stuart douglas staub

A Gathering of Heroes: The Face of Evil

Stuart Douglas Staub

Book 1
A Gathering of Heroes:
The Face of Evil

A Gathering of Heroes: The Face of Evil

Copyright © 2006 by Stuart Douglas Staub. All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical, photographic, or electronic process, other than for “fair use” as brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews-without prior written permission of the author.

Cover Art Copyright © 2006 by Ron Balzer http://www.munkeeworks.com

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.

To my mother, for my gift
To Margaret, for finding the spark
To Phyllis, for fanning it to flame
To my family, for showing me where
to light the fire.

Part 1 - Warriors and Angels

Chapter 1

As there had always been, there was a division. This division was, in its simplest sense, an endless exchange of position between the dark, and the light. These fundamental forces included the powers of good and evil, but representatives of either faction could be found on both sides of the fulcrum; as a rogue with a past spotted with thievery saves a guard from a burning cottage whilst a gleaming priest ornamented with morality and sermons steals from the poor to support his addiction to gambling. Conversely once again, however, the greatest beings of either faction were Ummon, the God of goodness, balance, time, and space, who employed his pantheon of major and minor gods and governed the waking world. The unrepentant demons of the Thousand Hells, whose very existence would have been avoided had it not been for the dark deeds that birthed them, spread their influence through the sleeping world, where the dreams of the wicked gave them their avenue to the realms of mortal and immortal alike.
The gods knew that, though they could guide those who would listen, man and mankindred had to choose their own paths to good. The demons though, whose very existence was sustained by the depraved’s final penance, desperately sought any means to steer the sentient races towards evil, for upon their deaths, these souls would sink to their realms where only acts of rare magnificence could free them, and where their endless misery was as sweet as honey. Considering the myriad of atrocities committed by man and mankindred upon one another, it would seem to inevitably follow that all would eventually find themselves as supper for devils.  
But, with the gods’ guidance, good endures. Even in total blackness, a spark can light the way.
And this spark has ruled this age at the start of our tale and to a lesser degree, the one before it; however, nature does not seek good; it seeks an exhaustive purpose, balance, which is unfortunate, for this balance cannot ever truly be achieved. Whether right or wrong triumphs, the conflict alone speaks of endless disproportion. It is always one supplanting the other, one usurping the other for breaths of centuries or eyeblinks of decades and the men and mankindred of Hildegoth are to see an age of good finally fall and an age of malicious rule arise that would seek to erase nature and her bounty from the flesh of the land and the depths of the seas.

The High Kingdom of Erathai is on the eastern edge of the continent of Hildegoth, a vast country of endless ancient forest, gentle hills, and forbidding mountains. It harbors deadly mystery at its center, where the Unknown Land and the Lordless Lands spread their dominions, as well as limitless expanses of grass where a horse could run itself to death in the great plains of Gorgamir, which in turn meet the broken foothills of rugged Jukarna. Inbedtween and surrounding these provinces are many, many other lands, from desert to tundra, and marsh to carved cliffs.
Erathai itself is also seat to the gleaming city of Tyniar, the capital city of both that great nation and the subordinate city states and kingdoms that stretch from ocean to ocean. In Hildegoth's western lands dwell realms and peoples as varied as the scales of a dragon; from the rich lands of Rualedd and Olda Sett, to the barren stretches of sand that make up much of Chaal, to the deep and mysterious woodlands of Fruudosch. And from shore to shore, valley to peak, all falls under the distant protection and rule of the High King.
The High King was and is the highest seat of power in Hildegoth and has been held by many men of both endless integrity and indescribable malevolence. 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, an Oltim Sovrothi, a Great King, would have the final say in governance over them all and bring peace to lands that had known only poverty, war, and famine for generations. This position grew in the decades following, as individual kings lost their kingdoms or passed away without an heir, into a ruling entity that governed more than war and irreconcilable dispute. 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. 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 man or woman. 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, and organizations within the kingdoms themselves have opposed it since its inception. Such institutes like the Ardett Marsai, whose crimson - robed officials dot royal courts to this day vying for their agendas, or the Circle 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 instituted The Great Cleansing, the most despicable sanction in the history of Hildegoth. Uredd the Red 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 men 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. As entrancing as this tale was, it was, of course, another tale.
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 Merrett 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 mankindred and man and the formation of the fighting Garulokai finally vanquished them, though they were never truly eradicated.
After the Garull Wars had seen their last days, the great armies of the ruling kingdoms 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 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 men and mankindred’s 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 in Erathai from the East. 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 edict, though most did so grudgingly. Some had argued their place in such matters, their individual governing representatives stating that peacetime and distance from Erathai made such taxation unnecessary. 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, shuddered and began to swing inexorably back to balance...
...but did not stop there.

Chapter 2

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 the Earth nor any of its peoples, but germinated from the power of the goodness and faithfulness of the people who, centuries ago, saw a bright burning light fall from the sky and knew that it must be a god to deliver them from the arduous times that tormented them. This, the source of his 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; bu,t even then the power of good outweighed it and saw it defeated.
Over space and time Ummon has great sway, but his energy stores are not 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 were chosen from shining examples of men and mankindred, 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 some scholars ponder if even immortals tire of toil. Whatever their aims may be after scores of lives of men have passed can only be postulated upon; but whatever they are, the realms of man and mankindred can rest assured that their world will renew itself under this grand new vision as it had in ages past.

Stirrings that had begun long, long ago in the vast accumulating currents of malignant energy beyond the senses of normal folk, had solidified in great maelstroms near Erathai, the oldest seat of civilization in Hildegoth. After so many decades of mortal presence, much greed, hatred, and envy still buffeted that realm in both the waking and slumbering minds of friend and foe alike. They 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 coalesced and began to draw even more of the same vein to itself. 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.
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 all of even mild spite who 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.
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. Then it would pass, though a simmering drop of it would remain; enough to stir the creatures back up in their lunatic killing revelry. Such actions threatened their still reduced numbers, but their intrinsic survival instinct was neatly 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 nails until they were ripped from the fingers, and biting until their teeth bent from their mouths. They would just as suddenly cease, tears of pain and confusion quickly surrogating 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. Extrication of this container 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.
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 panting. For the second time that turn, he dreams 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 dessication. They were merely dreams, but in his heart of hearts he knew somethings moved in the world beyond his eyes. Something that had to be stopped.
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, but irresistible as well. 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. And it would grow, and learn, and scheme for more in an endless lust for power and sustenance.

Chapter 3

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 who seems far stronger than his arms would suggest. The legends of his origins only suggest that he may have been 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 after determination in an endeavor proves itself yet again. 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 is falling to ruin.

King Merret - Good King Merret as he had been known for years - gazed out of the open window of his stronghold in some tiny farming village. The room he was in was sparsely furnished, which was how he liked it. Of all the things of his station, that which 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 uplifting hands filled one corner of the room, and there was a single large, paneless window on the east side. It was through this window the king looked.
Not that there was anything particularly remarkable to see. The scene was 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 nature'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 inculpable sight of their meanderings. They seemed suddenly 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 Merret asked the tall, hawkish man behind him once again. It was more greeting than question.
“Twenty individual daggers worth of soldiers.” Without prompting from his king, who would have given pause over such a computation, the man 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, thin man looked to be in his early fifties, with a grayed widow’s peak seated high on a rounded forehead, and a long, thin, bird like nose arching over a mouth that seemed to be crooked in a permanent scowl. Othis, King Merret's oldest and most trusted advisor, 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, his face filling with hot blood. “…Is a doddering twit that should have his head divorced from his neck!!!” He threw his hands in the air in exasperation, and started walking in furious circles. “How do I do it, Othis? Why is it that no matter what I try, no matter what I think, no matter what I do, and no matter the caliber of my immediate military cabinet, when it comes to anything else, I keep placing brain - optional turnips in charge of my military?”
Amazingly, Othis’ lips curved even further downward in a flustered frown at the king’s outburst. “Sire...”
Merret suddenly 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 conglomerate 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?”
Othis hesitated a moment. “There were several witnesses, seeing that these daggers often guarded caravans and such. When the caravans 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.”
The king leaned forward on his knees, an incredulous look on his face at the mention of the hated creatures. “There has not been a reported attack by garulls on a heavily trafficked road for many 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 wits 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 raised his brows, inclined his head, and 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.”
Merrett made no attempt to hide his shock at Othis’ words. 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 crudely smelt iron and cap a few of their clubs with this metal. 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.
“I can’t accept that,” Merret murmured.
“Nor 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; however, those few seconds, 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,” the King demanded.
“First of all, the disrelation yet similarities of the stories. Some told by small groups of survivors, who, though not very intelligent seeming, 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. Trained actors could not simulate such emotion. 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.”
Merret 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 again 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 and an odd shaped weapon at the rear of his saddle; a 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 destrier were perched, 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. Across a vast distance 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 as soon as that last king went bad, Uredd the Red. He had met him once and he seemed all right.
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 that could run out and join them in their frolicking 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 hence, one of the last battles of the Garull Wars were fought at this very spot. Three hundred Garulokai - soldiers specially trained to fight garulls - faced nearly a thousand of the infernal creatures. The old man was one of them. Though each man had to fell three garulls to win the day, they stood fast and fought well, the clash lasting two days and two nights. 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. The old man smiled, recalling what it felt like to stand back to back with some of the finest men and mankindred he had ever met; especially his 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. 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 reminiscings were quelled and replaced with slowly boiling anger.
All thoughts of old comrades and victory over a relentless foe melted away, for war had much more darkness to it than light. It seemed no matter when they were fought or for what reason, whether it is in history books, in museums, or carelessly left in a child’s playground war would forever leave its iron footprint. Its memory can perhaps be locked away in a moldering trunk in the cellars of history or the minds of old generals, but it will remain. And, no matter the nobility behind such wars, in all, people die, good and evil. Some would say that good’s sacrifice is evil’s demise, but you can never completely stomp it out. Good will always be here to defend the innocent and thwart evil’s heinous machinations, and evil will always be here to ensure good’s future employment. Thus war's place amongst us will inevitably be in the coming chapters of the future, as it already dwells in the nightmares of the past.
And the children. It would seem a point of no contention that children should always be left out of the grim toils of battle, though, of course, they are not. In some way they become a part of it, even after the wars end - 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 he could long since do without. As he spurred the horse in to a gallop, he could hear them laughing at their newfound toy.

Chapter 4

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 his nearly limitless 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 an accomplished lad of the evening.
Once, years ago, he had watched inwardly as the last light of goodness faded from his heart. He was not even 15 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 destroyed 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 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. He 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 privately acknowledge the fact that he had stolen hundreds of prospects from other pliers of the oldest trade - 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, “Complementary” on her chest. He was not certain why he made the sign; it 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 unattainable, 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 something: 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 more sweet as he ripped them apart and swallowed their flesh whole. The entire time 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.”
Jerom held his breath as fear grabbed at his chest like a drowning child. He couldn’t 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, now is it not?”
He shook his head as he felt a deep, dark presence prod at his soul. No, this was nothing new at all. 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.
Like the best part of a horror tale revisited, 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 the death of the girl he killed. His last sentient moment 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 more 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 harbors no great anticipation of breakfast. To him, the beginning of a new day only brought an iron sledge down to shatter the glass dreams of gardens, peace, and fellowship he had had that night. 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 the fleeting visions smashed away. Dawn merely meant that someone had an entire day to kill you before 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 lad with a cap of brown curls and a sort of bulbous nose, 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 unentombed a stringless 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 found himself ever coming to a thrill, was when he was 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, and the very subtle (always subtle - there was simply no other way) nod of thanks brought something along the way of a thrill to him. But no, the berserker sentiment that merely being in a bloodbath and hacking your way through it was the epitome of self - worth was simply not like him. He did not look down on those who felt otherwise, but neither could he find himself comfortable with sharing a watch with a warrior with such tendencies either.
He shook his head to clear it. Little about death was worth remembering.
He felt a sudden urge to turn his mount away and head somewhere where children had not yet been invented, when a subtle tickle at the back of his neck stayed his reins. He knew this sensation all too well. It was a feeling that had always been reliable and horribly accurate in the past.
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 where it would come from, 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 only drive them away to 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 dead when he returned with whatever help he could muster. As he furiously assaulted his mind with possibilities, the children 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 that he quickly agreed with. 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 “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 wirey 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 designed specifically for ripping flesh from bone. A pair of bright yellow eyes peered feverishly from concave sockets, and a mangled lock of black mane fell 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.
JaBrawn searched the air again with his nose, like a trackhound. 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 young human meat 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 galloped at a nightmarish speed in the direction of the brother and sister. 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 was definitely more than one of them.
The old man knew what would happen if he engaged the monsters. He had grown so tired, he just wanted to rest somewhere quiet and pass the rest of his years; yet, fate shook the stillness of his solitude again. 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 children stopped in their tracks, seemingly frozen with terror, seeing their possible playmate turn from a quiet if somewhat uncomfortably large old man into a raging bear thundering down the hill. The old soldier careened past them, leaving them stupefied and in wonder as to why he had reacted in such a way.
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. The distance between the two whittling away to a few dozen feet, the warrior extended his own weapon hand, 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 to ribbons of meat.
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 long since dead.
Pulling hard on the reins and veering to one side, the silvered veteran forced the remaining creatures to turn from a column six strong into a diagonal line one deep as he angled to the right. 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 had its arm splintered into several dozen pieces, causing it to yowl with pain. A fierce jab folded its face 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, 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 four left broke into pairs, attempting to flank him and get to his rear.
This was what he was expecting. Senses honed by nearly uncountable years of fighting predicted their strike, and when they did, he spurred his mount towards the only gap in their noose, on the right.
He was not expecting them to crash into each other - he just wanted them to be very close to one another when he applied his next tactic. Raising Silvermoon over his head and saying a single word, he flung it with all his might at the creature nearest him on the left.
Like a bolt from a ballista, Silvermoon took its head completely off, disintegrating it in the process. 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 two creatures which were far more animal than anything else could feel outrage, but the manner in which they launched themselves at him seemed just that.
Like a man swatting away bothersome flies, the old man brushed the creatures cruelly to the ground. The one that absorbed most of the impact had 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 sprouted an ugly concavity as the very distinct impression of a horseshoe decorated the space 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. He had beaten them all.
Smiling 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. Uttering a quick thanks to his weapon, he returned her to her place behind him. He 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, 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 soon 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. She was apparently unmoved by the gruesome spectacle she must have surely witnessed, nor by the grisly corpses now littering the field. Old garull blood watered with new. Her brother stood to her side, an identical look on his face.
More stunned by far with their complacent demeanor than with the brutal slayings he had just rendered, the old man blinked at them like an idiot. “What?” he asked.
“We saw you talking to your horse. Can he understand you?”
Still unbelieving of the two, his visage became quite irritated. “Yes, he understands me. What are your names, and why are you so far from town?”
As unperturbed with his manner as they were with the battle, the girl answered the first question. “Wendonel,” she said clearly. Then, gesturing toward her brother, “Favius. And we were playing.”
Again his tough manner unseated by their cool indifference, he balked for a second or two. “Do your parents know where you are?”
Wendonel shrugged. “No, our father doesn’t know where we are, but he wouldn’t mind.” She bit her lip slightly. “Well, not very much anyway.”
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 whilst raising younglings would leave spare time a thin and chaotic thread indeed. “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 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 meaning in it.
He sat back in his saddle with a resigned grunt. The way children were being raised these days was simply unimaginable. 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 brand 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? What kind of father would do that?”
The girl gave her now characteristic shrug. “Our father would. 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. You look different now than you did then.”
He believed that he should still be angry; however, 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 them to help them on 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 it.”
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 while he was away. 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, stunned 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 5

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 when it ends.

“Well, lookee here! It’s Jerom! The scummiest rat that ever slept in his 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, 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. It was close to midnight, and the bar had all but emptied, save for the blacksmith’s table. Jerom had been walking by on a strip of dock that he frequented his wares on quite often. Instead of running away like he usually did, however, he stopped and stared at the hulking man. Then, he took a step forward. The blacksmith, unbelieving and enraged with his increasing 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 ‘aint been pounded outta’ ‘im yet,” and he waved the knife in a fluid series of arcs that only a skilled knife fighter could do so effortlessly. His friends laughed and cheered for Jerom to take him on. The blacksmith edged a couple of steps toward Jerom. The barkeep, having had too good a day for it to end badly, simply closed off the iron barred window that allowed him access to patrons.
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 arms length away from him. His appearance 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 actions 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 through with lightning.    
He unexpectedly 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 and had exhausted its supplies of food and water. Hailed and boarded long after the last seaman had perished, the cadavers looked like clothed leather skeletons with teeth and shoes. Only this one, now, stepping into the light, was moving. The smith felt a scream rising from his belly. Jerom smiled, showing flaking gums and dry teeth.
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 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 block and tackle, he fell to the ground.
The other sailors’ looks of rage 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 advanced a handful of steps. “Would you die?” again passed its lips.
One of them, a thin and pockmarked seaman let slip a strangled wail of despair and terror. The thing that was Jerom nodded and held out its hand. The sailor, seemingly against his will, stared at the outstretched hand 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; then, like a cloud cloaking the moon, his face relaxed. The other two men, still locked in terror, 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 seemed to drape over his shrunken form like a large cloak on a small child. He stood 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 faced the remaining two. The sailor’s eyes were like that of Jerom’s now, sparkling motes of green hate, though not 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 with and 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 smiled at them with an impossible smile was not Jerom at all.

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 dozens of wasted souls that were 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 their hideous temptation. Man, woman, and mankindred 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 the once - Jerom 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 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.
He sauntered Grendel along, fairly used to the odd looks he and his ugly old horse received. He was somewhat bothered by the fact that they were most likely thinking he had some ill intent with the children; ransom or some such. 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. It was all so utterly odd.
“What town is this, anyway?” JaBrawn inquired softly.
“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 was, 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 children’s father sighed and stepped away, 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, feeling that he was being far too easy on them, 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 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 couldn’t give a false one since he had 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 is 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 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, Derrig turned and headed for his cottage, a respectably sizeable structure of whitewashed mud plaster and timber topped with 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 roofed well, with a trough running from its lip to the 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 forced vegetarian, invited in to a household where meat must be, at least, a rarity - perhaps dependent upon the guest.
The inside of the cottage was nondescript, but pretty in its minimal way. There was a thick fired - clay hearth blackened with years of use against the wall opposite the door. Along another wall ran a low set of bookshelves, crammed with tomes and texts and all other manner of reading materials. 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 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 appreciated 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.”
JaBrawn actually laughed this time. “Aye, they are a bit of a handful.”
“They are a bit of two handfuls.” Derrig added.
Wendonel and Favius giggled and munched on carrots and radishes. JaBrawn took a bite of the tomato and found it delicious. There was a tasty oil glaze on it 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, feeling somewhat self - conscious. 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.
Derrig’s face softened, and he 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, what with me spending days at a time guarding the magistrate. 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. “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, rushing 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 seem 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. It is a conscious decision to not speak. The night Aria died, she told him, ‘let no words of regret pass these lips.’ He was only three, but he has not spoken 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 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 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 overly manly voice. “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, JaBrawn’s and Derrig’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 seemed more than a world ago. It was an existence so delicately shelved in his memory that he had at times been uncertain that he had 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 6

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. Abusers of this gift, some of whom claim allegiance to the god of fire, can be amongst the most destructive creatures to walk the face of Hildegoth. The 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.
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 ability’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; simply depended upon and feared.

The aging, slender fellow waved off his friends - one new, 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 that life hands you its veiled offerings. They were always either gems or offal, and you wouldn’t know 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 graying gentleman a roll of parchment stoppered with wax. Close inspection revealed an enwarred sigil that told the deliveree 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.
Between breaths, the young messenger 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 go about doing that?” He blinked. “Uh… Sir.”
Canthus smiled a very elfish 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. “Decision? 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 raised a hand. “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 are 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 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 account ended with his scooping up of Favius and Wendonel and galloping off for Camdur.
Derrig held his own face in his hands. “JaBrawn, I must offer my heartfelt thanks once more, as well as my lifelong service. If you had not been there…” he peered at his new friend intently. “If you had not been there…” he repeated. His words caught in his throat, stumbling over emotion.
JaBrawn stood resolutely, uncomfortable with the situation, but sympathetic with Derrig’s fear of possibilities. “I did what anybody would have done. You owe me nothing.”
Derrig took several long breaths, running 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, such is their lot.” 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 be literally 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, who are able 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 peered out over the small piece of land between his cottage and the one nearest it to the North. 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. JaBrawn could plainly see an old man and woman peering from this window, one of them with a looking glass.
JaBrawn pinched his features in annoyance, and sprinkled his voice with humor. “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, peering at the two 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 says 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.”
The big warrior 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 Tynian 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 he’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 warriors shared another bout of barely stifled laughter, tilting back their drinks in a manner that males have made synonymous with camaraderie over the centuries.
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, 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, 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 sun 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.

JaBrawn awoke before the first fingers of the sun chased away the gray stillness of predawn. He sat up, feeling well rested and alert. He smelled the dusky sweat of the three horses coming down the path well before they actually arrived.
He smiled in subtle approval as he met Derrig coming out the front door, already scrubbed and dressed in his guardsmen tunic and mail. The pounding of hooves was clearly audible now. Derrig put his hands on his hips as they rounded the bend. Two men clad as he rode escort to a third, who was draped in a flowing tunic of light blue. The crescent of a large crossbow was outlined under this man’s cloak.
“Who are they?” JaBrawn asked, strapping on his leather vest and tying his hair back.
Derrig snorted. “Two of them are friends. One is not.”
It was not very difficult to discern who was who, for as the blue - garbed rider drew near, JaBrawn could see a clear look of disgust on his pockmarked face, one that deepened when he and the others drew their mounts to a halt.
He nodded sourly. “Good Morrow, Derrig.”
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 could see now that he was right.
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. “Good Morrow,” 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 and strode over to them in an overly regal manner. The men - at - arms assigned to him followed, though they seemed to do so a bit grudgingly. He looked up at JaBrawn from a foot beneath him. “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 match sticks. “JaBrawn. And yes, it was lucky that I was where I was and saw the children.”
Salett stared up at him. JaBrawn stared back.
Derrig cleared his voice. “Salett, why exactly are you here?”
Salett took his eyes off of JaBrawn, who was beginning to feel irritated, 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. ”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 myself and my family?”
Salett, impressively, had stood by 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. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Guardsman. As their mother’s was?”
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. This man knew him well, and called him friend. That is the only reason why he spoke, truly. “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 if not the thoughtfulness not to 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 never be able to go anywhere without dragging the Good King behind you. Just imagine what it would be like trying to mount a horse.”
There was a brief, staccato barrage 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 was reminded of someone, a man too young to be in charge who knew nothing of what his place as such entailed. He sent wave after wave of men to die, and 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. Oh yes, a very uncomfortable resemblance here. It could not possibly be the same man, but there had to at least be relation. And 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 without a word, turned, and stomped over to his horse. He mounted quickly and rode back the way he had come. 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. “What is it?” He asked.
“A council inquiry.”
JaBrawn blinked. “You’re on trial?”
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 up. “Does the High King know of this? I am not totally 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; however, 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 municipal discrepancies of 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 was taken aback briefly by the first curse he had heard JaBrawn use, but did not let it get too much of a hold on him. “I know JaBrawn. But to men with as much power and as little time as Good King Merret, 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, obviously hurt, 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. 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 fancy 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. “Yes, I will.”
Derrig stood with his mouth open for a moment, then pulled his lips into a taut, grim, line. “Well and good then.” His previous manner of jovial sarcasm had been uprooted and replaced with an air of 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 trembling lip.
“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 newest 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.”
JaBrawn shook his hand solemnly. “You honor me again, Derrig. Though if I were you, I’d cover that worm with garden clippings and 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 quickly realized that this was neither the time nor the place to discuss it. “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 7

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 coolly and sometimes necessarily 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 to remain.
The millennia have matured her, but she remains in the guise of a girl child of pale visage with eyes the deepest 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 human, 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 sustenance 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, so why not draw it straight from the source? It had proven much tastier that way.
Now that its endeavors had begun, it wanted to take the next step. What to 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, as they were previously, if assaulted by combined effort. 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. So, 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 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 secure more of our family soon enough, with vessels whose souls, though hardier than those we have encountered thusfar, are still only lightly anchored and will fall easily. In time, this fate will befall all who oppose us.”
The soulless ones murmured agreement and eagerness in a horrible dissonance of crackling hisses and gnashing teeth.
“Come with me, my creations. It is time.”
The collection of vile undead then said its name in a drawn out, vile pronunciation.
And a terrified watcher amongst the piers, not intending to spy on anything much less an army of undead, slipped as quietly away as her respectable talents allowed, unknowing as to whether to disclose the horror 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 Merret nodded, smiling bitterly. “Hmm. Interesting. Now, could you explain to me what in the hells you mean by that?”
The elf beamed at him, 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; something along the lines of a mass migration that does not bind itself to any one species. If we have no previous record of such behavior, 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 knows what kinds of energy in its wake that scrambles up the brains of certain creatures, while 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, then interlaced them again, proclaiming the end of his elucidation.
The king leaned out of an open window in the same stony block that was his refuge 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 and 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 simply ill - prepared 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 totally 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.
“Canthus. What am I to do?”
The elf peered at him with honest sympathy written across his features, and then stood with casual grace, as only an elf can. He placed his hands on slight hips, and pursed his lips. “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. His worst fears had been realized, and 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 from an outside stack for the hearth.
Favius stumbled into the living room in his nightshirt. The top of his hair stood perfectly on end. 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.”
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 incredibly 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 wanted to tell her badly. 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, clapping 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 is though.”
Favius 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.
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 grabberd a few corkscrews of wood shavings from a small iron box bolted to the side of the hearth, and set them in a pie at the base of the fire. He then pulled a flint box from the shelf near the fire, and struck a large spark from its surface. It hit the wood shavings which began to smolder. This then licked at the stacked tiers of kindling. With a puff, the sparks spread. “I might. Depends on the question.” He puffed twice more, and the fire caught in earnest.
She shook her head. “That’s not fair, that way you can just answer it any way you like.”
He grunted. “That’s the idea.”
“Oh, fine then,” she said, raising her voice to the highest level he had yet heard - which wasn’t 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. “I am not exactly what you could call 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. “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 am probably about a dozen 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 certainly not experts in what the human body was capable of, 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… 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 about a couple years off my hide, I think. That’s about it.”
Wendonel stood there, not moving, not talking. He looked over at her brother. He sat silently. 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 it struck him to his core and pried open something that he had long ago fused shut. For some strange reason, he felt sudden tears fill his own eyes to overflowing. And then they did; tracks of heat down his cheeks that burned yet soothed. Her touch was 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. The first gentle burst of this burden brought a rack of quiet sobbing from him, followed by a few more shortly afterward. The whole time 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 lifted a callused hand and awkwardly wiped away the drying streams of grief on his face. 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 even more than he did.
And now it was deflated. It was still there, but more as a chest of memories and knowledge than a festering boil of rage and anguish; a deep scar, but no longer a wound.
He sat for several seconds, breathing heavily, his hands resting on their backs. Finally, he found his voice. “Children… how did you do that?”
“We didn’t do it, really,” Wendonel said into his chest. “We just turned your eyes towards a mess that you needed to clean up.”
This was logical enough. She pulled away 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 smiled. He could not help but smile; he 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, and had stood strong and immovable ever since. 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 impounded 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 and fettered it to a hitch near the hall. There was a respectable amount of commotion even 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. He approached the entrance, which was flanked by two men that 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 sideways, 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 structure was half - buried. There were several benches lining its belly, and two podiums before the wide, high length 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 the center of this bench, the other four in pairs on either side of him. Derrig approached until his distance from them was halved, awaiting his official invitation for acceptance by the council.
“Approach your podium Sergeant,” Serbis said with a hand gesture. 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. Oh how she would have liked to stay alive long enough to have testified here, in front of these cranky old muckwallowers.
Behind him, the door clicked open and then shut, and someone with an audible limp made his way to that same halfway point, awaiting permission from the council.
“Approach your podium, Captain.”
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 that knowledge was a small advantage if it was one at all.
“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 of that which 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 jacket pocket, 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 nausea.
Serbis said, “Continue, good Captain.”
Whitley began reading off an account of what he saw at what time from the evening of JaBrawn’s arrival. It was an exhaustive effort that he no doubt took great pride and care in, for it took the better part of fifteen minutes for him to prattle off. He had apparently begun it at the time of his rising in the 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 laid 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 stated impact as would a master vintner would have, if he had said it was 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 your chance for rebuttal. Now please, remain at peace. At that time, which will come I assure you, I would remind you that you are to refer to myself and all those to my flanks by our titles or not at all. Do you favor such?”
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. When he pulled up to the Thresher farmstead, he spoke something to the horse, and it trotted off instantly, 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 could be taught the spoken language, it stands to reason that 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 reign 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 whatever events that 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 a warrick for mystic 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 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 before hand. 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 fosters 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 of Tyniar?”
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 unnecessary to 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, completely acceptable. 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. “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 began to notice that the people of Camdur regarded me and my children with reluctance in several cases and outright avoidance in some. 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.”
“My children do not have any real friends because of all this. They can only really entertain themselves, which is most likely what the entire event with the squirrel was. She 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 hopes that he will find some other slightly unusual situation to transform into a dire community emergency.” 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 mine and my family’s, and our town’s to do so.”
“Yet you had never met the man before.”
“No, Councilman. I had not.”
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. 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 8

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, with only the vaguest sense of self began making themselves aware in the aether between realms of consciousness. 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 almost 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 simply people in dire straits praying to whatever god will listen; 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 if enough attention and desire is bent to it. This neutral energy, if fed into before it naturally dissipates, can, after years, take on sentience. At first it is almost invariably a primal, childish force, but under the right circumstances, such as being in the vicinity of someone praying to it, it can mature. As their 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. Maliquar.

“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 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 pinched his features 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 raised a hand. “She could do all of these things? Are you sure?”
Wendonel and Favius 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 sense 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 viewed even the smallest 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 looked over at JaBrawn. His 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 with a touch. 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 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 doesn’t want to speak.”
“...Right, who doesn’t want to speak, that because I am standing at the entrance to 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 9

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 thus. The Dark Warricks wield warra spun through the elemental sphere of darkness; to what ends this power is used lays in their hands. The Warricks of Light likewise would wield their warra through the respective sphere of light, though they are just as unhindered as to their true motives, as the healing of flesh and the abolishment of ailment and curse are as useful to the good as to the evil.
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 cannot truly exist without the other.

Alvis, the Ummonic High Priest of Fremett, was not a very nice man. He meant well, he believed in the teachings of the Ummonic holy book of the Rand, and he strove to follow them as closely as he could, but he was only human after all. Humans fail. They succumb. They sin. This turn’s tithes totaled an equivalent of 3000 ranyins 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; and the amount that was left, some 430 ranyins, 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 for his morals. They did what they were 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 that 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 awhile.
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 it, 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 - which was brilliantly placed - 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 halfway out the doorway, alarmed. “Derrig! 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 myself 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, pushing the door inward so hard it nearly jumped from its hinges. JaBrawn gingerly followed him. “What did they say?”
“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, their eyes 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 folded in on itself as confusion shoved it out of its seat on his features. “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 for half a heartbeat, 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.”
Wendonel began shaking.
Derrig stood and stared at JaBrawn, while stress, anger, and fear made his mind jump to a very horrible suspicion. “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 exactly did I leave in my house to care for my children? And 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, you left them with someone who has 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 you wormed your way into my house with silver tongued stories of valor that hide despicable intentions?”
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. I had no intentions other than good ones. The children and I merely traded some hidden truths about each other that we felt we had to keep further hidden from you, at least for a time.” 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 hand axes 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 to us, Dada, other than take care of us like you do.” 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 have in any way harmed my children, I will kill you where you stand, friend or no.”
JaBrawn, overly self - confident or not, found that difficult to believe, so he diplomatically said, “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.
His 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 would think she to be, 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.”
Just then 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 ducked into a dark alcove a few steps before her room. It was cloaked in total blackness so thick you would not have been able to see her if you were a foot from her face. She 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 10

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. He is sometimes seen by generals in their dreams 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 Derrig’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 horro of his client, was wearing nothing more than a threadbare tunic and a filthy pair of breeches. He wore nothing on his feet. Normally Jerom was clad in his best overcoat, vest, shirt and leggings, often accentuated with gold - buckled shoes. None of that was apparent this time, and she thought that 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 something unseen. “Something wonderful has happened, oh devout one. Something you must see.”
He walked past Alvis who turned to follow Jerom’s thin form as it 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 even 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 his 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 that cold night’s blanket of wind and sea spray?”
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 come in?”
Alvis nodded dumbly. “Yes… please, come in.”
Merva’s nagging doubt gave way to concern and now finally slipped into the chilly grip of fear. She felt her hand rise unbidden to cover her mouth to try and quiet her breathing which had become ragged with this trepidation. What disturbed her the most was that she did not know from whence this fear came, or why she knew so clearly that it was perfectly founded; but know this she did.
Jerom lifted a hand and ran his fingertips down the side of the High Priest’s face, leaving four trails of some murky, swamp - colored ichor. “You poor deluded old fool.” He said through a soft smile, his voice deepening far past what the young man could have mustered. “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, slowly twisted up 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 chucked. “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 glared 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, as 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 more 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 his throat, lifting him 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 was 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 used 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 as to its motives; does a dog care from what bones 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.
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 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 just saw, no way to rationalize it or even to truly comprehend it. Nothing in all the holy reading she had done, which was respectable considering her former employer, 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 wile away a few hours, languishing for a while 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 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 coin 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 to turn to, 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 that immunity was afforded by him 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 had 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 breath shook in his chest. “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 the magistrate’s 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 to compensate for the entire foot of difference between his and Salett’s height and whispered in his ear. “Derrig and his children will be leaving shortly. There will be no treatment of any kind by any warrick unless they wish it.” Salett could not believe his ears. JaBrawn carried on. “They will not be harmed, bothered, or in anyway inconvenienced by anyone in this town, or they will answer to me.” He then stood up, his proposal neatly completed.
Salett looked up at him, blinking. “Stranger, I have no clue as to why you think you can make such an insolent request…”
“It was not a request.” JaBrawn said clearly.
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. 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 speed since before her husband had died, and now, when she called on it, it 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 and she could blurt out the entire outlandish tale? The hopelessness of her situation waxed against her resolve and she felt herself giving in to the slowly 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?”
She fell into his arms, feeling foolish for she must outweigh the fellow two to one by herself.  With surprising strength he held her up and then embraced her to keep her from falling. She felt tears come to her eyes. At first she had thought him nothing more than 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 11

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. A goddess so beautiful and precious that simply to pray to her and adore her could spark love perpetually.
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 deeply spiritual and selfless creature, 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 to bestow instead of divine providence - often misinterpreted anyway. Knowing that such a demand only cemented her as the choice, he granted it, and she assumed the role of Halley the Goddess of Love immediately after.
The moment true love is felt - 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; 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 turned slightly, and snapped his right hand into Derrig’s face, his knuckles 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, to Salett, and then starting over.
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 to find someplace to hide - who no doubt were wondering why their guest had just incapacitated their father. “We will simply add a charge of striking a Camdurian citizen to his list. 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.”
The blue - robed aide to the magistrate reined his horse around. “I would stay and watch, but…”
JaBrawn interceded. “And 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. “That is what will go down in the town archives, yes.”
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 half - 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 never 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!”
“Oh by the gods!” The guardsman swore, but retook his defensive posture. He really had no choice, as the others did not. Salett grinned in his slimy little way and kicked his horse into a trot. In moments, he was gone.
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, “Now easy there fellow. 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.”
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.”
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 masked 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.”  
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 he 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. 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 palm 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. The blow would inflict nothing more than a headache.
JaBrawn repeated himself four more times, disarming and then incapacitating each of the well meaning but ultimately powerless guardsmen until there was a pile of snoring bodies lying sprawled in the gravel. He then pulled them all into as comfortable of positions as he could muster in the thick grass by Derrig’s fence. He figured that they would feel horrid enough when consciousness drug them from whatever little hole he had just shoved them into, so they might as well be given as many accommodations as possible. 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 cry 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 siegeman’s crossbow, a weapon used to puncture knight’s armor like paper – the same weapon that he had seen before. 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 entirely fallen yet, 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 up and grasped the shaft pulling it loose at an agonizingly awkward angle. If he had the density of a normal man, the bolt would have passed right through him. 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 was shouting at the unconscious guardsmen, “Get up or I’ll see everyone of your heads roll 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 12

The many elemental divergesses of reality have been in place for much longer than recorded history. Who or what put things the way the 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; as 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 influence not easily put into words - or even thoughts.

Merva, unbelieving of her fortune, turned from a pale ghost nearly paralyzed with fright into a flushed face, blubbering child. The fair - skinned young man laid his hand on her cheek and 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 its 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. Soon, 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 gathered entity of Anamu awaited 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 was happening, or would happen. 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 boltcaster 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; however, 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 fitting another bolt.
JaBrawn leapt 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. What 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. 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.”
Wrenched with grief, 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 that 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 his words sunk in. What he said 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 knowingly pass from him.
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 gentle 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. “…from what I’ve been told, he is a good man. A shipwright, last I heard.” 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.”
As JaBrawn nodded and moved to stand, he heard a soft voice behind him.
“We’re here Father.”
JaBrawn looked up in surprise. They stood mutely behind him, mouths parted, 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.
“You 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 ever were. “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 lining his features. 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 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 memories away, but they buzzed back into his mind like a swarm of gnats.
Derrig made a 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, the parting gesture from one warrior to a fallen comrade. “Go where the only blades are of grass, and the only thing split by 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 be applied to 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’ shoulder 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 your arrest 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 be on their way 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 child?” He asked Wendonel.
Her tired, tear - worn 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 redwoods. JaBrawn tested the wind, which blew softly from that 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 befuddlement.
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 and present danger 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 seen as often as a falling star or an eclipse, an almost mythical animal. 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’ll ask that you use that gleaming rib cracker of yours to help save my town and everyone in it.”
JaBrawn backed slowly towards the children while gesturing at Grendel to follow. With two swift movements, he hoisted them on to the barrel - bodied destrier. Their bodies were limp and heavy, almost as if they were already attempting to follow their father to whatever gilded halls he had ended up in. 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, which they probably will.” He pointed 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 whom JaBrawn or his horse was. With one swift motion he was on his mount and galloping away towards Grendel. The guardsmen’s horses retreated 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 very short 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.
The line of garulls had spread out into eight or so groups of three or four each. 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 as good as any armor.”
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 13

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 his 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 to draw upon, so they were more than welcome.
Anamu had been meditating and gathering the flitting motes of evil energy that were always present to add to his slowly increasing power, when it felt the tantalizing tug of a greater concentrated evil many miles to the East. It was there that he 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 he 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 both simple greed, fear - spawned hate, and the far - reaching machinations 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 his 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 far - speaking warra. I want them all at once in one 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 part 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: 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 widow peaked and aquiline faced fellow 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 feet over the 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 a few shuffling steps passing over it every few decades or so. His mind returned from this tangent to Canthus’ recommendation. “What sort of generals do you speak of then, 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 sort of generals who 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 his words carefully.
Merrett finally 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 advantageous 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.”
Merrett seized his bottom lip in his fingers, lightly tugging on it in an almost comical manner as he brooded. “Very well, I think 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 turd. As is… they could very well be dead by now.”

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 whispered 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 was 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 before, when something even stranger than their cunning maneuver occurred. The creatures immediately lost interest in the horses and turned back to their task, almost as if some great admonishing hand had twisted their heads back in the direction of their targets. 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 none 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 grins, eyes gleaming with an innate evil.
The old warrior felt a tug at his breast; a sensation that he had not felt in fifteen years and had not succumbed to in twice that time. He shoved it away 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. The gaps between the garulls shrunk 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 the two on the top and bottom seemed elongated, almost tusk like. The grizzled old soldier 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. 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 polearm, her hundred pound weight made three times what it was by being suspended from 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 his mace, 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 spray.
So quick were their deaths, that not one of them uttered a sound.

Anamu jerked in place 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 a magical 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, that core 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. With a shout of frustration he let go, and she 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 direction, which was westernly. At least Fremett lay in that direction. Irritating as this was, it was now secondary. He looked past the circle of grisly remains that was once nearly a dozen larger than man monsters, 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 when the old warrior went back on the offensive.
With an overhand chop, he sliced a scaly torso in two, the creature barking in surprised pain. 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 his flesh beneath. He grunted slightly, and lashed out from left to right with both blades, catching the garull under the chin and slashing through its spine. It shrieked once and then died.
He chanced a quick look over to his 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 blade slicing 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 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 recovered his sword from the ground, and 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 cry of pain. All of this happened in only a few seconds, so quick and vicious was the attack. He had to be rescued now, if at all.
A missile attack would leave him at a disadvantage as he would be only half armed, 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 one of his blades 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. A blur of steel later, it too was a dead pile of mange, scales, and teeth, the guardsman 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 but that there were rich, gluttonous rewards should they succeed. One of them 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 bare half - second, some fear in his breast thought that Salett, broken in half and fish like 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 - 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 magically 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, 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; 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. An impressive shot, but useless. In moments, they were gone.
Not a single one of the men on that bloody stretch of grass and road raised a shout of victory. They simply were not moved to do so.
“Will… somebody get this damned stinking carcass… off my head?” Said a weak voice buried under three hundred pounds of deceased garull.
Lifting carefully, JaBrawn pulled the dead 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 Sorna 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 smiled. “Who are you?”
JaBrawn’s 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 them. You need to spread the word in Camdur that the High King’s aid is desperately needed.”
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 their 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 curiosity later, if at all.
“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. 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 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 was even close to resembling 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 who 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 held many mysteries even fro 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 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 lines 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 embarrassingly pointless 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 14

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, but 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 first High King felt that his 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, his hands on his thighs, his back against a chair, and 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 never really became 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 muttered, 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 in acceptance 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 slightly and smiled. 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 the tapestry of things 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 can come unraveled. He, or someone like he, might begin anew if there were enough time. If. Canthus, however, had taken enormous steps in making certain that that did not happen. A new world might rise from the foul ashes of this one, but 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 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. He refocused his mind. Techniques of immersing himself in the astral fields that used to take him days now took him seconds. After a thousand years of constant practice, he had rather perfected all there was to perfect in himself. His spiritual poise, paths of thought, wells of warra, everything was honed to near flawlessness; all 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 glimmerings of what had attained sentience quite some time ago. And it was he who had slipped this into the High King’s subconscious mind. From there, he knew 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.
He had yet to learn this incarnation’s name, if it even had one. He knew that it was not human, nor mankindred, nor demon. 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. 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?
He had sensed the glimmerings of what had attained sentience quite some time ago. And it was he who had slipped this into the High King’s subconscious mind. From there, he knew 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 thing had to be combated, 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.
Canthus could feel it simmering and growing, like a sickness yet much more threatening because this disease had a mind, a heart, a goal. It would eat and expand and reach further and further across and through the world until its touch was everywhere. It would be inescapable.
Canthus lifted higher into the aetheric heavens, seeing more of the spirit essence that penetrates and binds 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 started over. He sat without making a move nor 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 none - too - solid clutches 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 rose and 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 get here, so he executed a minor infringement on the rules and questioned them himself.
“How exactly did Derrig die?”
JaBrawn, a man 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?” Serbis eyed this unusual man. He was obviously a warrior sort, but his mannerisms were cool and relaxed, that of a practiced politician; however, 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 was killed by 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. 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 issue, Mr. Councilman.” He leaned over, the shift in weight causing the old timbers beneath his feet to creak. “He told me about it all.”
Serbis, for the first time in quite a while, 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 his children and him, I take it? Why did this move him to attack you?”
JaBrawn’s face looked carved from granite. “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. “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 outside 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 whims 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 me are threatened or attacked due to our knowledge, all five of you will die.”
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 Hildegoth 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 your looks of disinterest 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 bands of good and evil, black and white.” He giggled 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. “Your magistrate and yourselves have been arrested in accordance with Camdur’s town charter for conspiracy against a townsperson. 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 desk, 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, the old aristocrats’ faces blanched and sickly with horrified astonishment.
As Serbis passed by JaBrawn he finally made a sound human enough to be understood. The robust old soldier placed a hand on the man’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.
He sighed a moment and then shut one door to the chamber.
In the end, it did not really matter. It was the struggle to improve that was most important, not merely the results. With a muffled thump like a coffin lid as it sentenced its occupant to eternal night, he shut the other door.

Chapter 15

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, but permanent is a very fluid concept when the light of life fades.

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. 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; 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. 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. Besides, 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.
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 Grendel’s lead. They nickered in surprise, but accepted his words readily enough.
Everything was in readiness. He pulled the waxed canvas shut and cinched it down, asking 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 tied it off and headed for Grendel’s saddle. Barnus met him there and clasped JaBrawn’s hand firmly. Grendel regarded both the men curiously. The old guardsman lifted his chin somewhat and smiled.
“Quite a horse you got there.”
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 fiery head, closing his eyes. “No, my 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 mighty warrior JaBrawn, swooping in from gods knows where on an ugly horse, and saving the town from both without and within. And who made a new constellation with his monster swatter.”
They both chuckled at that. 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 me and many others are forever in your debt. Even many who do not yet know it, but they will. I promise you that.”
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.”
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; but, 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, their combined pulling power 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 sun.
Soon the town was out of sight, though for the rest of their lives its memories for each of them would linger as fresh as when they were laid in their minds as both a basket of bright and dark moments, full of 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 16

Extiris Aquanie – The divergess of water: An immense realm of raging torrents and calm seas, the aqueous plane, in concert with the aetheric plane, 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 incomprehensisble rein to it; a leash to the chaos. Water elementals, known as tormarqua, make their homes here.

There was a tangible crabbiness in the air. As a whole, the Greann Commercial Council did not even like showing up for their scheduled seasonal assembly, and this was an emergency meeting announced in the middle of the business day, no less. 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 damn 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. 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 politics and business savvy, looked about like a nervous rabbit, starting 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 - whose name was 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 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 at this point.” 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 smiled and 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 building and evaluated each member, trying to narrow it down. After 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 used when 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.
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.” He was catching on very well.
Arachias smiled at him. “Oh 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 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 woman who had shown up for the meeting drunk, and was quickly accentuating her condition with glass after glass of the house mead. “And, of course, there is always Rogett Busch, the crankiest businessman this side of the Thousand Hells.” He pointed towards a great fat man, his head completely bald, wearing such an elaborate business ensemble he must have been on the verge of fainting in the late Sanguinneth heat. Alec giggled. “All three of these are prime contenders. Of course, we could fend off all of them and get straight to the heckling...” he trailed off mysteriously, his thought clearly unfinished.
“What?” Alec asked, fascinated.
Arachias threw him a mischievous smile. “It is always best to keep those whom you do not consider friends 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 looked at him, puzzled. “What moment?”
Arachias winked. “Oh, how about right now?” He suddenly stood, clearing 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 was not even here yet, 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 weasely 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 answered it with a smile and a wink. 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 easily in her sixties, but 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 the subject had never been broached by any who could recall.
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, and preferred the more subtle opal and topaz. She rapped the ancient oak paddle on the stone again, quieting 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, Erathai to be exact, there have been unexplainable attacks on the High King’s forces. These attacks were at first rare and random, but have increased with alarming frequency and aggressiveness. They now occour almost daily, and almost always with fatalities. As yet the exact details are shadowy, but the information we have received indicates incredibly unusual circumstances. Creatures long since driven into the woods 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 Rogett 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!” Upon pronouncing the word 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. Second,” here she paused and sighed, knowing how the assembly would react, “I received a message not six hours ago that a creature was sighted that has not been seen for two decades in these lands, and, seeing as the entire Septimet is chasing prospects in the marshy wastes of 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 there are half a thousand more 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, falling into immoral and corrupt practices when those kingdoms’ ruling classes fell to the brutish monsters to be taken over by the craven Orcish clans. Only the High King’s lands of Erathai in the East were relatively undisturbed.
“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!” More agreement rumbled forth from the irritable lot.
The Conciliator 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. 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.”
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 having to become 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 shrugged again, slightly. “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? Why not stake just your claim for this and reap its sole rewards?”
“I am concerned for the welfare of Hildegoth and thusly the welfare of Greann. I believe that the rewards will be more easily doled out if more of us commit funds and materials. And yes, out of the kindness of my heart as well. 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.
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 counseling 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. “I don’t remember.”
Arachias nodded. “Exactly. And neither do most of they,” he indicated the quickly 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. Every one 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’s 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 laying about at the bottom of a river. What? Yes of course they can breathe water; 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 build an army and push the evil bastards back into the cauldrons from whence they were spawned, of course. Let’s find Ari. I need to talk to her.”
Arachias and his pupil descended the worn steps from their balcony and approached the double doors that led to the Conciliator’s private study. A heavyset guard stood at attention near it, a thick sword strapped to his waist. His hand rested casually on the pommel.
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,” 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. 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 more ways than 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. “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 footsteps 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 cushionless chair, half of it bleached pale by countless years in the sun. The wall opposite the table was filled by a large bookshelf, with row upon row of manuscripts and transcripts and member logs from meetings of times past. The last two 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 yellow light of a sputtering oil lamp. She touched the stylus to the book, and began scratching something on the ancient paper.
“What do you want, Arachias? And who is that?” She had not turned, nor given any indication that she had known they had entered.
“I come with a few concerns regarding recent developments, and as to whom my young charge is, well, he is something of an enigma.”
“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 at him, still not looking. “Yes, yes. You saw it too. As soon as they saw a gleaming, stone laid road to money, the trolls guarding the bridges 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. “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 veracity?” 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 actually look up to you, begrudgingly acknowledged or no. 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 a cheerful tenor. “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 snapped. “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 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 that the conversation had ended.
Arachias regarded her for a moment, then grabbed Alec by the arm with a strength that mage him gasp with sutprise, and 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 17

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 Infersu dwell here.

Arachias and Alec rode a public coach back to Arachias' manor. Arachias had told his personal driver to take the remainder of the afternoon at his pleasure, and handed him several gold ranyins with which to do it. The driver, not entirely unused to such gestures merely smiled and nodded. He was an excellent employee, really; no questions asked, and 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 rather unusual? I mean, your standing with the others will no doubt be, well… impacted 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 meaningless rhythm on his cheek. “Alec. If nothing else, I would have hoped you'd have noticed I hardly care a rat's fart what others think of me.”
The boy's mouth dropped open slightly at such a comment. “I see.” He stared at the older man.
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. “An immense, bothersome tale 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 moving on. Perhaps it is best that I do not know. My earliest memories are as clear as today's will be tomorrow. I remember being only two ardens old, running around barefoot in the packed dirt lot behind an orphaned children's home in a town far North of here called Tallo where I spent my earliest years. It did not have a 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, her dark red hair always tied back and under a washer woman's cap, her dress a patchwork of stitching and mismatched patterns, and her smile a neverending source of love, happiness, and courage. We called her Madami. It means something or other about the qualities I just mentioned in some language I cannot recall nor have heard since. I do not know if it was even her real name, but just thinking of it now makes my toes feel warm as if she had just lain a rough swatch of woolen blanket across them; and 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 can 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 disgruntled glares, 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 - 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 sireless 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 never seemed to not have time for each of us, and rarely did we feel that one was being treated better than the other; 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. It was a dream 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 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 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, as 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.” 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, 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 door, 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 worn 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 fifteen feet.
“Damn you, old woman. Look at what you put me through.” His voice was a grating, unhealthy warble. The dual 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, I assure you.
“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 long and hollow, the flesh that filled the myriad of folds and crevices in his features looked gray and lifeless, and 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, 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, much purchase a permit from the Ummonic church to do so. This permit cost ten gold ranyins, 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, only the consequences for Madami were much worse. It was a nightmare come alive.
She balled up a fist and swung it at Mondo’s nose, but the strike was parried at the last second by the gauntleted hand of one of Mondo’s guards. Amazingly she yanked the man off his feet, but the other guards were upon her, holding her away from the Sargath. They pulled her from the house and carted her away muzzled like an animal and shackled in chains 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 happened. Watching our beloved Madami chained and drug from our home like a criminal was something our feelings could not grasp, our minds could not 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 rest of us, those that did not flee from the guards as they turned on us were snapped up and sold into slavery. I have investigated every one of their histories once my means became great enough. Not one of the enslaved is 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 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, though it was in disdain. “How disappointing. When I was your age, I was already playing the odds 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, why he wanted to teach anybody anything. 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, the force was strong enough to lay my head on my shoulder, and the pain was a flashing bolt of stinging heat that started where his hand met my face and then erupted in a wave of pain that spiraled down my spine. When I sat back up, the tears had vanished 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 sometime 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 to have.

Chapter 18

Extiris Nebulazra – The negative plane: A realm of absolute blackness and cold. Nebulous, 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 loosest 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, a tall edifice near the center of town. It was planted on a rather modestly sized lot, as there was precious little space between the buildings 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 banal tale over a cup or two of mead, hm?” Arachias said this through a grin and a wink. Alec nodded rather numbly 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. 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 hellbent 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 comparitively sparse area surrounding the residence. At each corner was a fountain ringed with stone benches, with interconnecting white flagstone walkways linking each other to the main brick path from the gate to the front door. Arachias had produced a key and fitted it into the front door lock. Alec glanced up at the fox - headed statues perched on two wide pillars on either side of the entrance. Their 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 made was exquisite. The floors were crafted from 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 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, backed by a marble hearth caged off by thick iron. There 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.
“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 mannerisms 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 chairs near the unlit hearth. He beckoned towards Alec to take the comfortable looking seat in across from him.
Alec felt a slight touch of concern at Arachias’ demeanor as he took the proffered chair. Here he was recounting a tale of his youth so tragic and horrible, yet he seemed to be in such good spirits that he almost appeared jovial.
The brilliant and eccentric young politician reclined in his chair and stared upward into space. Alec sat in his and stared at the brilliant and eccentric young politician. After several seconds, Arachias spoke. “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 obsidian refreshment table between the chairs. 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. “Once when I was a small child, 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 slipped a piece of cheese into his mouth. “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. “Ahhh, I see.”
Alec smirked, 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 Father's friend’s estate, all of us in sour moods.” He paused, almost as if for effect. “On the way there, we found several of the 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. Thusfar, 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 from his mug. “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 how 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. He thrived on it, like a tapeworm in your belly. Like a greasy, unkempt little parasite that sucked pain and despair from your heart rather than blood from your neck. And he was oh so good at it.
We arrived at his castle not quite half an hour after the horror at Madami’s home. It was located near the center of Tallo in a large, walled clearing patrolled by armored guards. It was made of stone and wood and banded with iron in places, and ringed with a wide and shallow moat.
“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 aching. He chortled and poked the spot idly, making me wince in pain. He smiled 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 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. Now, to answer your question, a doorknocker is a collection of barbed and hooked spikes usually in the shape of a falcon’s claw, usually with a barbed spike at is center. This contraption is attached to a stout rope or chain fired from a ballista, which is basically an enormous crossbow laid flat on wheels. It fires 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 my heart and soul were in such turmoil.
“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 wade across it. Therein would be a ghastly mistake. If you look out and down, you will see why.”
I did. And I did. Several dozen pale tentacles the same color as the bottom of the moat began writhing across its bottom and towards the barge. I gulped as one emerged from the water not two yards from my face. Its underside was covered with disk - shaped openings that were lined with  black teeth hooked like cat’s 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 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. Oh, 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 put up with too much more noise like that.”
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, and I don’t feel like having to have 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. There are dozens of such tentacles, though, if memory serves, there are only three or four creatures to which they belong. Anyone entering that moat will never come out of it in any form other than offal.”
So 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 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. 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, lockin 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 body. He had a tired but kind face, and 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 barbed eyes 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 pounding 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 breakfasts after Madami had specifically told me not to do it. 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 19

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 here; however, the energy generated by such acts often finds its way here, where it is self-sustaining. Creatures of great heart find themselves here, in birth and death. It is home to the illumiari, also called  the light elementals.

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 succor.
He crossed the comparatively modest expanse of his chambers and sat at his desk, as 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 repute 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 it 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, his thoughts scattered by this oblique query, blinked and furrowed his brow. Arachias sat and waited for an answer. “Um...” he said, and then, after several seconds, “...blood?”
“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 mentally 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 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. 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 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 the gnome Preporious Mondo lived only to hurt others, I think he decided to ease 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 and he would drill into me the various types of knowledge that he felt were absolutely necessary to be versed in 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 slave master 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 am sure that he would have succeeded. I simply would not have had the resources, at such a young age, to repel him.
And I did, after all, 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. Oh I learned a great deal about him and from him. As loath as I am to say it, I would not be at the station in life that I am if it were not for his teachings. Of course, I would have rather spent the rest of my life on the streets of Tallo with the memories of being raised by Madami, but 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 truth about the gods (as he saw them, that is), the ridiculous assumptions of the Ummonic church and their ilk (despite his public support of the church), 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. 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.
Onward.
He also developed in me an already respectable talent that I had mentioned earlier, the ability to juggle numbers and odds in my head with ease. I had used it only for fun at the orphanage, betting on numbers on a die, running 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 application of a bag of vipers, 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 - as best as her limited education would allow - the basic concepts of mathematics, language, and history. I pondered with the figures, cobbling together the length of the 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 then 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 him, his eyes aglow.
His 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. 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 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 number made of all the digits between 10 and zero is what?”
After a small delay, I muttered the answer. “Seven, 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, there are three different sets of digits amongst those I just mentioned, where, assuming there are two lines of the same numbers, removing the addition sign from between them and mashing them together would make their sum total equal ninety - nine. Which are they?”
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 answers popped into my head of a sudden. He had almost tricked me when he said three sets of numbers with there only being two lines.
“Between the six and the five on one line, and between the four and the three, and the two and the one on the other, Master.” I almost smiled, but managed to stifle it down.
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 told me, and discovered intricacies of these areas of mathematics on my own as well. Mondo could see this, it would seem. He wanted to see what my brain could handle at the desk directly behind my eyes.
I began getting hungry and tired, and every time my eyes would droop or my head loll, he would slash 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 looking in 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 gaily, 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.
Not three 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.

Chapter 20

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, 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 letter right here.” He lifted one arm so the item was clearly visible. 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.
“…and my guess would be that he was quite upset when it was not automatically renewed as it had been for the previous nine years. He demands that I, in person, rectify this.” Othis continued without losing a hint of verbal cadence.
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 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 myself, 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 makes 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 worry for your kingdom and all its inhabitants that makes you question this counsel, however unerring it maybe. It is proof of your epithet.” He smiled and turned away, his robes shifting soundlessly as he headed for the door. “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.
The King felt foolishly moved by the little speech. Its monologue 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 recommendation, letters of commendation, 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 because of a lack of effort nor a lack of morality, for the High King of Hildegoth could provide these in abundance.

Chapter 21

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. Each of 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 it would seem that the men and mankindred of Hildegoth first began chipping their knowledge into the rock almost one age ago.

The High Church of Western Hildegoth was set about twenty miles inland in the kingdom of Rualedd, 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. 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 priory itself, however, dominated the immediate landscape with its massive worship hall and four one hundred foot towers of steel banded stone at each corner. 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 partway 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, four hundred to over a thousand people would fill its aisles and pews to mentally, spiritually and even, in some cases, physically prostrate themselves before the Grand Priest of all Western Hildegoth, Oratio Dumas.
Grand Priest Dumas would give sermons and hear prayers from all the subjects that could attend his services on each Fasday in the immense church’s grand and elaborate worship hall, a room so vast it took up most of the church’s enormous belly. So filled with gilded walls and bejeweled candelabras and dark, polished wood of the rarest kind was this room, 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.
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, the Ummonic holy text. He was outranked in the church only by the Primaxis in Tyniar, Krubisse himself. Of Dumas’ appearance, he was tall and wide and straight despite his age of sixty. He was of mixed Chaali and Haleock descent, those desert lands giving him his 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 a dissenter of some sectarian of the Ummonic faith, and some were coldly calculated assassinations that came very close to succeeding; however, all had ultimately failed. Several puckered scars showed on his skin, which was stretched and tired against 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, especially 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, beyond the dusty stained crystal of wonder at the divine that latticed his mind, and beyond the unshakeable marble upon which all of his faith was erected; he felt something out of place, something - malignant. 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 true faith and devotion to Ummon, and pure adoration 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 a manner more personal for which Dumas could ever hope to have time.
He looked then out to the gathering itself, this vast sway of souls and hearts and hopes that would place all in his hands in the knowledge that he would do only Ummon’s will with it. They awaited his sermon in the vast, staggered levels of pews that reached from ground level to several feet off the floor where they met the far wall. 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. The 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 not at all. 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.
Presently, 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 with it a cadre of lepers and the sick in hopes that the Grand Priest himself may heal them. The irony of it was so hotly delicious it felt it could suck it like nectar from the air.
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. This is what it had done with the hours. 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 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 High Priest Hemerek Alvis, the man whose body it now wore. Inhabiting flesh like this taxed it, more so than any normal life would lead it; 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 snuffed quickly.
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 rudely. 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 was 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 steepled his fingers in front of his nose. “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?”
Alec pinched his eyes shut, thinking on it.
“One hundred divided by half, that is, by 0.5, is...” he looked ceilingward briefly, “…two hundred. Plus ten is, well, 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. 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, and with skin the color of a toasted sunset. 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. I slept, and dreamed. 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, 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 magical place. And that was not the worst of it. I was afraid that those memories would be replaced with the vile, greedy - eyed 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 - an unsurprisingly rare mode of travel. Othis had patiently explained that he must sacrifice such speed for 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.
“Then why not teleportation by magic?” He then asked.
Othis was not unfamiliar with such warricking, and knew it to be an act even more manifest - and to eyes that were owned by entities whose power was equaled only 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 warra. To the horsekeeper, he merely shrugged slightly.
The Quartermaster, a long time 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, Goodman 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, Othis.” He smiled halfway. “I think it’s becoming of you, you know, to the common people.”
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 22

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 week’s stay at a small inn, a pack animal or riding horse)
The golden ranyin (worth 5 dracos/a rare bottle of wine, a week’ s  stay at an extravagant inn)
The platinum baron (worth 10 ranyins/deed to a small house or shop, a small ship)
One baron is equal to 312,500 dreks.
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 untimely 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 a nearly limitless patience. A brother of the cloth was in need, and had brought this need with him in the form of leprous men and women who needed the healing light of Ummon – or to be 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 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 - the ceremonial posture of deference that one priest bestows upon his or her superior.
“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 a clerical chamber 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 whither 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 bottomless faith in Ummon!” The once Alvis’ voice seemed to quaver under a relentless 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 the 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.”
The south chamber had been opened, and the collection of rotting guests shuffled in, appearing weakened and wretched.
“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.”
The Ummonic monks, without even an upturned glance, rose from their places of supplication and assisted with the emptying of the church, following them out with the intention of keeping them calm and to administer any spiritual aid the members of the throng may need. Once the last of them had passed through the entrance and the doors had shut, Dumas turned, grasping the High Priest’s shoulder as his servants and priests - to - be unrolled bed mats upon which Anamu’s followers could rest.
The whole image was so ludicrous that another small giggle slipped from Anamu’s stolen lips. It managed to cowl it into what sounded like a stifled sob of both despair and relief, before Dumas could question its origins.
“Your task is nearly done now, child.” Dumas said softly as he lead Anamu away from the chamber and up a narrow winding staircase of smooth, 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 door to a small, private chamber opened and closed behind the two, as the large doors of the cavernous southern ward slammed shut on the holy men and the forsaken, decaying constructs of evil they had unwittingly taken into their care.
Anamu felt a soothing warmth fill him as it realized, should things go smoothly, events that would shake the very floors of the hells would be put into motion.

“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. 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. 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 both hurt and angered 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, the gray orbs 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 my pet name. He continued.
“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.” 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 paws 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. It earned me a stinging rap across the thigh with that cord of his. “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 the 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; he began 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 construction of my mind and character, I would glean hope and pride of my own 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 completely destroy 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 – 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 truly admitted this to myself, 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?” Arachias 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 bother 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 bothers 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 in which 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 the creation of the world 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 nearly 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 was in sheer size. He did personally enjoy such baubles as well, but this was truly secondary.
Grand Priest Dumas poured himself a tall, thin goblet full 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 the memories it had not discarded of the souls it had harvested, came expertise in things that they had known in life. Alvis was quite a wine connoisseur, and his discriminating palate was now Anamu’s, corrupted though it was. 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, Oh 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.”
Anamu sighed somewhat dramatically, shaking his head. “The forces of demonkin are strong, Father. They would not see me bringing them to you for succor. Shortly before our arrival at the High Church, 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, apparently unaffected by such pitiable accounts. “Were there any other impediments during your travels? Did the vile beings whose acts placed you on this sojourn - yet did much 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 put all manner of events in motion through their puppets.”
“May those puppets’ strings be snipped as soon as they are found, my 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 conglomerate 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; the ones 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 jingling slightly as he idly swished the wine around his glass. His eyes finding Anamu’s, he took a slow swallow of his wine. “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 him. 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. Hoping that another sip or two might placate the Grand Priest and 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. 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 gather some glimmer of what he believed. 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 swallowed it away with some effort.
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 upset him. “I do not know from what venomous shadow you crawled, demon slave,” he said plainly, “but your efforts are wasted. That impregnable rampart off of which you just rebounded was not I, per se, but 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 dropped all pretenses of humanity, its smile spreading wide over blackened teeth, its flesh shivering away its facade and shifting into a withered parchment of yellowed folds, and its eyes lighting with a barely contained green glow. The relaxation of its human pretense was quite soothing.
“I see that it is pointless to try and fool you, Grand Priest.” Anamu said in a quiet, almost sultry cadence.
Dumas did not show any outwards 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 weak, 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, oh man of Ummon.” Anamu said. “I am a smoldering spark compared to the inferno you will never in this life see; yet I am still far from weak.”
“I am certain that you think yourself that, oh possessed idiot,” the Grand Priest said. “I could not know what grand reward the demon who ensnared you promised, but I assure you that not only will I live to see the result of your existence, but also to point out how wretched – not splendid, wretched – that existence will be.” Anamu held off for a moment longer, and then burst forth with gut-churning 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 wineglass 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 peeling 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. “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. 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, holy implements have no effect on me.” 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 many 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 but with gaining vigor. “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.”
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 fear. Truly something beyond all of them and yet part of each of them.” Anamu continued.
Pleas of mercy were cut short by a sound like someone tearing 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 demons 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 Grand Priest Dumas found themselves. Dumas, actually fearing for his safety for the first time in almost twenty years, 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 the unholy and repugnant creations of both 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 refuse, 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 taken from whatever perch in this world you have clawed yourself to, 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.
“You will have long been a lifeless, cast off skin by then, and your soul will have long since passed through the bellies of demons.”
Dumas made a pitiful choking sound of revulsion and terror, 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 a place that never should have been graced with 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 made their way 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 allies it had made in those blistering realms that day.
It would also have been interested at the single entity that finally looked beyond its realm in an attempt to discern from where these gifts were coming.

Chapter 23

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, simplicity, and, above all else, profit,  all the leaders of each kingdom agreed to institute a universal system for trade across borders, while still practicing their own internal methods. Eventually, these methods faded into history, and the Hildegothian Standard system took permanent residence.

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

Volume:
One bit
One tenbit - 10 bits
One pound - 10 tenbits
One tenpound - 10 pounds
One ton                - 2000 pounds
One draston - 10 tons
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, 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, 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 was a very ugly ship, and her captain would not have her any other way. His entire 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 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 old friend 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 realms dry and watery. He simply had to listen; there was no other way to it.
The wagon 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 used up to the last drop; 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 still waved his hand, frantically.
Like a flame to his hand, realization struck. He 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 poisoned 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 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 filthy 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 paling, “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. Send word…” 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 intrinsicly 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 visor snapped shut on his helmet. With a bothered swat he slapped it open.
“Yes My Lord? Is something amiss?”
“Awake 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 slumped 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.

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?” Alec 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 for which I could have never conceived.” 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 popping 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 as 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 gnome, 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 stood 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. Speak of delicious irony. Not only was this man not really protecting Mondo from me, he was giving me the tools and knowledge to carry out the very acts his presence was meant to prevent! 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 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 with seemingly bottomless patience. It was easy, really, for 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 demezne and the capitol city. He should have been able to twist the directives enough to have gambling happen 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 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.
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, and number lots; someone hiding in a hole somewhere under extreme protection rolls a big tumbler within which are dice or something with a number written on them. People put in a wager and an estimate as to what this number is, 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 returning 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.
And then there are the most ambitious of the evening wager man, or woman, or mankindred: 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 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 survived 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 more long 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. Placed at the “corners” of this circle were torches bound to iron rods that were eight or so feet in height.
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 carried only daggers, but oh 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 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.
At once the rather relaxed looking dwarves dropped their stances to ones of stooped defense, 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 laying horizontally. They took small steps in either direction 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 the guard snagged them by the shirts for an evening or two in the fourth district prison. 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 jagged gash across the fair-haired dwarf’s ribs.
He seemed to hardly notice, but the patrons around us unleashed a torrent of whispers, 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 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 an unintentional falsetto.
Arachias shook his head disdainfully, but there was a touch of sympathy for the boy’s reaction. “No, unfortunately not.”

The blond dwarf lifted his fists and brought them down together with great force on the red dwarf’s 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 his right collar bone.
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 that 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.
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!”

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 perfectly 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 many, many years 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 small 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 24

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 swords (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’s armed 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 before him. Through this, he watched the conglomerate 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 conviluted 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, including being set free. 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 good and evil. 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 like the prayers and wishes of the devout becoming gods, only much more prevalent. Many of these abstract infants consumed one another in brutal confrontations that would cause etheric 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 victims 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. 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. Part of this competition was to make their power known to one another by the length of their name. The longer and more complex the name, the more that particular demon had accomplished; and was consequently more powerful. 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, everyone plays games.
Zartothzorok was among the most powerful demon lords in all the hells, and he longed for more, as most beings of power are wont; however, his ascension to his current level of influence was also due to being careful of grabbing at power that came too quickly or from a source that seemed unreliable. 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. Once this is done, they are released and may, after a great while, find each other and reform. Rarely, after such treatment, will a whole being arise.
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. 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 nearly bottomless wells 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 influence, which 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, but the strength of this body itself was also tremendous. It would last much, much longer than any flesh he had thusfar inhabited, which was a boon to the next progression in his scheme; a phase that would require greater patience and more subtlety.
With a strange satisfaction, Anamu felt that his essence and existence was male. Perhaps it was Dumas’ lingering influence, perhaps because it was always the males that delighted in destruction amongst the “sentient” races and he could not deny a kinship to such inclination; regardless, it became he.
Standing in Dumas’ private study, he took deep breaths of air he did not need. The act, though, was somehow 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 no 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 collision through the floor as it met it solidly.
He lifted his eyes to his seething flock, their yellow unnatural 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. It is time to spread the new word of this church. Our word.” He flicked his hand and the door to the study cracked into splinters, the hinges stretching and pulling away in gobs like cold honey.
The church was deserted, of course. Dumas had decreed as much earlier, sending his precious insects out into their little world to spread the news of their recent “blessing.” Anamu passed the pews, touching them 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.
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, this manner of rule 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 to that it sounded rather enjoyable as well.
Walking down the center aisle of the church, 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 conglomerate image; its effect would cover a varied range of subjects, and its effect 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, as the transparent jade sphere encased him, and then he slowly returned his hands together, crushing the light back to its point of origin. It brightened and flashed as he did this, and his hands began quaking 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 Anamu did not relent. The flesh on his face pressed flat and then stretched taut over eyes and teeth, as the creature growled with effort and his eyes blazed with a hellish light.
The orb grew smaller and intensely bright. 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 back their 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 etheric 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, 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 at the center of the church, a small ring of destruction around him. 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 there was a significant dust cloud raised by Anamu’s antics thickening 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, the 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, reaching out with his mind to draw his flock near. “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 answers 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, which put me in my sixth year 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 by his barbed leash down a sealed 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.
I attended many more fights. I learned to calculate the odds of victory to a margin most elves ten times my age could not match. I had similar success in other arenas of chance, all at the side of my masochistic mentor. I made him very rich at these events, as I was his secret weapon of wagering. And I managed to detest him twice as much each new day as I had the day before.
I had had enough of Mondo five minutes after I met him. 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 feeling; 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. 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 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 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’ gettin’ 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 bag of scum, 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. “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 had always 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. “I had thought me either that, or that he just liked takin’ somethin’ 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 both of those but 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 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. “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 into 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. Not only could I steep myself in citrus oil, but I could steep the water through which I needed to cross.

Chapter 25

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 opened 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 was 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 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. 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. And emotion took him in a powerful grasp.
A sudden crackling cascade of sparks popped from a moist log, spraying the dying embers in a stilled fan across the stone hearth.
A tear lifted from the corner of his eye and slipped down his cheek where it fell into open space. As it passed his hands, the dagger fell 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 as high as the gatehouse itself. 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, marvelling 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 with 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 replenishing, he added a healthy dose of suggestion to his summons, pushing the command as far as his mind could push it, which left him nearly reeling 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, and all others!”
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, and all exited their homes and made their way back to the priory that they had vacated, feeling to their cores that something monumental was grinding into being like an awakening 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 to leave came somewhat out of necessity, really. I was on my way to my morning lessons when Kevett passed me in the 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 vestibule. 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 envelope of odd leather, the little bastard’s eyes went big as saucers and his fingers started to quiverin.” He paused and looked around conspiratorily. “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, “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 pick up on 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 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’d think him daft.
I shrugged impatiently. “And? Well? What is it, old friend, 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 somewhere outside of everything. That’s the only way I can describe it.”
I peered at him. “Outside of… what, the room? The house?”
“Naw young master, I could tell somethin’ was speakin’ to Mondo outside of everythin, outside a’ everythin’ ya could see or hear in this world. That’s the only way I kin ‘splain it.” He shook his head and looked at the floor for a moment, clearly shaken by what he he had heard. “After a bit I could unnerstan’ what it was sayin’, and it wanted somethin’ from Mondo. Somethin’ bad.” His eyes took on a strange light as he looked at me.
“And that was…?”
“You, ‘Kias. You!”

“Master Arachias, dinner will be served in fifteen minutes. Shall I take your tray and drinks?” Noal said, materializing in his typical specter-like way. Alec nearly jumped out of his skin.
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 that 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, or a Werish assassin.”
The lad’s mouth opened again, but this time hung that way for a moment. The swamps 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 them. 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 uncovering 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 reappeared. “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. Arachais 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 plainsfowl in a garlic chutney.”
Aachias' 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 absolutely certain, but I am quite sure that my dear manservant can read minds. Just then, I was idly wondering what was for dinner.”
Again Alec found his jaw hanging open for a longer time than what most would consider polite.

Chapter 26

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 conglomerate 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 lead 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 kingdom’s main exports, the great Chaali crystal, are some of the purest to be found in the entire collective kingdom. The proud and business savvy Chaali people 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 capitol 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 Preporius 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 the voice say?”
He frowned. “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 ferreting me about in the manner of despicable living and thinking 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 kraven dog would speak to its master if 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 this mornin’ and dispatched right away. I would bet that your lessons this mornin’ don’t have nothin’ to do with teachin’.”
Again I was astounded. What dark lord could acquire the deference of a despicably egocentric creature like Preporious Mondo? It was happening far too fast, far too terribly, for me to absorb.
“Is tonight when I find out? Is tonight when everything comes to an end?” I said, 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 see 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 paige. She gasped at the sight of him. She was small, delicate, and utterly 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 paige bowed slilghtly 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, though he could not read them, made it clear that this was a teleported message, which meant it was of particular importance.
“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.”
Merret 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 hiding, and will send word if anything develops.”
There was no closing nomenclature, as was common.
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 happenings at the great church were not coincidence. And they were not misinterpreted. He felt this to his marrow. Malignance had taken hold there somehow, and he needed to discover its intentions 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. Merret’s face was unchanged. “I am sorry for your loss. Othis was... an amazing man of uncommon character and 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 knew 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' relief was nearly visible, at both seeing 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 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, 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 finding out.

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, which was unsurprising. The father shared neither the intelligence nor the scruples of the 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 as well.

I rushed into the kitchens, nearly overbearing Helari, who yelped in alarm. I 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 as many oranges 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 can 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; 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 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. 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. He gasped aloud, as their faces, so bland before, now seemed steeped in kindness and concern and sadness. The man at 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 stood. 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, and turned and ran across the landing and down the dew touched 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 the rinds 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 by the time I was done. 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 things happened: I became uncomfortable 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 knows what sort of sustenance to their pale flesh.
Trying mostly 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 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 Kevett, 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 gave off ten times what was already in the water. I made my way swiftly but tried to minimize how my feet disturbed the ground, 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, and 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, 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.
At about the halfway point, I heard something that stabbed fear into me more 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; but, in the end, it was a very small part. I extended my middle finger at him, the age old archer's gesture of defiance and disrespect, turned away, and smiled in spite of the circumstances at the choking gasp of disbelief I sill 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 opened in one side like a wound, ringed with hooked and barbed fangs as long as my forearm. 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 awoke, I'm assuming, only seconds later underwater, 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 had submerged itself again. 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 free yet, but I was away and out from the mansion, pained sorely 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 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 and slowly sinking. I reached down and plucked it from the moat, a gold gilded box, one edge of it streaked with blood. This was no doubt what the Sargath had desperately flung at me. I had to admit, that had been quite a throw. It must have been worth at least a baron 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 even 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 was as cleansing as if it were a period at the end of a sentence.
It had worked. I was free.

Chapter 27

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 intermidiary to maintain order as the realms of the High King extended far beyond his immediate reach, the sargaths of Hildegoth evolved into their own individual incarnations, reigning over their municipalities as they see fit within the charter 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 conglomerate kingdom. Of course, there have been rebellions to quell as fractures in the dominion by separtists were quite inevitable; but, for the majority of the years since the High King’s inception, the Sargaths’ rulings were either to outright loyalty to the King, or based on more pragmatic mentalities.
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 murmurred, flopping back in his seat.
“Yes. All those children, dead. Madami, gods knows 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 whom even Preporious Mondo bent his knee. I have delved into other areas of expertise to discover who or what this would be. These inquiries have yet to unfold.”
“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.
“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.”

First I bought myself a horse. I could have rented a wagon and saved a little money, but wagoneers 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 have 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 a month’s provisions, and, in hardly two hours’ time, I headed South to Greann, 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 four meandering weaks 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 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 interest, as he had more 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 don’t 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; not touching my initial funds, for I wanted to have them to rely on in case of hard times, of which there were 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? I combined them of course.
Arachias’ Fine Jeweled Daggers. I sold just dags, as finding distributors to make other than daggers was prohibitively expensive, but also I found that specializing in just one thing 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.
I made certain that they were smithed by dwarves, who are as gifted with such craft as you and I are to breathing. They were shipped by mercenaries, who, though not exactly the most skilled transporters, 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 shipped in a large trunk, and 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 the assassin that would bring me their eyes even more. It was evident to them that steady, relatively safe income was better than a large profit at the expense of an extended lifetime.
Gathering the contacts and means of travel 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. It was a very exciting time for me, and no sign whatsoever of the errant Sargath sniffing after my whereabouts.
The filthy rich, after hearing about my wares from some very carefully placed rumors amongst their serving staffs, began sending couriers to my shop. 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 they made attempts to subjugate my bejeweled blades, calling them, at first, of terrible construction and sub par materials, then, after showing them an official writ of authenticity and craftsmanship from a master dwarf delvimor, a highly stationed dwarf blacksmith, who have been known to start minor wars with those who questioned their products, changed their attack from doubts to 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 plate used to make the armor of the guards as if it were icing on a cake.
Through 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 offering would have returned handsome profits. In a few turns it was clear that my income was five times what Ernesto could pay me, and would increase from there. I left his employ amidst his sobs and empty promises. In a year, I was extremely rich and extremely well known. I was invited to join the Greann Commercial Council-unheard of for a lad of seventeen years-and 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. Anyway.
It was also during this time that I met the extraordinary Conciliator, Arianna Heathrow. We met 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. She was – is –a remarkable woman. Her mind was so fresh yet seasoned and mature; so adventurous yet wise and conservative.
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 pretend to be 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 didn’t 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 machinations. Things have not been well since.
Anyway. As I became a prominent councilman and became even wealthier, I expanded my horizons. I kept the 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, 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 Rogett 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 of the most despicable sort; dead bodies, killed by them, or someone they hired. I highly doubt they could commit these acts themselves. They were to be placed in shallow, uncovered graves.
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, and they sent him with a note to deliver to his employers. They did cut off one of his hands and put out one of his eyes, however.
Things quieted down very quickly against me, and Busch has toe-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? To add spice to the tale? Considering the yarn thusfar, do you really think it necessary for me to do so? Or do you merely think me unable to give such an order?” The young politician sat back with his arms lightly folded.
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 works 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’m sure I 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 28

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 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 revelry 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 found it revolting and uplifting at the same time. The witless sheep believe 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 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. With this wonder fresh in their minds, he drew on his power and put them all into a state of slumbering suggestion. The effort was considerable, but manageable. With them in this condition, he carefully inserted the false realization that Dumas the Holy One, Dumas the Devout, had achieved such a level of humble servitude with his god, that he was granted the ultimate gift a deity can bestow upon this most faithful of servants: to be his god’s vessel.
Not only was this suggestion easy to place, it was quickly and voraciously accepted. 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 of him 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. 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 your own!”
The effect was massive, powerful, and instantaneous. The hardest hearts melted and tears flowed like rain from child and embittered farmer alike. They all took turns approaching him and touching him, much to Anamu’s disdainful amusement, and 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. He no longer watched and interceded when good teetered on the brink of collapse. He was asleep, and awaiting to be sent on to some other place, his existence here ending.
Anamu 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.
He was truly the antithesis in every way of the god that had forsaken his 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 dreams 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; flames and death and ruin, as all over which he cherished and 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 of 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. “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 what he based his very existence: the safety of our lands.”
Another quiet chorus of concurrence was uttered. 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. 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. It was the obvious reward for having such high caliber persons in their stations for so long. They could do nothing but excel.
“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 gathering. There is no center to cut out. No head to unshoulder, other than this being who is beyond our ability to locate, and the task of locating this being will be superseded only by the task of destroying 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 even more so with his 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 peace time. In all honesty I would truly have it no other way. 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 I suppose.” There was a brief, bitter expression of quiet laughter. “General Gorim? Your engineers and siegemen?”
Mar Gorim’s 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 goodly distance above the king’s. “It will take a season and then some at least to bring the machines and men back up to even minimal 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…”
“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 one hand good-naturedly. “That is good enough. 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 even means to serve them. It seemed a fitting metaphor to their situation. They could fill this void with anything, and 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.
Merrett snorted. “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 with 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.
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. When 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.”  A quiet snort from Canthus in the next room was heard. 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 heart against hardship.”
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. Your own exhaustion should not be among them.”
“Canthus,” Merret 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.”
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 from Canthus’. “I believe I have answered your question, elf! But, one more time so it soaks throught 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, and after the door 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 coachmaster shook his head whilst clutching at his throat. “None at all, good 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 and shipped 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 what Othis had been doing in 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.
Othis’ assassin 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 young man 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, and knew this to be a mark of a werish assassin, but this was ridiculous. En 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, 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 nobler.” 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 tamped the feeling away.
A gangly seaman turned a corner down the street, and, upon seeing his commander, 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 easliy 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.”
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 no, one of my men found… whatever 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, and not a bone left whole. Someone set afire stumbles around in agony, setting ablaze whatever they come into contact with. And only a blast 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 creative fashion I have ever encountered, or the doomed wretch believed that what he was drinking was going to have a much, much different effect than it did.”
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 and his face darkened. “Well gods all be damned. The victim and the villain delivered in the same wagon, and both of them dead."

Chapter 29

“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 his oldest soul, a greedy shell of an elf whose name had been lost to his agony long, long ago. Zartothzorok felt him wandering the soul 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 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.
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 very few had more than the demon lord, he was a target of interest by many of his “brethren.” His discoveries in furthering their game had garnered as much jealousy as admiration amongst the other lords, 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 mar his soul, had shaped it magnificently. He appeared a thin, virile wraith carved from obsidian, and his already sharp elvish features seemed filed to points. He awaited at the etheric 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 absolute 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 basic nostalgia 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 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.” Zarothzorok 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 visage 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 become close to yet another who has become 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 symbol 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 hinder 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 shoving 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 mondoish statement. Still...” Arachias peered down the hall. “...this boy has me worried about his future moreso than any other.”
Noal smiled again, his icy blue eyes glinting. “That is because he looks like you did, Master. And he acts like you did, Master. He is a living embodiment of an alternate future – for you.” Arachias was silent. “You may not be able to live it, but, the hells and all its gnomish supporters be damned, you'll see it happen.”
The slim man of varied talent and even more varied past, fought off a surge of resentment 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 hopefully a little direction, I can practically guarantee he will 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 promissary 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. Good 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, his features almost mischievous. “I slept hardly a turn ago, Noal. I feel fresh as a spring fawn.”
The assassin-turned-servant inclined his head 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. Something was wrong. He lay there for a few moments, calming his breathing and his heartbeat, and then listening 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 was still nearly at his peak. It was these skills that had learned 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. After a brief patter of seconds passed as he filtered out the innocent sounds of the night… 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 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 well as his could discern. 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 a shield being scraped across a rough stone floor – and removed two items: his old serrated dirk, dipped in toxins so many times 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 his 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. 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 notify 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.
In a tense few seconds, he had them: two men garbed in cloaks and robes of an inky 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 page. 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, “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 the ways in and out. Someone trapped beneath it may be exactly what they want.”
“I agree.” Arachias got to his feet, after grabbing a slim dagger he used as a letter opener on 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 a threat such as them, as long as a warrick of some repute is not amongst them. 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 30

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 who 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 surrounded 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 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 stole the breath from this woman so he would be parentless. From here, he knew not what would transpire. He must trust in the scheme of his master, for it was he who had set this ridiculous sin in motion.
He could not remember his first mother; and it would seem he would not know this infernal surrogate either. Hell had surely followed him, and his blighted soul would know no end of torture even though it had returned to the world of the living.

“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. They’d make a horrendous noise getting through them, even if they could circumvent the warra.”
“Nothing is fool proof, 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 silencing gesture with one palm. “Look, the two on the east side have pulled away...” 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. “Either is doubtful. I don’t think...” The curious old fellow glanced to his right but didn’t turn his head. “Our young friend rouses.”
“What goes on?” A weary 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 an infant’s hair of a moment to see Noal’s eyes flahs wide when the entire east side of the house exploded.
Noal was thrown back against the wall with terrible speed, instantly knocked unconscious. Arachias fared better, the force of the blast spinning him around and shoving him into a small table near the window. He was battered and breathless, but relatively unharmed. Alec stood in shock, his skin scored in a hundred places with scratches.
Two thickly built men dressed in dark wrappings 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 linking 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.
“Wh-what is all this? Who are you people?” Alec asked, stunned and terrified.
One of the men held up a small crossbow nocked with a bolt sticky with some dark, noxius looking substance. 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 flame. 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 unecessary 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 fer 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 on the floor.
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 with his struggles. By the time he finally was able to haul himself upright, his eyes were streaming with tears.
“Gods damn it all!” He swore noiselessly through grinding teeth.

The looming walls of Tyn Ianett were so large and ancient, and so pock- marked 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 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 uniform. Consequently, the top was 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 the hundreds of halls, barrackses, 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.
At more or less the center of the vast expanse of land that the great walls framed was a structure that dwarfed anything mortal-made or not for many miles in every direction. Atop an artificial hill so enormous legend has it that Garadeen Bay to the north was created by the absence of earth left by its construction, was the main keep of Tyn Ianett, a sprawling, dischordant edifice large enough to swallow the nearby township whole.
Nearly five hundred feet high from the crest of the hill to its tallest spire, the upper parapets were at times wrapped in fog and invisible from the ground. Some jested that those were the times that the High King spoke with the gods themselves.
“Hrmph,” muttered Thoris Greenwood as he glanced upwards at the thick digits of Erathai’s hand while they tried 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.
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. 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 seldom accompliced. The wagon driver had been as indifferent as always, either so accustomed to these travels or so inured of it that nothing surprised him anymore, even the surprising.
As they passed from the rough country roads to the vast scrubbed and efficient streets of Ianett proper, Greenwood dashed across his 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 seems so shamefully trite now, he was embarassed to have ever given it notice. Othis’ demise 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 delving into it, he saved himself from the full view of it. You cannot see the corpse when you’ve buried yourself in its innards.
The stores and homesteads and stables that they shambled past were of similar immaculate design, but unique enough to stand out from their neighbors. The driver sighed and shook his head repeatedly. Thoris looked at him and scowled.
“What are you shakin’ your head about?”
He shrugged. “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 resplendant 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 wagoneer 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 wagoneer 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 after being backhanded across the mouth made up for it to a degree. There was a slight moment’s regret on his part, as the dirty man’s presence on the street seemed completely out of place against the gleaming structures 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. 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, and shopping. 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 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 spectre of dread. By the time Thoris had arrived at the great iron gates of Tyn Iannett 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 womanhole 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 butt 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’ 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 corpses 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 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. He cared not a whit for either, 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 burning 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.
By the time his message had reached the high king’s ears, fighting back tears took twice the will it had taken to fight off his anger.

Arachias awoke to the raucous shifting of a moving wagon. He looked around him, 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 in his head vanished completely. He looked around.
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.
“How 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.
Could Mondo have finally caught up with him? No, that did not seem probable. It had been over a decade since his escape, and not a word from the agents he had hired to monitor the Sargath and his general arena of practice. If anyone had been taken under the employ to seek him out out of Tallo, he would have received some word of it. The cretins who had assaulted him had been sent from somewhere else, by someone else. He could not rule out the mind behind Mondo’s original task of his kidnapping and tutoring, 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 whomever held Mondo’s leash, 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 root out who had made really, really upset with him over the yearst, he began to hear a muffled roaring in the distance. 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. 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 far north of Greann to Fremett, the other went from Fremett to the swamps in the northwest. He was certain now that they would have to at least pass through that coastal municipality, if that was not in fact their (his) final destination (shudder). Unless they veered off the road.
As he was pondering 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 waterskin were tossed through this small square of light. He suddenly 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.
“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 whomever just chuckled. He pounced on this. “I see that one of you at least has a sense of humor,” he continued, trying to lever any advantage he had. “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 charcoal-colored stone in a gloved hand at nose level.
“"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 terrible 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 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. His mightiest tool 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 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 utterly, utterly lost.

Part 3 - Fate and The Sea
Chapter 31

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. Only the bravest of adventurous explorers or most desperate of outlaws venture into the thicker woods, and very few return. Of these few, 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 ‘te hed offa hound, miss’um, nutta’ fly onna pile ‘a sh…”
“Watch your mouth!” JaBrawn roared. The failed thieves recoiled, one member clutching a twisted 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 then bent to speed.
JaBrawn shook his head, his fists held at his hips. “That had to be one of the dumbest things I’ve ever seen in my life.”
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 flexed into a smile she could not keep from her face. JaBrawn shook his head again, and peered down the path that wound its way through hip high plainsgrass and past an occasional bay and oak, keeping lonely watch over the savannahs.
“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. “To let you cut them into little pieces and feed them to the bears?”
“I have been raised to not 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 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. Either escaped criminals or lifelong thieves yet to be caught, their poor judgement put them out hiding in the underbrush waiting for innocent travelers.” And with a laughable though inadvertent dramatic flare he had added, “And my judgement put 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 whithered 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 famine or sickness, he could not tell. They passed them without incident, but this 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 never had he seen one so well equipped. The weapon itself would have outweighed JaBrawn, who had spent many years wandering the woods, but even he found no reason to delve into the hearts of some of the oldest forests. There was no need to, and most 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.
“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 ogres have been known to sleep through their own disembowelings, so the cautious passage of a wagon, though still quite noisy, did not even stir it.

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. Clearly he was not going to simply drop them off with their uncle 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; 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.
The thickness of Graydon’s wood was to the south of them, and at times was intimidating with its immediacy. There were oaks, and poplars, and elms, and ebonwood, and stone ash bordering the forst 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 ended, and the dense flesh of the wood 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 the more simple, bestial attributes, and cautioned by the side of him that was, well, everything else.
He pushed as hard as he dared for for a turn. Finally, not quite eight days away from Fremett, they made camp as they usually did when there was a finger of red sky between the sun and the water, this time in a large grove of trees. This particular copse was of enormous oak trees, 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 boiled vegetables, staring into the flames and speaking hardly at all. Their faces were serene and content, and if any words were exchanged they were ones 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 over most others, and 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.
Conversation 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 swallowed sharply. “...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. “And your child? The boy?” She could discern these things as casually as if she were in a great library of secrets, perusing over 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 in much pain either. Mostly because she knew Niath had been taken without having to utter a single cry.” Her features pinched slightly. “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 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, 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 didn’t 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. So 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. It was my fault.”
“He,” she said, absorbing the fact. “I...” Favius stirred, as if the painful conversation had seeped into his dreams. “...Ivor,” Wendonel finished.
At the mention of the ancient name, JaBrawn’s resolve wilted. “Must we speak of him? Of this?”
“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 wonderful, you know. Sadness and hurt can both be marvels.”
He paused for a moment, turning the words over. And then he nodded. “Yes, I agree.”
“So you killed Ivor?”
“Eventually. I tracked him down after he had nearly killed me.”
Something in the fire spoke to her. “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.
“Of me.”
She turned away again, to the fire. “So 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, unbidden. 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 disunion. “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.”
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 motioning 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 a sob choked him off. 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, 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, looking at the floor. “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; directly under a pillar. Even now, the entire structure shudders from 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 utterly fascinated by it, though not because he wished to sample its wares; he simply thought it was an inimitable, sweaty, nasty example of what makes man and its brethren 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 whisp of trouble, or I’ll have three blades in your stomach before you can even breathe.”
Arachias grimaced. “Fair enough,” he said in a hoarse whisper, the only sound he could thusfar achieve. His entire head was bound in cloth so every sense was muffled except his sight, which was completely obscured. His hands and forearms were wrapped in leather and cinched just tight enough to allow blood to trickle to his fingers. “So what sort of accomodations 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 shoulderblades. A simple thrust would end him instantly. “Ah, so we’re in Westenmarsh?”
“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 and distraction.
Truthfully he knew he was near the coast, for even through his shrouded nose he could sense the very obvious tang of the air as did the cries of gulls find his covered ears. Though he was not certain how long he had been unconscious, he did know that he recovered more quickly than most. Taking this and the travel time through which he was awake into consideration, he believed they had been on the road for at least three turns. 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 shrouded captive to wherever it is that they decide to end up. Of course the Fremett guard aren’t 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 I or my employer is. I will not tell you, and this question will answer itself sooner than I think you’d like. And stop hassling 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 thusfar?”
Arachias swallowed quietly. “As Chaaldian crystal.”
“Now. Your return is simple. You won’t be harmed, neither by myself, my hirelings, or my employer, even after I have delivered you. As long as you cooperate.”
Arachias did not have many options at this point, so he acquiesced. He would feel no pangs about renouncing his word should the opportunity arise, though. These were not beings worthy of his honor. 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 whomever caught and righted him, they again paused. A series of quiet clicks followed, and then 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 he was much how he had been in the wagon. Trapped and alone.  
After several minues 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. He was in a strange place, for it ran a great distance to the front, back, and above him, but was narrow going the other direction. For all appearances, he looked to be in a very long, very tall hallway. Looking up, the top regions of his odd cell were lost in the murk. The only light that slipped in was through tiny slits along the beam that ran atop the door, and interspersed through cracks and holes down the length of the wall. Directly across from the door he had been ushered through was another, identical to the first. The floor was filthy; a thick carpet of ancient dust broken only by the shuffling circles of his escape artistry. No one had been here for some time.
Realization beamed, suddenly. “I’m between walls...” he said quietly. Well, he was between an inner wall and an outer wall. A false room, somewhat. No doubt unknown except to the priveleged 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. With nothing left to do 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. And breaking his vow would probably bring swift, painful retribution.
With a curse he stalked 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. 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. 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 readliy 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 came to 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 braced firmly on his legs without greatly straining the muscles in them and his arms completely unburdened, he could gather his strength and look around.
The effort appeared as if it had been for naught. The bricks 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.
“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. 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 inquisitivness, 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 unharmed.

Chapter 32

The Unknown Lands are a large expanse of central Hildegoth that has been rendered unihabitable 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 unsolveable 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 an 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. Most 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 carefully lifted both into the wagon as the fire had dwindled to coals. Some 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 had found nothing but the hearty musk of the smoke on the wind, and he had found the sleepy oak grove noises 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 dubious.
As his mind often did when enough stargazing had passed, 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 past 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 eyeblink 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, 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 truly 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 were 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 lives.” 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.”
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 lightly 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 obstructor had been. He sniffed the wind again, desperately seeking some clue. He had to admit, he was nervous; even frightened. 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…
No. He would not go down that path. He did not need it.
The wind died down and he froze, seeking any disturbance in the ground; trees, grass, anything. There had to be some clue 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 an owl jumped from its perch and took noiselessly to the air. 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. Just then an impact tremor lifted him from where he was and deposited him face first on the ground. Not resting a moment, he pushed himelf 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 the largest creature JaBrawn had ever seen on two legs. His short and thick trunk was wrapped in crudely stitched leather aprons, his legs were long and gangly, ending at huge feet in almost comical proportion to the rest of him, his arms corded with muscle and bristled with hairs so thick they were nearly spines, and his face was a flat and squashed mask of rage ringed with a chaotic mane of dark beard.
It was little wonder why he had not recognized its 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. 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 the warhammer, its striking mass an immense square stone as large as JaBrawn, from the earth. He snarled and swore at him in an 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. The soldier in him slapped him back to reality as opportunity of a sorts presented itself, he sheathed his sword and he 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 scabbared 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 nearly 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, 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. He lifted him until they were eye to eye, curious as to what his opponent could possibly be. JaBrawn 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. With a grumpy, dim intelligence, the hirrgog realized that this was not the case. 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. Then, slowly turning back to face him, JaBrawn drew in a huge breath and roared back at the giant with just as much ferocity if not more, making him 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 yelp 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 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 kept his eyes slitted, in the event that he decided to give him one last blow with his hammer, but instead he 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. 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 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 disgust. It was not the sort of disgust caused by the dead, though the collection of black ash and charred shards of bone that was the attacker certainly was distressing to see, it was the sort of disgust attributed to the acts that one being could perpetrate on another. In his lifetimes 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 coversation 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 a Werish assassin. 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.”
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 toards 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’ eyes found this human leader’s, 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. “If I find him my lord, it will be my personal honor to pass on your words.”
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 dissolved these 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 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 on these, and found several.
Through altered sight, he peered at pale marks left by the clutching filaments of a soul in departure, common enough, though there were an excessive amount of them on the earthen shape of the corpse. 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 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, even by he; 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.
Canthus closed off his senses to this world of mundanity and recognition, watching his surroundings become insubstantial shadow as the king no doubt began drinking again, seeing that his consultant had once again entered one of his “elf witch fugues”. Sound became muted. Color and texture drained away. 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 Aerathai, 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 unmistakeable 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 magnificent, 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 reality sensed and felt by mortals resided. Some of these aetheric typhoons could tear a soul to pieces, a ruin that can take millenia to repair. Sometimes, when enough of a soul reconnects to have sentience but not memory, it will forget its task and never gather the rest. Many of these wistae, or near-beings, find their way back into mortal reality, sometimes becoming the witless haunts that frequent keeps that never knew a murder, or homes that never knew evil, but were often 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 fragment and regather into an entirely new kind of wistae. Travelers in this realm usually do not spend more time than needed to discover what they sought in this plane, whether it be information from one of its residents, or a path to another world. There are definitely times when the residents of this place are something to be avoided altogether.
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 passing 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 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 – if the mood moved them.
He reached out with his mind and his voice, startling shelless 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 influence 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. “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 countlesss sssoulsss... passs thisss way... that it ssseemsss... an endlesss 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.” The fog gegan to pull apart from itself. “I am sssorry elf. But I do not believe... that you will find your sssoul... in thessse formlesss 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.” Canthus 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 may be dwarf... asss I feel irritation at your presencssse...”
Canthus laughed lightly. “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 noticed for the first time a rudimentary face in the wispy cloud before him. 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 since he was a child. In fact, he could not remember ever being that dirty. The life of a rich aristocrat had definitely softened him, at least in certain areas of resilience. His ability to withstand being absolutely covered with dirt and grime everywhere was thin.
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 unbreathable air. Now the dust had settled mostly, but every square inch of his body 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 still 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 paced for a while, his mind wandering to this and that, unfocused. 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.
In 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 almost 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 againts 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. The bushy-eyed leader of his captors shimmered into view, rotating some gleaming bracelet that had 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, 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, 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.”
Arachais jerked in place as if struck. “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. “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 my confidant and innocent student lying senseless and bloody amongst the ruins of my home, and I am the abomination?”
The hag’s 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 33

“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 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. 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 encounterd was more than earth above him. He dimly recalled that there was a stone above him, placed 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. So 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. The last of the misaligned bones in his torso adjusted themselves with an odd sort of painful satisfaction back to where they were supposed to be with a loud series of snaps and cracks. Feeling much better, he stepped from the crater his body had made, and struggled to recall how he had gotten there. He had only 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 comrades. 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 his hands and pacing.
JaBrawn chuckled lightly, shaking dirt from his hair as he remembered the look on his face. His eyes were literally open as wide as they could go with terror and worry. They were a striking bright blue, like...
...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 landed in a heap, stumbling forward onto his stomach and staring in disbelief.
A choking force rose from his belly and took hold of his face, twisting it with anguish. The camp had been destroyed. The wagon had been 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. Massive vaults of rock lifted miles above him, twisted, broken stalactites and stalagmites pierced the stone everywhere as if seized in the jaws by countless dragons of unimaginable size, frozen seas of obsidian both smooth and razored like glass, and, of course, the curious local population of terraga, or the earth elementals, that comprised these realms. The elementals themselves are as varied in size as they are in composition; 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 to 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 terraga, 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 terraga 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 snapped and he was attacked. He would repay his trangressions 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 Canthus’ soul had been here very recently.
It may be here still.

Chapter 34

“Traversing the divergesses of reality involves invocations of the fantastic and the mundane. The fantastic are the various warricking and focusing one’s 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.”
- Canthus, Grandmaster Warrick of Hildegoth

Meelatori approached Arachias, holding the shroud with which he had been blinded in his grubby little paws , no doubt to blind 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 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 threw his head back in laughter. The mercenaries glanced at each other. One chuckled 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 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 beasts had riders draped in thick cloaks, with the fourth riderless but strapped down with an uneven bundle. They were trotting down a narrow, uneven 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 second rider, a hulking figure that nonetheless exuded a strange grace in poise and movement, spoke again to the foremost. “Corbin, I tire of waiting, when do we eat?” he said in a deep, gruff voice.
“I tire of your mouth. Shut... up.”
There was a grunt of annoyance from the second. It did not sound human. “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 second 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 chaos as the riders struggled to regain control of their mounts. He pulled his head back, revealing a harsh, scarred human face set with eyes as dark as a still 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 unseen under the 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 the guardian somehow catch up.”
“Could that be possible, without his horse?” The rear rider said 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 unpierceable night to his left, where the massive form of the hill giant could be sensed as clearly as an approaching storm. “Why in all the stinking hells did I take this job?” He said under his breath.
The rear 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 and reined his horse in a tight circle, facing the elf.
“Enough!” Corbin said in a harsh whisper. “Even if that abomination 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 intelligent and 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 rear 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 hold it back for a little while, 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 turned from the moon long ago, 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 childrens’ 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 faster than 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 when he felt his teeth stretch into impossible canines and stumbled when he heard not his voice, but the 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.
Get up JaBrawn, we need you.
His mind filled with light. His will returned. With a shove that had nothing to do with his muscles, he pushed 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. At his right side he carried a sturdy long sword, and across his back was the short length of a footman’s spear. 40,000 men had assembled haphazardly in lop-sided formation at the base of Tyn Duugramahr, far to the west of Tyn Iannett. It was a sight of disturbing dichotomy. 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, knowing that sheer pride in their country, tales passed down by their elders, some combination, or blessed something else entirely, is what pressed them to such measures. This small example stirred his own pride. And hope.
He strode from the portcullis of the time scarred castle, his broad feet thumping the packed earth of the approaching road. To his left and right were his personal guard, possibly some of the best trained men in the kingdom. They were as skilled with arms as they were with maintaining their attached 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,” Jordonis 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 reined in 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 35

“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 please... 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 diminuitive and mysterious captor known as Meelatori stood before Arachias just inside the main entrance of the decidedly cheerfully adorned 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 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.” Meelatori opened a door into a richly appointed and furnished study and beckoned Arachias 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’ 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. This was a job to him, nothing more. Distasteful. Cold, perhaps, but not evil. “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 looked at the floor as tears of disbelief found his eyes. A door quietly closed and he lifted these same disbelieving eyes to find yet more impossibilities. There stood the emaciated Madame Uranni, her scarlet and black ensemble unchanged. Next to him, regally ornamented from scalp to sole, stood the venerable Sargath of Tallo Preporius 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 himself 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 find the children untouchable.”
Glaring eyes regarded him and he felt inexplicably weak at such a statement. He gritted his teeth against the shameful embarassment. “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. Though perhaps that is logic in its purest sense.
“Soon then. Soon. Soon.”
The old warrior, his hair practically free of grey, 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, a promise of blood that he may never undo.

“Are you hungry?”
The massive creature regarded the orc with almost disbelieving disdain, as if beyond insulted that the tiny male 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 their 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 neck 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 bit 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, bruised 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 cohort 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 men 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 shuddered. “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 stared into the fire, and it slowly began to tell her stories again. “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 was silent.
“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 trading glances with theirs. “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.
“It would not matter even if you were telling the truth,” the child 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 cinammon. “Or we could slice your tongue open,” 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 it’s 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...” Hob 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 bleeding welt rising near her left eye caused by a metal stud on the mercenary’s leather gauntlet.
“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 Hob lay on his shoulder.
“Stop!” He spun him around. “You have already broken your bargain, human fool! What would 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 in 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 its belly and laughing so loudly the very ground shook.
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 childrern, who 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 36

Travel across the vastness of Hildegoth has many levels. 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.
To 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; 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, and 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.

A dreary, muggy night had settled over Tyniar. The light of the moon was present, yet 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 statesroom 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.
“Soo... how did you cross such an expanse? Teleportation by a warrick would have brought you here in moments, yet no horse could cover such a distance in such a short time, even on flat ground with perfect weather and a mount that didn’t need to eat or sleep.”
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 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 true intentions, we can tell when someone’s sincerity is lacking. 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 inheritant 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?”
The Ummonic monk 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.”
Both men shuddered as their imaginations spun Merva’s description of Jerom’s lifeless sleeve of a body flopping to the ground as the glistening mass of whatever filled it rushed into the stained priest’s flesh, supplanting his equally stained soul.
Merrett, though unsettled by the image, chose this moment to allay his finaly 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. Some force or intuition turned me from that place. 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 travelling 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 did not appear to have heard him. 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 were 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 greatgrandfathers 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. He 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 localy 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. 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 had cinched 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 coallescing 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 vast spell, literally freezing time in every direction to both end the attacks of the terraga, 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.
His remaining power he focused on finding some trace of Othis’ spirit. There had to be something here, something that would lead him to this exceptional human’s soul.
He thought on it, as reality strained against his warricking, a battle that reality would ultimately and unavoidably win.
Othis. A man of virtue. Loyalty. Kindess. Light.
Light. A light!
Canthus dimmed his sight until all was dark other than self sustaining illumination. The eyes and magma hearts of the terraga 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 the shores of extiris teraxa give way to the depths of extiris aquanie, the plane of water. He cried out with rejoice and fury at himself. Othis had once mentioned 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 blightless nature of his soul would allow him to choose whatever venue in which he would wish to spend eternity, and deducing his rebuilding of 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 terraga, 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 37

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 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 dwarvish ale, leaned forward, and refilled it from a large barrel he had had brought up from the castle’s cellars. The room was yet another dining area adjacent to the main tower’s central stairwell. It would take twenty minutes to decend 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 sucking, goblin wedded dog of an ogre bowel diver.”
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 making 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. Merret 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 sorrow and rage in his eye, yet was not cursing; 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.
“What’s wrong?”
The mercernary 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 comparitively 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 leapt from his chair, 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 38

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, and has hired scholars who specialize in the written word to devise new and confounding texts that he consumes in a handful of hours. Oddly, 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.
Hareyamin had 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 hell as a consultant, 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 comparitively 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 thorat burned him from within to nothing more than ash. He then quickly placed the charred elixir bottle and his sheath on what remained of the corpse, and guaranteed at least a head start.
Even more useful, 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 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 naive companions. Besides, using one of Ummon’s precious holy men for his own aims was a delicious irony that he would be loathe to relinquish. Interestingly, in Hareyamin’s latest act of guardianship for the monk, he had warded him from reentering 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 curiousity 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 new entity, this self proclaimed N’ommu, 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 capitol 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 only see flashing, washed out glimpses of what transpired within. Honestly though, he liked limits. Games without boundaries are boring.
He sliced away at the tortured spirit, contemplating the future as sustenance filled him. He then grew instantly bored with his meal. He brough 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 always 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.
Zartothzorok’s smile vanished.
It was time to have a little chat with this infant menace.

Corbin, Hob, and Posias huddled around the dwindling fire as the early morning hours arrived. 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 it sleep yet, so were uncertain if it 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 not want to lounge about.
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. The horses 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. “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.
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. 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. Corbin looked in the direction with alarm, then back to Wendonel.
She shrugged lightly, whilst peering at him almost boredly.
He pinched his lips into a thin line and yanked 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 sabre 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 them?” 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, but still 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 as hard as he could, making the huge orc nearly sprawl on his face. “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 heaved 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 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 effect. 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. 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 layed 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 in alarm.
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, the impact knocking both his spiritual counterparts to the ground, and cracking the tree nearly in half. A whisper of wind would fell it.
As he sat up and his wounds knitted, he found he and the beast sitting in his head, eyeing 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 were struck through with fatigue as well.
“You are tired too,” JaBrawn said.
The beast stopped its snarling, and laid its ears back on its head.
JaBrawn nodded tiredly, 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 others’ 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 lived before you came into my soul.”
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 ground. 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, 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 with emotion. “They are my friends.”
The beast chuffed again. A correct answer, but useless. Just like this conversation. 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 reflexively 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 happpens 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 hold back 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; then, amazingly it began to back away.
“It hasn’t been merely centuries since we’ve been separated; we’ve never been separated.”
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 of his soul 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.” JaBrawn muttered as tears sprang to his eyes. “And I’m sorry.”
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 39

“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 sabre 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, will be. I’d rather not stay to find out, so I’ll slip out the back. It’s saved my ageless 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 his rough, tusked face.
The orc 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 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. It, 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 attested.
JaBrawn’s eyes narrowed with fury as the creature leapt over the entire hovel and landed with tremendous force in the clearing. In the early morning light he looked even more enormous than the fleeting glimpses JaBrawn’s torch had provided the previous night. 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 warhammer 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. JaBrawn 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 brush 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, and JaBrawn 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 shredded the vital connections of the monster’s lower arm, and it now hung limp and useless.
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 it could bring the huge weapon directly to bear. Still, it managed to swing the foot-wide butt of it around with sufficient force into JaBrawn’s forehead to cause 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 whirl it towards his head. It was not magical 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 bass percussion, the hammer suddenly stopped in mid air. It was caught at the wrist 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. His strength and ferocity were now beyond belief, for he again was what he had always been. A werebear.
With a brutal twist 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 crackings 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 muttered, 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 will happen 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 sabre 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 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 40

“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 nothing more than dead weight. He kicked and bit and slammed JaBrawn with his body, making his frame shudder 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 its back, only to surge back yet again.
He whipped the dangling lengths of his arms in a desperate windmill that would have felled half an orchard. JaBrawn ducked under both, and than raked his claws across his midriff in a blurring flurry of strikes, rending his flesh horribly. The hill giant thre 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 cracking his ribcage in dozens of places. 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 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, broken 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 bitten 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 deep 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 arrested in mid step with absolute terror.

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. “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 singlehandedly 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 night.” 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.”
Something huge and heavy crashed against the thick oaken doors which bent inward alarmingly, as 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 inchesm and the table skidded across the floor to the opposited 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 was an idiot 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…?”
One more thundering blow saw one of the huge doors shatter into splinters while the other was ripped from its sturdy hinges and tossed away as if it were a book cover. JaBrawn stepped into the room, his huge form nearly filling the archway. 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 a step, and a percussion more felt than heard spread through the ground. He came into the light and his face, bent with fury and practically devoid of even the scant humanity that had been discernible before, was finally visible. 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.
He seemed as if he were about to say something when JaBrawn moved inbetween 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 and far down to see the children, his ears flicking in what almost looked like annoyance. Favius and his sister stood at the same time, looking up at the bloody and dirty block of furry muscle, 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, but not sure of reaching all the way out to him.
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 bird finally came out from hiding and trilled a question of whether or not the threat had passed.
And the huge werebear knelt down, touched his nose to her hand, gently took its tiny form 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. They had taken what they needed. JaBrawn had pulled on the thick black leather of the orc since his previous clothes and leather armor were tatters. He had also taken 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, and blankets. 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 the jewels of morning mist, and the path, once muddled, became clear and straight once more.
Several hours later as they neared a road side hamlet, JaBrawn suddenly stopped. A familiar scent found his nose, a scent he at first could not possibly accept.
He looked around, following the past 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, was Grendel. He was hurt, but breathing easily. With a weary shudder, he lifted his great scared 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 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. He should be up and about soon enough though. 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 nodded again, marvelling at this simple man’s goodness. As always, the spark of good drew all things decent to it. “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 lifted it easily but the farmer did not seem to notice, even as he towed it down the path to where the children waited. “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. 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. He gently told Wendonel and Favius that Grendel needed rest. After a few more kisses and a pair of hugs around his thick neck, they relinquished and the great old warhorse drifted off to sleep.
At a small general store they purchased more supplies to bolster what they already carried, and two more horses, one for JaBrawn to ride and the other to tow the cart, much to Grendel’s distaste.
It really did not matter. They were journeying again. They were together again.
They were a family, again.

Chapter 41

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 terraga 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.
“Othis!” He shouted, striding towards him. For an instant his great power faltered; 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 huge shadow split the rocky horizon; 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. “…my dear, dear king. How alone he must feel right now. How... frightened.”
Canthus shook his head. “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. Terraga crested the craggy peaks behind them and rumbled down the slopes.
“Canthus!” He said as his form was leached away. At his back, a spiralling tunnel of indescribable beauty and light had formed. Peering down its length, Canthus could clearly see the 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. “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. 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 terraga, 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. In unison, they hurled several thousand tons of rock into the air, their target hardly the speck of ant to them.
“Enough,” he said.
And 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 that 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 swordbelts and armor fasteners shining with carefully applied oils. For all he knew they had been waiting 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 follow. 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 hand picked by he and his two subordinate trainers from the haphazard aegises that had first answered the call to assemble. These thousand would train the thousands 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 a grand total of one lance, or one 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 archers and crossbowmen were being trained by the beautiful and deadly Aegis General Aleenia Ilmastriai. 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.
It had been a trying time and then some, as the instructors implemented an accelerated training regiment 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 sieges 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 magic, 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.
Aegis General of the Archers Aleenia Ilmastriai had achieved nothing short of wonder with her elven legions 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.
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. 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 again to see where it is leading.
Perhaps, with enough warning, even fate can be thwarted.

Book II
A Gathering of Heroes
The Name of Evil
By Stuart Douglas Staub

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A Few Might Be Enough

Folder: 
Not So Cute (G-PG)

Stuart Staub

 

A few little times
That's all we had
A few little words
Both Happy and Sad
A few little memories
Of regret and shame
A few little moments
You can't quite name
A few little tears
When the time was told
A few more would come
Before the day grew old
But when his light slipped away
When his night replaced the day
When his end
Was finally the end
He died not an enemy
He died a friend

Author's Notes/Comments: 

For a buddy who had a really bad Friday morning.

God Bless, G-Man.

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A Prophet

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Not So Cute (G-PG)

Stuart Staub

 

So much will twist our will
So much can break our grip
So much will faith distill
So much can pain unzip
So much will come to pass
So much can never bear
So much will never last
So much can stay so rare
So much will rise and sing
So much can never speak
So much will endings bring
So much can stillness reek

So much will still my tongue
So much can stop my heart
So much will slip my lungs
So much can never part

in the end I'll always know
half above and twice below

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A Parent's Ode

Folder: 
Cute (G)

Stuart Douglas Staub

 

I remember what it felt like
When the balance seemed quite right
I'd sleep right through the morning
Whether nightmare or delight

Always I'll remember
What it was like back then
To wonder what another life
Must have, could have been

Kaleidescopes of panic
Cooling gels of bliss
There's nothing that a parent can
Responsibly dismiss

For those of you who do it
For those of you who don't
For those who twitch in abject fear
And say "I can't, I WON'T!"

There's no job more like Heaven
There's no task so much like Hell
Than this constant toil of leadership
That cracks the hardest shell

If you can pull it off I say
You've made it to the top
If you can simultaneously
Do homework, soothe, and mop

Then all the other grueling tasks
Drift away to dust
When one can say without delay
"I don't wanna... but I must."

And what is our return for this?
A cruddy "World's Best" mug?
A snotty kiss at 6AM
A lice-infested hug?

A call from Mrs. AppleBite
"Your kid ate paste again"
"I told him not to play with that"
...Blame his Uncle Ben

A drawing made from half-chewed wax
In 60 "brilliant colors"
Though a shining work of art
I'd settle for much duller

So all in all the end is this
We'll never get it right
Washing hands and clothes by day
Cleaning puke all night

And even the returns we get
Are few and far between
For it is hard to love someone
Who seems so stern and mean

But every now and then, no lie
You see the efforts showing
When they take on a task themselves
You'll spend the whole day glowing

And though "thank you" may never pass
Their little, germ-smeared lips
A smile as lessons finally learned
Flow from their fingertips

Is all it takes to finally
Make you uncloud your worth
And gratify your endless task
On this uncertain Earth

And when they walk out of your door
In however many years
That all the anger, blood, and sweat,
Anguish, pain, and tears

Was for their love, better or worse
And still that love will grow
As they become the future
For through that door they go

As I sit here wondering
Was the life I taught them useful?
Did I do my best to make them kind
Just, and brave, and truthful?

Were all the years I spent in vain?
Do they thank me in their prayers?
Do they wonder if I did right?
Do they wonder if I cared?

But, one day, they'll bring a gift
A beast they made one night
He'll be all slobber, poop and snot
A grandma's lap delight

Maybe then I'll see the truth
That Moms and Dads forever
Never may quite get it right
This parenting endeavor

But neither did our folks, or theirs
It's not a perfect science
To teach good manners, honesty
Truth, and self-reliance

All you need is what you know
And most of us know best
How to live life to its most
How to grasp this quest

So pass it on, pass it on
Let them know the same
That no matter who's the winner here
It's still the same old game

I've never seen a bigger smile
Than the one on grandpa's face
Except maybe the grandkid's smile
Full of love and grace

If you can make it, I'll wager
You'll grow old quite fast
For youth does not hang 'round too long
With kids, it just won't last

For in the end we teach ourselves
For God has NEVER said
"ADAM AND EVE YOU'RE UP TOO LATE!"
"NOW BOTH OF YOU--TO BED!"

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Being a Daddy has given wing to inspirations that probably never would have seen the light of day.  And this is a feather from those wings.

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