-great-great-grandfathers have walked this land. They are only now coming to a head and I am still not sure why or how, but I can assure you this: What you say surprises me not in the least.”

 

~*~

 

                Canthus streaked across the elemental plane of earth as entire mountains moved beneath him in anger. He had more than outstayed his welcome: He had outraged the inhabitants. Teragga lurched from their rocky abodes and hurled huge slabs of stone and earth at his spirit form, which had suffered from their attacks over its indeterminate expanses.

                His current predicament was caused by unfortunate coincidence. In his haste he had not been paying attention and had blundered into some sort of ceremony between two earth elementals of ancient age. They were even more slow-spoken and glacially motivated than most of their kin, as befitted their advanced stage of life. Indeed, when teragga get old enough they tend to set down roots and become mountains. Some even choose to move to the primeal divergess and become peaks of renown amongst the mortal races. These two had been engaged in ceremonial exchange for centuries when Canthus had bungled through the space between them and utterly undid all of their efforts.

                Word spread with surprising speed through such an outwardly unhurried community and the grandmaster warrick found himself in very real danger. He had basically and inadvertently spit in the eye of the local royalty. It would be a long time, if ever, before he would be welcomed back here.

                The mental tug that he had felt hours earlier was still there, but seemed tenuous and not at all long for this world, or any other, for that matter. Soon Othis would move from here to his final resting place, which could be anywhere, on any plane.

                He pored through his mind as to whether or not the efforts he was making and the price he was paying were reasonable. Finding the murderer of the High King’s chief advisor would be a task that would supplant most any other, yet the ancient elf could clearly feel more than this at work here. Othis’ spirit knew something that would prove vital to unraveling part of this new knot that was even now cinching tight on Hildegoth’s throat.

                “With that in mind,” he said to himself as he reined in the tattered extremities of his spirit form, “I would suppose that subtlety is no longer an option.” Pulling deep from within himself, he focused his vast warra on a point at his center, which instantly flared to life as a brilliant blue light. As he concentrated and wove more and more power into this point, it grew even more intensely bright, to a degree where no living being could have looked at it without searing its eyes from it skull.

                He opened his mouth to speak as halos of oscillating blue and white light

contracted on his uum. Contrary to the maelstrom of energy, his voice was whisper soft.

                “Chronis Cessari.”

                And the coalescing energies slammed together to a point no larger than a pinprick, and then rapidly and violently expanded in every direction for thousands of

feet. The grandmaster warrick gritted his teeth as he forced more and more of his warra into this immense spell, literally freezing time in every direction to both end the attacks of the teragga, and to hopefully stop Othis’ soul in his tracks before he moved on.

                The burden of maintaining such a reality-altering spell was enormous. He did not know how long he could truly maintain, though he would be able to withdraw its effects from regions he had searched. This should extend his fortitude significantly. Hopefully.

                He may, however, have simply traded one emergency for another. There had to be something here, something that would lead him to this exceptional human’s soul. He thought on this, as reality strained against his warricking, a battle that reality would ultimately and unavoidably win. He focused his remaining power on finding some trace of Othis’ spirit.

                Othis. A man of virtue. Loyalty. Kindness. Light.

                Light. A light!

                Canthus dimmed his sight until all was dark other than self-sustaining illumination. The eyes and magma hearts of the teragga glowed all around him, stoked with offense and rage. To the far horizon, a line of dull red shone, where the divergesses of earth and fire met and battled.

                Nothing else was visible. He turned in a slow circle, his warra pouring out of him as he both seized time in his grip and extended his vision to see in all spectrums both within and without mortal vision, and at distances both near and beyond what a hawk could see on a crystalline day.

                He had nearly completed his circle and given in to the grim tug of despair, when he saw it. A frozen sparkle of white far off to where the shores of Extiris Teraxa gave way to the depths of Extiris Aquanie, the plane of water. He cried out with rejoice and fury at himself. Othis had mentioned several times in the past how his family had a great house out on the cliffs of the Erathian coast. Considering Othis’ kind bearing, he no doubt came from decent parentage, so of course many of his fondest memories would be of the ocean and that manor. The nearly blightless nature of his soul would allow him to choose whatever venue in which he would wish to spend eternity, and deducing that he would rebuild this warm place from his early years was almost an elementary exercise in logic.

                Ancient wisdom indeed! A child could have surmised as much. Perhaps his

memory was too vast. It was getting difficult to pore through the archives of his mind.

He shook his phantasmal head, and streaked toward this light. As he did so, he released his hold on the reality behind him, and time resumed. The teragga, still furious but confused as well, would probably be disoriented for a goodly while as they realigned themselves with what had happened. Good. That would be that much more of a grace period with which he could speak with Othis.

                Relying on, of course, that Othis would recognize him and speak at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 36

 

                Trolls are as varied in appearance as most two- footed mankindred, but do share three traits: they are dumb, mean, and strong.

                A commonly held belief is that they are impervious to normal weapons and heal incredibly quickly from even the most grievous of wounds. Though evidence of such does exist amongst troll kind, it is not conclusive to them as a whole. Bearing that in mind, with an average height of seven feet and an average weight of three hundred pounds, if you were to get close enough to discover if your particular troll is invulnerable to your attacks or healing as quickly as you cut it, it will probably be too late to tell anyone shortly after you find out.

 

                “Mud-covered, dung-spattered, snot-crusted daughter of a troll grandmother rapist,” the High King muttered with quiet eloquence at no one. Then he emptied his mug of black northern ale, leaned forward, and refilled it from a large barrel he had had brought up from the castle’s cellars. Not priceless elvish wine. Not aged-to-perfection dwarvish whiskey. Cheap, dependable ale made with calloused hands by the gallon.

                The room in which he reclined was yet another dining area adjacent to the main tower’s central stairwell. It would take twenty minutes to descend them all the way to the ground floor. It was modestly replete with a small hearth, a thick table as old as Canthus for all he knew, and chairs that could probably fetch more ranyins than an entire farm. He was using one to sit in and one to prop up his feet.

                “Dragon-kissing, slime-slurping, goblin-wedded dog of an ogre-assed midwife.” Drink. Pour.

                The guards standing near the doorway leading to the central stairs swallowed

nervously several times, repeatedly thanking what gods they held dear that they had yet to be on the receiving end of the High King’s displeasure.

                Things continued this way for quite a while. The king made foul toasts to empty air, venting off accumulated frustration and emotion with every unheeded, repellent homage. A plate of hardly touched finger foods lay on the table near him. He looked at it a few times, realizing he was in fact hungry, but unwilling to sustain himself due to some unnamed, inexplicable guilt. He panned his eyes away, up the polished stacks of stone that comprised the wall, and settled on an impossibly huge portrait of some long dead representative of the royal house that neither he, nor most likely anyone else still living, could name.

                He held aloft his mug and smiled broadly. “Gorgon-mated, ditch-dwelling,

cheap-wine-swilling cousin of a one-eyed…”

                A loud thumping came up the central stairs. Whoever it was, was large and in a hurry. Merrett looked with mild curiosity at the door, wondering what horrible conflict would be brought to his lap this time.

                After a few more seconds, the guards stepped nimbly out of the way as the

authoritative bulk of Thoris Greenwood entered the room. He tromped towards the High King with a strange look of alarm and rage in his eye, yet was not cursing, which was a rather unsettling image. The High King set down his mug on the table, untouched. His great bear of a brother would not look this way unless something greatly vexed him. Merrett asked him, “What’s wrong?”

                The mercenary admiral slammed down an opened leather-bound document on the table. “Treachery, little brother! Deeper than either of us thought!”

                The High King of Hildegoth made a long slow blink as his words found their way into his mind. “Thoris, calm yourself! What treachery?”

                Thoris pointed with almost childlike accusation at the document. Merrett took it in his hands, opened it, and read.

 

To The High Advisory of The High King Merrett,

From Grand Admiral Thoris Greenwood

 

My now expired military contract, which had been an amicably reinstated business relationship until now, will remain expired unless a diplomatic summit is arranged with Othis the High Advisor of the High King of Hildegoth and I, as a gesture of good faith and reparation for what I consider a serious breach of business conduct.

 

Until this comparatively reasonable expectation is met, The Erathian Military Forces may consider itself bereft of the surpassing presence of the elite Eastern Mercenary Navy.

 

Regards,

Admiral Thoris Greenwood

 

                The High King’s ale fogged mind blanched at first, unclear as to how his brother’s distress could be caused by his own words. But another look into his brother’s eyes and a horrible truth made itself known. “You never sent this.”

                Thoris shook his head, his face flushed with rage.

                Good King Merrett charged from the room, seizing the admiral’s sleeve as he Passed him. Canthus’ name was at his lips, but the weight of what this meant was so horrendous, that his breath could not push it any further.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 37

 

                There is no national sport in Hildegoth, but each of the High Kings over the

centuries have shown surpassing interest in one gaming activity or another.

High King Jason the White enjoyed falconry, whilst High King Manchester

Corionis was a championship archer. Uredd the Red was a master swordsman, and

Welleth the Stoic was rumored to be undefeatable in a game of chess. Good King Merrett’s favorite leisure pursuit is any sort of word puzzle he can get his hands on, and has paid handsomely for rare volumes of such. He has even hired scholars who specialize in the written word to devise new and confounding texts that he consumes in a handful of hours. Conversely, the High King has been seen driven nearly to the point of despair over the simplest of mathematical computations.

 

                Zartothzorok was having two meals simultaneously: one of energy sucked

from misery, the other of flesh. He dined on the simulacrum of a man spread upon an

obsidian table and skewered there in dozens of places with metallic spikes. The demon lord used a two-tined fork and thin knife, and sliced away pieces of false flesh, though judging from the screams that poured from the man’s mouth as his jaw dislocated from the strain, false flesh feels as true flesh does.

                After having survived being thrown back in time to be rebirthed, Hareyamin had, after the intervening years, finally been plucked from his training and put to actual use. This training had served him very well in arts physical, mental and spiritual. One of his teachers was an old werish assassin, much of his skin burnt off during the botched end of his final contract when his target had rolled over in her sleep and knocked the vial of acid meant for her out of his hands and summarily covered him from face to waist with it. He had barely managed to escape with his life. Shortly after, he joined a church of the hells as an agent, and, after a multitude of tests, had come under the demon lord’s direct employ soon after this, receiving instruction, reward, and punishment from him in his dreams.

                Hareyamin’s other teachers were of similar background, exiled from society in one way or another. His training was such that he had managed to assume a convincing appearance as an erutuuta himself. He had then acquired the seal and document case of Mercenary Admiral Thoris Greenwood through bribery and threats, and forged a letter.

                And then, of course, it was he who had killed Othis. A comparatively clumsy kill of course. An actual erutuuta would have slashed out the advisor’s lungs and left only as much of an impression on any witnesses as he would have liked. As such he was bested by the admiral himself as he escaped. The intervention of a passing oaf who stepped into his path actually worked in his favor when the interloper did him the unintentional recompense of posing as he. The elixir of internal flame that Hareyamin dumped down his throat burned him from within to nothing more than ash. He then quickly placed the charred elixir bottle and his knife sheath on what remained of the corpse, and guaranteed at least a head start. Now the high king was without his most trusted right hand. This would cause such an uproar in the upper echelons of the high court, that all focus would be on both discerning his killer, and frantically seeking a surrogate high counselor. He could now move his other pieces under the shade of this chaos.

                Of more recent opportune import, at least personally to the demon lord, Hareyamin had managed to protect the monk Daniel Othello from several missteps that would see him hurt or killed. He had yet to make himself known to the holy man, seeming more like a guardian spirit no doubt to his eyes, but there was as yet no hurry to outwardly approach him. Yes, it would be a perfectly reasonable task to befriend another of his investment’s close associates, but, according to the murky images that the future told him, Daniel Othello, the wayward monk of Ummon, would be amongst his more powerful and naïve companions. Besides, using one of Ummon’s precious holy men for his own aims was a delicious irony that he would be loath to relinquish.

                Interestingly, in Hareyamin’s latest act of guardianship for the monk, he had warded him from entering a house occupied by a cadre of undead, led by what he at first thought was some sort of lich or something of that nature. Recently, after curiosity bade him research it a bit, he discovered that this being was none other than the owner of the same energy patterns that belonged to this self-proclaimed N’ommu, the giver of souls to the hells, and the contrast to the great god of Hildegoth himself.

                Now Daniel was miles away in Tyn Ianett and Hareyamin was forced to undertake more mundane modes of travel to catch up with him. He had warricking skills, but teleportation was not among them. Hopefully the monk would remain at the Hildegothian capital for a while and allow his shadow to resume its place. Or, perhaps

the opportunity for the shadow to reveal itself would arise? The possibilities were

tantalizingly risky.

                The ramparts of Ianett were more than stone. It had been warded so often by so many warricks of no small ability, that even Zartothzorok could see only flashing, washed out glimpses of what transpired within. Honestly though, he liked limits. Games without boundaries were boring.

                And, of course, the kidnapping had gone well. Not smoothly, of course, but well. That damnable near-mortal that had somehow been pulled into the tapestry had been much hardier than his prognostications had at first indicated, but he had been dealt with. The children, of perhaps even more central effect to his plans than Othello, would soon be safely in the hands of one of his most trusted, if inadvertent, mortal servants. Things were moving along well enough to be soothing, but chaotically enough to be interesting. Entropy was a beast best tickled – not shoved.

                He smiled as sliced away at the tortured spirit, contemplating the future as sustenance filled him. He then grew instantly bored with his meal. He brought a palm down with incredible force, smashing the soul to ribbons and snapping the foot-thick stone table beneath it. The tatters of the soul would rejoin of course, though such an injury would take a great deal of time to overcome as each piece found each other, which they usually did.

                The demon lord stood, adjusted his appearance slightly so that his striking looks were carved even more so, almost impossibly angular and precise. His garments were a simple and elegant cut, a style from a long distant future where stark simplicity was such a rarity it had been refined to an art. With a thought, he sent his spirit form into the astral plane, slipping through the massive psychic curtains that blanketed the Thousand Hells. From here he could peer into any of the other planes, though not truly interact in any of them. After a short time, he found this N’ommu and smiled. He saw the machinations he had put into motion. He saw the High Church of Western Hildegoth. He saw the worshippers throwing their hands heavenward to a god that was no god at all. He glanced back into the last few days and saw the vessels that this child of the aether had usurped to his own ends. One of them had been Hemerek Alvis, High Priest of Fremett.

                Zartothzorok’s smile vanished.

                It was time to have a little chat with this infant menace.

 

~*~

 

                Corbin, Hob, and Posias huddled around a fire as the darkest part of the early morning hours shrouded them. They had made it to a stout and secluded den known to those who needed to hide often and well while on the road. There were many such structures, hidden about here and there along seldom travelled roads and trails. Many knew most, but no one knew them all.

                They had said little the last hour, which suited each of them fine, as they did not particularly care for each other’s company. The hill giant had climbed up a forested slope behind the squat block of stone and oak of the den to sleep, most likely. They had not seen him sleep yet, so were uncertain if he actually needed to or not.

                So far there had been no sign of a pursuer – no sign of anything, really. Highwaymen, various animals, even goblins, trolls, and an ettin or two could be found this deep in Graydon’s Wood, but there was nothing. They had either fled or had settled down for the night, uninterested in whatever would transpire. Quite a feat to make an eight foot two-headed horror like an ettin nervous enough to make itself scarce.

                A cold curl of wind tilted their fire on to its sputtering side.

                Finally, the chilly silence was broken.

                “We should leave now,” Hob muttered.

                Corbin shook his head. “Not yet. It’s still completely dark and we have horses that were ridden harder than they should be considering the terrain, and they’ve been on the edge of their nerves for nearly the entire journey, thanks to our tall friend.” He breathed a short sigh of impatience. “We need better light, and they need to rest well or they’ll founder.”

                A few minutes passed as they stared into the embers of their fire.

                “How long…” Hob began.

                “I don’t know,” Corbin snapped. “Sunrise, perhaps.”

                The orc leaned forward with something sharp on his tongue, but was cut off by a tired voice near the thick oak doors of their hideout.

                “I don’t think you are really bad. You don’t feel that way. Even you.”

                Corbin knew she was talking about him without even turning to look.

                “But it won’t matter,” she continued. “Nothing will matter.”

                Corbin calmly got to his feet, slapping away Hob’s restraining hand. Posias

snickered quietly, his eyes slitted with fatigue.

                He walked over to where Wendonel and Favius sat on a horse blanket, bound

and tethered to a large iron ring protruding from the wall. “I thought that I had made it

clear, little guttersnipe. If…” The human obviously had more to say, but a roar that

sounded half human and half beast shook the trees from far too close. Birds took to panicked flight, calling shrilly. Corbin looked in the direction with alarm, then back to Wendonel. She shrugged, whilst peering at him and shaking her head tiredly. She looked more than tired. She looked bored.

                He pinched his lips into a thin line and hauled her and her brother to their feet. Fishing a key from a pouch at his belt, he unlocked their binders and then yanked open the huge door to the den.

                “Inside, all of you.”

                Hob was already on his feet with his saber in his hand. “What of the giant?”

                “What of the giant?” Corbin shot back. The elf began cackling as he gathered his gear and dashed into the den.

                Hob looked back at Corbin and then at the horses. “What do we do with the animals?” He jerked a thumb at them.

                “Leave them! It’s us he wants!”

                Hob had resheathed his sword and was already running into the den snapping up the children in his broad hands with Corbin immediately behind him. He asked, “But what will we ride out of here when it’s over?”

                Corbin stared at the back of the mankindred’s helmeted skull in stunned disbelief and then struck it with his gauntlet, making the huge orc stumble. “Just get your fool hide in there!”

                Hob looked back at Corbin, his yellow eyes flaring as all talk of conspiratorial endurance left him. “If we survive this, human, I am going to kill you.”

                Corbin slipped in behind Hob and slammed and barred the door. “Fine. Kill me if we survive. That will make perfect sense.” He shoved the only table in the room towards the door, but was unable to lift it up on end to effectively block it. “Before we kill each other, can you help me with this table?”

                Hob grumbled but released the children and seized the thick oak table with Corbin next to him, and heaved it upward so it braced against the door. The human, orc, and elf backed away from the entrance. Corbin drew his long sword, Hob his saber, and Posias a pair of slender, elegantly curved elvish short blades. All were tense and uneasy. Corbin wore a look of wide-eyed expectation, Hob a scowl of annoyance, and Posias an almost maniacal grin. They were as ready as they would ever be to face whatever this guardian could bring to the dice game.

                Honestly, how powerful could he be? Enough to defeat the giant and the three of them? Corbin himself had dispatched many able-bodied men with hardly a scratch himself, and this creature was alone. The leader of the little mercenary band actually felt his anxiety drop a degree or two. The girl child must have exaggerated, just to toy with his mind. Or she had simply overestimated him. Tricksy little harlot, no wonder some powerful religious psychopath wanted to lock her away or convert her or whatever it was they did with her kind. Her gift with words must be tainted with the touch of evil. No normal child could do such a thing.

                He glanced over at them. The girl was leaning against the back wall, near a hearth that had not been used in many turns. The boy was absent-mindedly backing up towards the wall, when he laid his hand on a section of the stone fireplace. There was a loud cracking sound, which caused the other mercenaries to snap their attention over to him.

                An inch-wide crack that ran from the floor to nearly the ceiling had appeared in the rear wall. Favius had inadvertently found another way out.

 

 

 

~*~

 

                JaBrawn was fighting to focus, fighting fatigue, and fighting the pain caused

by several dozen wounds that he kept reopening, but more than anything else he was

fighting inside himself. The beast would lunge at him from within like an enemy and he would collapse, tumbling in the dirt and brush and causing everything with even the barest sense of something amiss to flee.

                He would bash at the beast, gouge at its eyes, kick it, bite it and curse it until he could force it back down the hole in his soul where it resided. Then he would lift himself from the scar in the earth his body had created and resume his chase, borrowing more and more strength from the beast until it had clawed itself to the lip of the pit again and then the whole affair would repeat itself.

                Finally, he found himself careening into a tree with such violent force that he nearly broke his shoulder. As such, it was sorely bruised, and the impact knocked both of his spiritual counterparts to the ground, and cracked the tree nearly in half. A whisper of

wind would fell it.

                As he sat up and his wounds knitted, he saw, in his mind’s eye, he and the beast staring at one another and panting breathlessly. He seemed hopelessly human, frail, and mortal. It, of course, recovered first and reared back on dark haunches to spring yet again. Its teeth and eyes glowed a brilliant green.

                JaBrawn held up a hand. “Wait,” he said in a weary tone.

                The beast, uncaring and uninterested in subterfuge yet still possessed of a strong streak of animal cunning, paused a half second before its attack.

                “I am tired,” JaBrawn said.

                The beast bared its teeth, seemingly pleased that its prey was weakening, but

JaBrawn noticed a slight shudder in its forelimbs, as if they too were taxed with fatigue.

                “You are tired too,” JaBrawn said.

                The beast stopped its snarling, and laid its ears back on its head.

JaBrawn nodded blearily, allowing his eyes to close a moment, and was then

surprised when he opened them to see the beast resting on its haunches this time, perusing him with slitted eyes. It was listening, but one wrong word and the battle would resume.

                “Fair enough,” he said, and squared his shoulders. The beast, an almost formless, hunched shape of black hair and muscle, lifted its muzzle slightly.

                They stared into each other’s eyes as JaBrawn, in the real world, knelt in the

dirt and rubble near the tree he had nearly uprooted.

                Back inside his soul, he began. “You are part of me.”

                The beast flicked its ears once.

                “And I of you. We have shared my heart too long to be separate any longer. Indeed, we have been together far, far longer than I had first thought.”

                The beast blinked and chuffed.

                “So. Here we are burning through time we cannot not spare, whilst two little

ones I have sworn to protect lie in the clutches of gods knows what kind of vile creatures.” JaBrawn’s visage hardened. “If you would simply stay subdued, I could…”

                The beast bared its teeth and growled again. He was going down the wrong

path.

                “Bah, quiet yourself! Yes, I became more like you during the years I was a

garulokai, but in the years since then, might you have become more like me? Could

some of my humanity have infused you?”

                The beast crouched on thick legs, its claws rending the surface of whatever

his mind used for dirt. He was veering further from the line of thinking he needed to

find.

                “No,” he said suddenly. “You can’t be changed. You’re a primal force, some

spirit of nature that’s about as changeable as a mountain.”

                The beast relaxed somewhat and settled back on its haunches again, but a great

bristling mane remained raised behind its head, and a low growl still issued from its

throat.

                “So, you will not be anything other than what you are, and neither will I. Always different, always separate.” A thought crossed his mind. “Do you care about the children at all? Are they something other than simply a meal hardly worth the effort? A silly burden?”

                The beast snorted. No.

                JaBrawn gritted his teeth. “Well I do. They are more than my charges.” His throat tightened. “They are my friends.”

                The beast chuffed again. A correct answer, but useless. “Just like this conversation,” he said inwardly. “Just like this whole bloody chase. Just like this whole bloody world and everyone and everything in it.” JaBrawn felt the weight of fatigue and loss hit him like someone placing a bag of stones quietly on his shoulders. It threatened to consume as surely as this monster of destruction and ravenous hunger before him.

                The beast would have none of it though. It lunged forward snapping its jaws

and roaring. JaBrawn recoiled and lifted his fists to defend himself, but then dropped

them when the beast stopped not a foot from his face.

                “Oh, give it all up why don’t you? You’re cruel and deadly and all that, but

what are you without me? What are you without a suit of flesh to twist into your

likeness? What happens if I die – what happens to you? I know that Ivor didn’t taint

me as I thought he did, he merely unleashed you in me, so…” he paused, stunned, as

something dawned on him. After three hundred years of loss and regret and shame, it

came to him as simply as if he had finally noticed something on a table that had been

there all his life. Glimpses of his past, flashes of thought all through his childhood and

early adulthood, a barely controlled rage that had saved him more than once, but terrified him. He simply thought it a piece of his personality that he had to rein in until battle required its presence. In a sense, he was right. He spoke very softly. “…You were always in me.”

                The beast looked at the ground for a moment. It stared downward, blinking, its chest slowly heaving and shrinking with breath. Then, amazingly it began to back away. It was still growling, but it was retreating.

                “It hasn’t been merely centuries since we’ve been two beings. We’ve never been two beings.”

                The beast looked at him plaintively. Its ears laid flat to the sides, almost drooping.

                “All these years I’ve been fighting you, but in truth I’ve been fighting the side of me that is you!” JaBrawn got to his feet, the murky landscape stretching into blackness on all sides of him. “It was this division that caused my strife! Before Ivor, you were in me but latent. Then his bite gave you purchase on my body, and I thought you a curse all his own, but you weren’t. When I fought you, I fought me.”

                The beast actually whined like a giant, pitch shrouded puppy. JaBrawn stood

and regarded it cautiously. After a handful of seconds that seemed like an entrenched

eternity, he took a tentative step towards it. The beast did nothing but look at him. He

took another.

                “I can’t do what I need to do without your strength.” He quieted, still staring

at this lethal figment of his mind, this deadly ghost in his heart. “I need you,” he muttered as tears sprang to his eyes. “And I’m sorry.” Without knowing why, he reached for the creature.

                The beast looked up at him with flashing emerald eyes. It paused, as it

seemed to regard him in indecision and then, with a howl, flew from the ground like a

dragon taking wing, rushing towards JaBrawn’s outstretched arms.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 38

 

                “All die. Every living thing you see will one day not be there. Even the immortals get killed off, otherwise there would be some of the first ones still around,

wouldn’t there? So, when you change an’ if’ to a ‘when’, the question suddenly seems

more urgent, and quickly gets followed by ‘where, why, and how’.

                Don’t let it bother you too much, though. When it does happen, you’ll be the

first to know.”

-       

Anonymous Soldier, 1st Aegis, 3rd Lance, Erathian Main Army

 

                “Are you mad? You don’t know what direction he’s coming from! He could just as easily nab you from there as from the main door!”

                Hob spun, his eyes wild and his grip on his saber so tense his knuckles ground almost audibly. “He’ll see that door first, if he follows our trail directly! He won’t know this door is here!”

                Corbin shook his head at the orc’s dimwittedness. “Do your ears work at all, or is it simply the brains behind them that are lacking? You don’t know he’s coming from that way, and if you’re already outside when he arrives, it won’t matter if he sees a secret door or not, because he won’t have to open one to find you!”

                “Stay here then, human!” Posias snapped back at the man, his thin face pulled back with madness and terror. “He may not be coming from the road but in all likelihood, he will be. I’d rather not stay to find out, so I’ll slip out the back. It’s saved my ancient hide many times before.”

                Hob paused, staring back at them, uncertain. “If we make it out alive, shall we…”

                “I hope you don’t die.” Wendonel said, peering up with tired eyes at the orc’s rough, tusked face.

                Hob looked down at her for a moment, glanced at Corbin one last time, and then turned and fairly shoved the elf through the door with him close behind.

 

~*~

 

                JaBrawn skidded to a halt. A middling sized hovel backed by redwoods and huge ferns lay in a clearing ahead, where the trail he had been following turned back into an actual road. There was the glowing ruby jewel of a fire smoldering a few yards in front of

the door, as well as three horses lashed to a crude fence along a rise to the right of the structure. The house and this road were probably only known and used by the highwaymen that made this section of Graydon’s Wood their haunt. He squatted behind some foxwood bushes and tested the air with his nose. His senses found the alien pong of the hill giant almost immediately, even though there was very little wind. It had apparently sensed him as well, for it was already tromping down the hillside, as the tremors that forked through the earth told.

                JaBrawn’s eyes narrowed with fury as the creature leapt over the entire hovel and landed with tremendous force in the clearing. In the morning light he looked even more enormous than the fleeting glimpses JaBrawn’s torch had provided during their first meeting. The ragged slash across his forearm was red and angry looking, but was closed. Other than that, there was no sign of their encounter.

                “HAAA!!” The creature bellowed through his wild beard, feral yellow eyes wide with bloodlust. He hefted his massive war hammer from one hand to two, and spun it in a wide, humming circle over his head. With another thundering shout he slammed it into the ground with such force, fissures skittered away from where it impacted like snakes fleeing the foot of a titan. He was clearly trying to flush him from where he was hiding. So. His tracking senses could discern his presence but not his location. He knew where the giant was, but not the other way around. Reminiscent, though backwards this time.

                JaBrawn crouched low on all fours and slunk around through the underbrush to the giant’s left. The bushes quickly ended at the trunk of a stone ash tree, so he would have to act – or not act – by then. He had no sword. Silvermoon was as good as lost. With nothing but his fists, he was about to challenge a being that had literally buried him alive with one foot. He looked down at his broad and calloused hands, still matted with a

scattered cover of dense, short brown fur. And then again he thought of the recent past: a pair of hands as tiny and delicate as his were large and powerful, holding his face between them.

                You’re the answer to our prayers!

                Like a bolt from a ballista he shot around the edge of the brush and threw

himself into the air. The hill giant, his battle senses trained by years of conflict, turned

with his hammer swinging in a wide blow that would have crushed his chest like an

eggshell as well as smashed him halfway across the forest. JaBrawn had been faster

though, and he was already inside the deadly arc of the swing and had grasped the

handle with both his hands in an iron grip. With this point of purchase, he hauled the

rest of his body onto the hammer’s head, perching on the inside edge like a gargoyle.

The hill giant, momentarily surprised by this maneuver, released the hammer with one

hand and then swung this free hand at JaBrawn’s body in a roaring slash.

                Again, the old warrior moved too swiftly for the hulking humanoid. He jumped from the edge of the hammer and clamped onto his wrist with the same titan’s grasp that had held him to the weapon. The giant hissed with surprise again at the strength of his opponent and tried to shake him off like a man being assaulted by a clinging cat. JaBrawn retained his grip however, baring elongated canines he had not used in decades and sinking them into the giant’s flesh right where the tendons bundled together at the inside bend of the elbow.

                Now the hill giant shrieked with real pain and dropped the hammer to the ground, seizing JaBrawn around the neck. He had counted on the giant doing this, knowing that he would not be able to hold on forever, but surprising even himself when the giant had to pry, pound, and ultimately slam him on the ground to break his grip, and even then, only because the blow dazed him. Still, the damage had been done, especially when he was torn free. His teeth greatly wounded the vital connections of the monster’s lower arm. He could still move it, but it obviously pained him a great deal.

                Thinking the creature would take at least brief stock in his injuries, JaBrawn was astounded by his quick thinking when he instantly scrambled towards his hammer again. It was what any smart warrior would do. Arm as best you can, check your wounds later.

                JaBrawn dropped to all fours again and made a powerful horizontal leap to try and get to it first, but the giant had already outdistanced him, though not so quickly that he could bring the huge weapon directly to bear. Still, he managed to swing the foot-wide butt of it around with sufficient force into JaBrawn’s forehead to cause his head to snap back violently and dancing lights to flutter across his vision. He lost his orientation and fell to the ground where he tumbled several yards head over heels. He just managed to make a clumsy second leap in a random direction to avoid a direct hit from the hammer, but enough of it slammed into his ribs that he heard several of them crack and he flew almost fifty feet away to land again in a tumbling heap.

                He lifted a bleary, half human head, and saw an elf and an orc near the hovel stare at him and the giant as they battled. They appeared to war with both the urge to flee and the urge to stay and see if the creature could finish him off.

                The hill giant stomped towards him with huge strides, first dragging the hammer on the ground, but even with one hand it could lift it easily enough, and would soon after this be whirling it towards his head. It was not enwarred so it could not permanently remove him from this life, though such a blow would cause the most damage he had ever sustained. It took nearly a day for him to heal and extricate himself from the impromptu grave the hirrgog had made for him before. He felt the monster would be much more thorough this time.

                The children were nowhere to be seen. Already dead or sold off for all he knew.

                He saw, in his mind, a glimpse of Wendonel’s upturned nose, a disrespectful

jibe on the edge of her lips.

                He saw, in his mind, Favius giggling and swinging his legs off the edge of a bed, laughing at him for something big and silly he had most assuredly done.

                No. They were here.

                With a tiny thought he let it happen. He released the beast inside him, and the results were so fast and so dramatic that even the hill giant gave pause and gaped in wonder. After only a second the monster realized that what was happening was not to his advantage so he swung the hammer with all his might at this strange enemy at his feet.

                With a sound like a thundercrack, the hammer suddenly stopped in midair. It was caught at the haft by a huge hairy fist, its digits thick and tipped with short, sharp claws. It was smaller than the hand it arrested, but more powerful, more bestial and savage. Following the hand was a bulky, corded forearm, and then an upper arm and shoulder immense with dense slabs of muscle, all covered with the same lush fur the color of old redwoods. Following again past shoulder and neck was its face: a broad, blunt-nosed beast with the eyes of a man. Its ears were short and rounded, its forehead wide and sloped, and its brow curled into a scowl of anger that, though animalistic, had the threads of its former humanity still woven through it. JaBrawn had swelled by nearly twice his weight and a third his height, shredding the few garments that remained which now hung in tatters from his vast bulk. His strength and ferocity were now beyond belief, for he again was what he had always been: a werebear.

                With a brutal twist of the weapon's handle that elicited a bark of pain, he snapped the bones in the hill giant’s forearm while tugging him toward him. The monster still towered over him at twice his height, but, pound for pound, JaBrawn was by far the stronger of the two. He lifted the monster’s entire weight over his head, and then slammed him to the ground on his side, stunning him and jarring bones. The hill giant, again showing his cleverness despite being dazed, rolled away whilst kicking out with one long, thick leg, catching JaBrawn on the hip and sending him sprawling. JaBrawn instantly rolled to his feet and lunged from twenty feet away, slashing downward with both forepaws, shredding the hill giant’s armor and knocking him flat on his back before he had even recovered his feet. Hob and Posias stood in mute horror by the hovel.

                “We-really-should-go-now,” Posias sputtered, his eyes locked into a wide trance of fear.

                Hob nodded, and pounded on the front door. The elf slapped him on the back of the head. “What are you doing? What if you get his attention?”

                The orc looked at him like he was an idiot. “I am trying to get his attention!”

                Posias looked at Hob like he was an idiot. “What?” Realization popped. “No,

his attention!” And he pointed at the huge werebear locked tooth and claw with the hill giant.

                Hob paused for only a second and then resumed pounding on the door. “Corbin! Corbin, get your pink human hide out here and help us!”

                Posias cackled madly. “What is it you think he will do? What is it you think we will do? We should be fleeing, not fighting!”

                Stricken disdain flashed through the orc’s eyes. “And what do you think it will do when the hill giant is killed? Give up, even if we leave the children behind? Even if we leave Corbin with the children behind? That… thing will hunt us down like rabbits and kill us no matter what we do.” He turned away from the door with his saber in both hands. “Our only hope for survival is to kill it, and our only chance to kill it is now!”

                The madness slowly fled the elf’s face. Hob was probably right. He held his short swords edge out against his forearms and crouched slightly, standing on the balls of

his feet as he slowly closed the distance between he and the two tumbling titans, making certain that he was slightly behind the orc. No need to be the first in line for whatever was going to happen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 39

 

                “Most of what happens around us does not happen for a reason. What you need to embrace is that that is, in itself, a reason.”

-        

Othis, High Advisor to High King Merrett the Good

 

                The hill giant was a remarkable fighter, even with both arms little more than dead weight. He kicked and bit and slammed JaBrawn with his body, making his bones quake and his vision swim. But each injury quickly healed, and the hurts he inflicted on the giant were worse, and permanent.

                JaBrawn clubbed him across the side of the face as he tried to wrap his arms

around him. Bones popped apart under the blow, and the giant nearly ended up on his

back, only to surge back yet again.

                He whipped the lengths of his arms in a desperate windmill that would have felled half an orchard. JaBrawn ducked under both, and then raked his claws repeatedly across his midriff in a blurring flurry of strikes, rending his flesh horribly. The hill giant threw himself backwards in a clumsy attempt to escape this attack, but JaBrawn had already lunged forward with far more speed. With a savage bite, he shredded the flesh on the giant’s right thigh. He did not penetrate very deeply, but a huge slab of the creature’s skin came off in his mouth. The hill giant roared again with pain and rolled away, kicking JaBrawn solidly in the chest and sending him tumbling away and off a tree that cracked and then slowly fell over. The creature slid and pushed himself backwards away from his furious opponent.

                JaBrawn quickly mended and curled his muscles for another leap, determined to at least drive the creature off, when his eyes locked with the giant’s, who was huffing and puffing flecks of bloody foam on to his beard. The old soldier reasserted itself in his mind, and he finally saw the grisly tattoo his claws and teeth had wreaked on his hide. He was bleeding from a score or more places, and his flesh, once robust and healthy now held a pale pallor that JaBrawn had seen far too many times before. The hill giant was dying, and there was real fear in his eyes for the first time.

                He drew a ragged breath and huffed out a sentence in the strange blocky, jagged language of his kind. The werebear could not recognize his words, but knew what he was saying. He was done. He was beaten. And he wanted release.              Without another thought, JaBrawn leapt towards his face, his cavernous jaws spread wide for a bite that instantly ended both the battle, and the hirrgog’s life.

Moments later, he spat out the foul gristle of what he had torn loose and settled back for a moment to rest, though the rage still burned in his chest and would not be fully sated unless all who had committed this sin had been dealt with. His rest lasted even shorter than he had intended, for he smelt yet more fear on the wind like the sharp odor of honey in a hive. His muzzle dripping with the dark red blood of the giant, he lifted the deep emerald ringed earth of his eyes, and saw the orc and the elf, weapons drawn and frozen in mid step with absolute terror. He growled very deeply in his throat, a sound that set the very air to rumbling.

 

~*~

 

                A shout of alarm, a terrible roar that was completely unidentifiable, and then a scream followed the strange silence that had, in turn, followed the sounds of massive creatures shaking the very earth with battle somewhere far too near the hovel. Wendonel sat with one arm around her knees and the other around her brother who had laid his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes as dust rained down around them and the walls shook.

                She said without looking up, “You shouldn’t have taken us. I told you that you wouldn’t want to.”

                Corbin sneered at her, but fear flashed through his eyes as he heard another scream from the woods. “Is your guardian so virile that he can singly do away with a full-grown hill giant who eats horses, and two of the deadliest mercenaries this side of the Lordless Lands?”

                Wendonel nodded, tears springing to her eyes. “Yes, he is.” A tiny sob shuddered through her. “I’m so sorry.”

                The barrel-chested mercenary scowled, fighting off the urge to strike the sympathy from her face. “Nonsense! He’s one man!” He stabbed a finger at the door. “For all I know that’s him howling as his flesh is hacked from his bones!”

                Wendonel shook her head. “No sir. It isn’t. I’ve seen him kill monsters single-handedly with hardly any effort at all.”

                Another shriek that sounded distinctly elvish tore through the air, closer this time. Corbin and the girl glanced towards the sound. “I’ve watched him hurl boulders half the size of a man over trees.”

                Favius stirred, and glared at Corbin with a mixture of disgust and pity.

                “I’ve seen him pluck arrows from his flesh as if they were bothersome tickflies and nothing more.”

                There was the terrified bark of an orc cut unnaturally short. Corbin’s’ mind,

already rioting from the girl’s words, envisioned a massive, scarred hand snapping the

unfortunate mankindred’s neck like a man breaking a twig.

                “I’m so sorry, but you and every last man in your employ will die this day.” There was a brief silence and then an approaching, earth shuddering gallop as something closed on the hovel with terrifying speed. Wendonel fixed the mercenary with a steady unwavering stare. “And there is nothing you can do about it.”

                Whatever it was stopped just outside, as if knowing its headlong charge would have smashed the little house to splinters. After only a second though, something huge and heavy crashed against the thick oaken doors, which bent inward alarmingly. Cascades of dust and loosened stones fell from the ceiling and the table bracing the door fell backwards and landed on its top.

                “I am so very sorry,” Wendonel said again, nothing but sympathy in her eyes.

                Corbin had already drawn his sword, but comically reached for it again, the

result looking like he was swatting at something invisible with his blade. He turned again to the girl, his face jeweled with sweat and his eyes wild. “Shut up! Shut your filthy godsforsaken mouth, you little witch!”

                Again, the door was struck, and a dozen rivets in the iron bands clutching the

planks together popped out several inches and the table skidded abruptly across the floor to the opposite end of the room. Corbin looked at her, then the door, and then her again,

clutching his sword in both hands and rocking back and forth slightly with his feet spread. His voice was shot through with fear and desperation and he hated it but could

not control it either. “When he comes through that door, he’ll see that if he takes one

more step I’ll split your head like a cursed melon!”

                Favius looked at him like he had completely taken leave of his senses and Wendonel shook her head. “That won’t matter. He’ll be too angry and he’ll be moving too quickly. There’s no way you would have enough time to even strike, much less explain what you’re doing.” She shrugged. “You might as well kill me now, if that’s what you truly want.”

                Another blow, and half of the dozen iron brackets holding the door together popped loose and clattered to the floor with a ringing cacophony. Scurrying from several thin cracks that had been drastically widened by the assault came a flurry of spiders that had somehow been holding out until now. Corbin did not seem to notice.

                “I never wanted to kill you, foolish child! You were nothing more than a job,

a simple assignment by some pompous priest I’ve never even met! But I want to live! What can I do to keep him from…?”

                A final thundering blow and one of the huge doors shattered into splinters while the other was ripped from its sturdy hinges and tossed away as if it were a book cover, and then JaBrawn, nearly filling the archway, stepped into the room.

His thick hairy chest was heaving with rage, and his eyes fairly glowed with it. Silhouetted in a dusty gray haze of dust and cold morning light, he took another step, and a bass percussion more felt than heard spread through the ground. He came into a beam of sun and his face, bent with fury, covered with blood and mud and practically devoid of even the scant humanity that had been discernible before, was finally visible – and it was terrible.

Corbin’s sword drooped and he looked up and up at the shaggy visage of the first and last werebear he would ever see. His face was painted with the fear of a child, a child looking at a monster from a fairy tale.      The werebear glanced at Wendonel, and saw the still angry red welt on her face. He then fixed his eyes on Corbin, who seemed as if he were about to say something. JaBrawn moved in between he and the children and took his face in one huge paw. A muffled cry was all Corbin had time to make before the werebear crushed his head like a yokeless egg. The mercenary crumpled to the ground, dead.

                It seemed a very long time before he turned slowly to look behind him and far downward to see the children. His ears flicked in what almost looked like annoyance. Favius and his sister stood at the same time, looking up with open-mouthed awe at the bloody and filthy beast of claws and teeth that had once been a man.

                For a moment nothing was said, and then Wendonel’s voice, once so certain

and strong, now trembled quietly with the trepidation of doubt. “JaBrawn?” She almost whispered, gingerly raising a hand to touch him, and then tentatively pulling it back.

                A quiet rumble that could have been either growl or purr tumbled from his

chest.

                The soft gray rays of the morning sun, silvered with dust and touching them

gently from the ruin of the entryway, slowly brightened.

                A bluebird finally came out from hiding and trilled a question of whether or not

the threat had passed.

                And the huge werebear knelt down and touched his nose to her hand. Then he gently took her tiny fingers in his great, clawed paw, and spoke in a deep and gravelly voice that was still unmistakably his.

                “I’m here.”

 

~*~

 

                The sun was high overhead as they prepared to leave. JaBrawn bade the children to wait near the horse away from the corpses as he wandered off into the woods and with hardly any effort, changed back into the visage of a man. He had never remembered it being that easy before. The beast and he had become allies, if not actual friends. Perhaps.

Now completely naked, he pulled on the thick black leather of the orc since his previous clothes and leather armor were tatters, and then went through the corpses for valuables. He took Corbin’s’ sword as his own, while packing away the more exotic blades of the orc and the elf for reserve or sale in Fremett. Amongst the three mercenaries, JaBrawn found a few precious platinum and gold coins and many of silver and copper. Corbin’s’ corpse, though, yielded the most interesting and chilling find. In an interior pocket of his tunic, there was a faded fold of parchment, on which were these words:

 

Bring the witch children to the home of H A

Payment will be made then

 

                There was only one mare remaining, so JaBrawn had her bear the children and a small bundle of food, water, blankets, and weapons. The remaining food he could find that they could eat, he shouldered himself.

                They spoke to each other little, though smiles had returned. Everything would settle and clarify in their minds later down the road, as realization often does. For now, the sun was climbing even higher into the sky, the trees were thinning, the grass glistened with jewels of morning mist, and the path, once muddled, became clear and straight once more. They took to it with contentment that bordered on happiness for the first time in quite a while.

                Several hours later as they neared a roadside hamlet, JaBrawn suddenly stopped. A familiar scent found his nose, a scent he at first could not possibly accept. He looked around, following the flighty history of the wind until he saw a cart in front of a crude but well-maintained fence surrounding a tiny cottage. He raced ahead, the children looking at his back with mild curiosity. As he neared the cart his heart swelled with emotion and his teeth clenched with fearful hope. He soon reached it, and looked within…

                …On his side with a rough blanket over him, battered and cross, but breathing easily, was Grendel. With a weary shudder, he lifted his great scarred head and looked at his old friend.

                He chuffed a rough remark. Took your precious time.

                JaBrawn laughed once and then silenced as tears filled his eyes. “Well. I was

distracted for a bit. What with the giant, and the mercenaries. Oh, and I turned into a

bear again.”

                Grendel neighed quietly and then lowered his head. I woke up after the fight, wandered off, bleeding everywhere. This family was gathering mushrooms and found me. Ushered me into this cart. Brought me back here and have been tending to me ever since.

                JaBrawn reached in and laid a hand on his leg. “What…” he swallowed

painfully, “…what are the chances of that?”

                The great old horse neighed a soft chuckle again. Good enough for me.

                “Here now, get away from him. He’s had a rough time of it.” An old farmer half his size stomped towards JaBrawn, his stride bolstered by the strength of his heart.

                JaBrawn turned towards him. “Yes, I can see that. Thank you for tending to him.”

                The farmer raised bushy brows. “This be your horse? Oh, fer heavens’ love, what did you let happen to him?”

                JaBrawn looked down. “I looked away for a second, and he went off and played hero. Much good it did him. Any broken bones?”

                The farmer nodded. “Aye, some cracked ribs to be sure, and I think one of his legs was sorely tested, but not actually broken. We have to keep turning him, much to his complaint so he doesn’t bind up inside, but he should be up and about soon enough. Didn’t have a barn you see, but I did the best I could.” He peered at the great animal, his eyes distant with wonder. “Never I seen a horse with strength like this. And more scars than a one-legged sailor.”

                JaBrawn laughed and nodded again, marveling at this simple man’s goodness. As always, the spark of good drew all things decent to it, even ugly old horses. “You did much more than most would. Here.” He reached into his vest and took out two platinum barons, enough for the farmer and his family to live comfortably for the rest of their lives. The farmer gasped in wonder. It was far more money than he had ever seen before. “You’ve done me and my friend here a great service. Greater than I could have ever hoped for. If I could trouble you for your cart, I’m sure you would agree you have more than enough for a new one.”

                The farmer seemed out of breath but nodded enthusiastically.

                JaBrawn grabbed the hitch of the cart and towed it down the path to where the children waited. If the old fellow had noticed that JaBrawn was now lifting about five times what any man possibly could and then walking with it, he did not seem to care. “Oh, and get yourself a barn. Who knows how many other four-legged heroes will need rescuing in your future?”

                He did not look back, so did not see the farmer racing back towards his hovel

with the speed and sure footedness of a young man. He did not see him nearly bash his own door down to show his wife and children the gift he had been given, though truly JaBrawn felt he had cheated the man. There was no price fair enough to compensate him for what he had done.

                Moments later, he rejoined the children. “Wendonel, Favius. Guess who I found?”

                They jumped and shouted and kissed Grendel on his big blocky nose, eliciting a chuffing snort that tried to come off as gruff and annoyed but JaBrawn clearly saw his old friend give the equestrian equivalent of a smile. After a few minutes of their heartwarming reunion, he gently told Wendonel and Favius that Grendel needed rest.

A few more kisses and a pair of hugs around his thick neck, and they finally relinquished and let the great old warhorse drift off to sleep.

                While he did so they took a brief stroll down the road to the center of the hamlet, where they found a small general store. From there they purchased more supplies to bolster what they already carried, and two more horses: one for JaBrawn to ride and the other to pull the cart, much to Grendel’s distaste. The children laughed as he grumped and harrumphed about how undignified it was for a horse to be towed by horses. JaBrawn told him to cease his complaints and for the children to stop laughing, though it was hard to appear stern when you are trying not to laugh yourself.

                It really did not matter. They were journeying again. They were together again.

                They were a family, again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 40

 

Gentle ghost that spies my dreams

Fill my mind with ghostly reams

I feel no fear for you it seems

O gentle ghost that spies my dreams

- Old ballad, author unknown

               

                The spirit of the High King’s Chief Advisor looked hardly different as a ghost than he did as flesh and blood. A slight fading of color. A bit of translucence here and there, but nothing like most souls would be this far into its transition. Yet another testament to the man’s strength of character and will.

                Canthus knew he had only minutes before the teragga converged on him and

attacked. He was confident that he could fend them off, but what little time he may have to speak with Othis may be too little. He wasted none of it. Appearing as a silver bolt of light, he streaked to the ground. Half a moment later, he regained a recognizable form and relinquished his hold on the flow of time around Othis’ spirit.

                They stood on a promontory of rock that was battered by impossibly huge waves of Extiris Aquanie where it battled the ramparts of Extiris Teraxa. Gouts and eruptions of water geysered and exploded with abandon along the immovable immensity of the cliffs at the threshold of these two ancient elemental adversaries.

                “Othis!” He shouted above the noise, striding towards him. For an instant Canthus’ great power faltered and exhaustion folded over him. His footing slipped and he stumbled, but an instant later, he felt a strong pair of hands seize him and pull him upright.

                And then he was eye to eye with him, with this man of intrinsic goodness, this gentle mortal genius who could have spent all his mind vying for power and achieve much more than most, but instead bent it to the simple will of righteousness. He had died for his kingdom, from the simplest peasant scratching an honest living from the soil, to the High King Merrett himself. Emotion threatened to unseat his place even more, until a spectral hand touched his cheek.

                Othis stared fiercely at him for a handful of seconds.

                Behind them, a great crashing din could be heard. The earth elementals had found him, and were closing quickly. Canthus clenched his jaw and then placed a hand on Othis’ shoulder. “You remember, do you not?” The crashing and smashing was drawing closer by the second. “You know me. You know my name.”

                Othis drew a sharp breath that he did not need. He nodded. “Yes.” A monstrous shadow split the rocky horizon. It was distant, yet impossibly huge. “Canthus,” he said.

                The ancient elf nodded this time. “Yes.” He had to speak quickly. “You were a great servant to the kingdom, and to the High King. Merrett.” The word brought sudden clarity. “Good King Merrett.”

                Othis’ eyes filled with tears that should not have been able to form. Canthus

was awed. They glowed like diamonds set afire. “Yes. My king, my…” his brow inverted and his lips trembled. “…O my dear, dear king. How alone he must feel right now. How... frightened.”

                Canthus shook his head, and the intensity of his speech folded over him. “He

may be frightened, but he is not alone. Not by any means.” He peered into his eyes again. “Hear me, Othis: You did your part. You were the greatest ear and counsel a high king could ever pray to have. Your passing was not in vain.” The elf’s eyes bored into the dead man’s. “Thoris rode to Ianett, Othis. He is there, now. The brothers are united.”

                Othis closed his eyes. “Thank the gods. Thank the…” his eyes shot open, and a great force suddenly pulled at him. He clutched desperately to Canthus, who shouted a word of warra to root his feet to the rock beneath him. It held, but the grandmaster warrick felt power far beyond even his drawing against him. Othis sensed this as well.

                He locked eyes with the elf one last time. Teragga crested the craggy peaks

behind them and rumbled down the slopes.

                “Canthus!” He said as his form was leached away. At his back, a spiraling tunnel of indescribable beauty and light had formed. Peering down its length, Canthus could clearly see the distant, softly lit interior of a study, and a man that looked much like Othis reading a book. “Canthus,” he repeated, “I touched the man who killed me! He – look out!”

                Canthus spun with an outstretched palm and with nothing more than the power of his mind, shattered a boulder as large as a house into shards of rock. He whirled back to the spirit of Othis, who continued desperately. “He was not erutuuta! He was not in league with the being you seek to thwart! There...” He was fading rapidly now. The powers that govern these realms would no longer allow this unheard of delay. Sorely taxed as he was, Canthus could feel his warra failing. Othis was a cloudy strain of color, a blurred pull of shape hardly discernible. Still, he managed to get out three words. There are... two.”

                And then he was gone. Canthus let out a cry of loss. His spectral hand clutched at nothing. It was if he had never been there. He turned around, and saw nothing but a moving mountain range of teragga, a stretch of animate rock reaching to the limit of sight to his left and right, and nearly so to the rocky heavens above him. The very ground shook, and the air was compressed with the massive displacement their movement caused. Lesser elementals were crushed into sand. Splits lightninged through the earth beneath their colossal feet. Deep caverns lit with magma that served as their eyes blazed with hatred and fury and insult. In unison, they hurled several million tons of rock into the air, their target hardly the speck of an ant to them.

                “Enough,” he said.

                 He opened his eyes.

                The chaos that he had compelled in Extiris Teraxa had vanished. He was back in the castle. He got calmly to his feet. He left the room where he had been kneeling, and sought out the king.

                It did not take long. He and Thoris Greenwood were in the adjoining chamber, their eyes stricken. At once Canthus knew that they held terrible news, and though it was related to what he had to disclose, it was not the same.

There were two. And they knew not even one.

 

~*~

 

                And a maniacal deity born of the sins of mortals gathers and strengthens his flock of despair and misery.

~*~

 

                And a king steels himself against a vaporous enemy, an indeterminate yet certain nemesis that will test every soldier under his command, every general at his table, and every advisor at his ear – even those who have passed beyond the mortal realms

 

~*~

 

                And a young man faces an evil that both twisted and tempered his childhood, only this time he faces it alone.

 

~*~

 

                And a demon king bites his lips in juvenile delight as his little game unfolds

before him, a game that will strike the already teetering kingdom from a blind corner.

 

~*~

 

                But all was not dark. In fact, that morning seemed unusually bright. Aegis

General Demetrius Jordanis had been burdened with the almost soothing weight of his

armor before the sun had even cracked its eye, but now, standing outside his quarters near the armory, he was nearly blinded by the dozens upon dozens of elite troops that were assembled as he stepped out the door still buckling on his sword. They were at rigid attention, their armor polished and gleaming, the leather of their sword belts and armor fasteners shining with carefully applied oils. For all he knew they had been standing in their ranks for hours waiting for his appearance.

                Needless to say, he could barely conceal his pride.

                This precious lance would be the model for the aegises to follow, both those already formed and those yet to fill their helmets. He had trained them as best he could, and there would be much yet to do even after that grand endeavor. His vast knowledge of sword and spear, gauntlet and shield, had been delved into, unearthed, examined, remade, polished and finally laid at their feet.

                Or soon to be thrust down their gullets, he said in his thoughts.

                The result, after two grueling seasons, was this: achievement above and beyond expectations, or even hope. These men had taken to their training with uniform eagerness – almost passion, for a few of them. They had been handpicked by he and his two subordinate trainers from the haphazard aegises that had first answered the call to assemble. These thousand would train the legions that remained.

                He marched purposefully toward the front and center of the center spear, with two on either side of him. Behind this first rank were seven more, making one lance – a total of a thousand soldiers. The first two ranks were spear and pike, the two behind them hammers, maces and axes, the two behind them swordsmen, and the final two ranks, javelineers, and sling men.

                The beautiful and deadly Aegis General Aleenia Ilmastriai and her elvish consorts could remember when the first garulokai took up a spear against the garulls, and would put their skills, honed by a dozen human lifetimes, to sore test. Thus far these elven legions had made remarkable progress training the men and mankindred of the missile aegis. They still paled in comparison with elvish skill, but they could never hope to approach such ability even with a lifetime of practice. Even so, nearly all of them could have two arrows in the air at once.

                It had been a trying time and then some, as the instructors implemented an

accelerated training regimen with these, the very best that could be found. Motivation

is what moves one to act, and fear of eradication is, of course, the greatest motivation

of all.

                Aegis General Mar Gorim pulled the grumbly ranks of dwarven engineers from their smoky caves and put them to work either reworking rusty old siege engines they had, or building new ones at a record pace. Despite their ill-tempered demeanor, he knew dwarves well enough to know they were delighted to shoulder such toil.

                Civil High Ordinator Elhembrius Gastru pushed those under his employ to the very limits of his outwardly haphazard agenda. To the outside observer, it appeared as barely contained chaos, but to those who had seen the gnome work his wonders, they knew that a brilliant, tiered scheme was at work, one that would, at its conclusion, tie up neatly and as perfectly as he could muster.

                The High King’s expectations were far from being met yet and their numbers

were still far too few, but, this would change. Horses and wagons were brought in, as were materials to make more. Soldiers took to their saddles and wagon benches with as much fervor as they had to sword, shield, and bowstring. They would soon begin the long trek across the kingdom, where they would meet and greet the citizens of Hildegoth, a dwarven word that did after all, mean Many Peoples. Those that would not or could not join their ranks would at least rest at ease knowing that there were most certainly those that would.

The elite troops would train the remainder as they traveled. Their forces would swell. They would meet this unknown enemy, and they would meet it with the ardency of the just. They took to their tasks and their mission with the vigor of beings who felt deep in their bones a threat to everything they held dear, and would fight it to their very lives.

               

                Fate is a strange thing. Many believe in it, yet of these individuals, they cannot answer if fate’s decree is founded in what is done, or what is not done. They walk a path that they know leads somewhere, for that is what paths do. They take you to a destination.

                Perhaps that is enough, then. Whether one feels one has chosen the path or the path has been chosen by fate, as long as one continues to walk, one must end up somewhere. However, regardless of how one ends up on the path, one may want to look around a bit every now and then to see where it may be leading.

                With enough warning, perhaps even fate can be thwarted.