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| Chapter 4 Missing |
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Posted by: frenzied67 - 12-06-2024, 09:24 PM - Forum: Off-Topic
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Ch4
Missing
Winter's chill hit Pernandi the second he stepped out of the old tavern. Even though the sign above his head had been needing fresh paint for many years, he could still see the feminine legs on the tilted mug, kicking up in dance while brew sloshed out of the container's top. Why am I always stationed in these northern cities? I belong in the south with Human's who make sense, he groused in his thoughts, trying to nestle his chin deeper into the knitted scarf around his neck. With a last frown at all the snow piled up between the roads and walkways, he began to gingerly step off the taverns porch onto the walk. Though he did not slip, he still walked more gingerly than the natives of Lakehill.
I should move on to Javiero. Winter always slows down the rumors and information in these little towns and villages. The big cities never stop generating provender for the information exchange. Despite his observations, Pernandi did not head for the stable where his horses were stored. His steps continued away from Lakehill's sorry excuse for a gate into the little town's interior. He had a job and a duty. Sure his job was to collect rumors and intelligence, but he also had to continue his almost two decade search for the inheritor of the movement he belonged to. A local woman in a fur lined cloak came out of a shop ahead of Pernandi, the middle age woman carried a crate almost wider than the walkway; a strap around her neck helped her carry the open top box.
Her pale blue eyes studied Pernandi curiously, a few strands of red hair fluttered across her cheek. Like most of the people in Lakehill, she had never seen a man with brown skin and even darker brown eyes before. He was as rare as a giant in the lowlands, and thus an instant curiosity to these folk. Though if his skin tone had been paler he would have fit in as just another man with a strong jaw and soulful eyes. Pernandi himself had dealt with every race in Tanbril, even a few giant tribes in their mountainous homes. Except for the few contacts Pernandi had in this town who were used to him, his unique skin tone always drew eyes his way. Shying away from the unknown, the woman did manage to allow him space to pass by her fish and ice filled crate. Is everyone in Lakehill a fishmonger, he wondered after glimpsing her piscine wares.
Though fishing was a big industry in Lakehill, lumber and the tin mines actually brought in the most commerce. Yet everywhere Pernandi looked there were people carrying boxes filled with ice and fish. Coming to the second corner along the unnamed street he had been walking, he recognized the three A-frame houses and the one four story high peaked house that sat at each corner. He turned east heading for the second of four taverns he would have to visit while in this small municipality. Javiero, and all the towns and villages making up that city state's territory, had high peaked roofs on their buildings. The eastern midland climes always had poor winter weather with blizzards and ice storms. The roofs had to have a cant to them that would shed or disperse the weight of ice and snow. The homes and businesses also had small windows, recessed to take thick shutters; the only way to keep heat on the inside in the four to five months of winter these lands suffered.
Ahead, the Meadowlark Tavern's rickety sign came into view, dangling from the building's overhang over the walk. The caricature bird was winking at the viewer, it's wing held mug extended out for a toast; this sign too, needed fresh paint. Though Pernandi always feared ice on the walk, he did pick up his pace, not having slipped once through his entire walk was making him bold. Looking forward to the heated interior of the tavern, the southern man still had the peripheral vision to notice three men in front of a nearby inn's stable. The Human in the trio raised a hand to point across the road at Pernandi to his shorter and slighter companions. Those two began to cross the street in an obvious attempt to intercept him.
His quick eyes noticed both their gait and the very large blades strapped across their backs; he noted matching birds were inscribed on the pommels when they drew nearer. These are Faelora soldiers, they come from the far north, from the lands with all the lakes. He had heard tales of some Faelora city states that spent half a year in perpetual day, and the other half in constant night. Were these two from that far away? The first blush of Pernandi's curiosity fell away when he asked himself another question. Why would any Faelora wish to speak with me? Curiosity gave way to alarm, was selling fenced goods about to catch up with him? A brown hand fondled a diamond that had been shaped into a faceted eight pointed star within his pocket, his will pulled unseen ribbons of power from the relic. Pernandi wrapped himself about with those fluttering bands, holding them ready to strike out with or cower behind.
He also altered his course to meet them in the middle of the street, mostly to see how they would react. Though the Faelora men had fixated upon Pernandi, they had also been glancing about; now that he was moving toward them, their eyes never left him. Locking on to him like a hunting lioness spotting a limping gazelle. One had ruby gemstone eyes his bark like skin had an off green color, the second one had eyes like the rare pink sapphires found in the far islands of the southern sea; his skin was a pale gray flaky bark like texture. They had determination, yet he was not reading either malice or tension in either soldier.
"Human, are you the information peddler Pernandi of Deshnandu?" Pernandi hated that term, yet his cover required it.
"I am Pernandi, a business man," he declared, emphasizing a title that felt better; though it too was something of a lie.
Nearer the eastern side of the street than to the inn, the three of them came to a halt. They assessed him as much as he considered them.
"Ah yes, a business man," the Faelora on the right stated, emphasizing the title as Pernandi had. "We would like to purchase information from you then." Like all city dwelling Faelora, the two men wore neutral expressions that rarely changed as they spoke, neither mannerism nor expression betrayed mockery; yet Pernandi felt he was the target of some subtle ridicule. As he always did in this situation, he ignored the unsubstantiated derision yet doubled his scrutiny hoping he could catch concrete proof.
"And what is it that you think I can sell you?" he asked raising an eyebrow.
A momentary perfunctory smile twitched on both Faelora lips, again an expression that felt like mockery to the southern man. The silent one began to look around, his long head moving nonchalantly like a man bored with the conversation, yet he gave off an air of vigilance.
"We seek one of our own, a Faelora male with a lordly air. He will be around four hundred years old, so youngish to your eyes...."
"He will be traveling with a Human woman, one who will look older than her companion," the other Faelora broke in, his eyes still tracking every person on Lakehill's cold streets. Though the first speaker grimaced slightly, Pernandi was given the impression that the interruption was not the cause behind the wincing expression.
As an experiment, Pernandi trampled over the speaker just as the man was about to resume his dialogue. He really wanted to catch either of these Faelora in deriding him, any excuse to send these overly haughty tree puppets packing. Though he did not know why he particularly disliked these two, he knew that by selling them information he would not be helping himself or his chosen people.
"What are their names, what do they look like? Good information begets good results." This time the speaker's smile did not seem mocking, he even inclined his head to acknowledge the truth Pernandi had spoken.
"They act as fugitives, so we do not know the names they will be using." After imparting that unhelpful tidbit, the speaker reached inside his beaver lined coat. In his soul, Pernandi wanted to curse. So far these Faelora were not granting him an excuse to break off this burgeoning arrangement.
I am going to charge them a very high price. I'm going to gouge them so much that they will go to The Burning Spirits still in debt to me. Keeping his uncharitable thoughts off his mien, he watched the speaker produce a package of folded papers and a smallish blue suede pouch that bulged. "We have their likenesses drawn for you, the female's picture was taken when she was younger. I am sure you can extrapolate what she would look like almost twenty years later. This should be simple for you, she is one of your species," the pink eyed speaker stated unfolding the two drawn pictures, which he then handed over. Whoever the artist had been, their attention to detail impressed Pernandi. He swore that the only thing preventing the two people from stepping off those pages and becoming real was the lack of coloration.
Both marks looked like teens, beautiful in their youth. For a moment he wondered what crime had brought these two Faelora out to hunt these young people, then another hunch struck the southerner.
"I have never seen these two before. Does any of this have to do with the war between Estanabril and Anetheri?" Pernandi only asked that to see how the stranger's would react. He almost smiled when he shook Red Eyes up enough that he stopped looking about. Both Faelora fixed on him with narrowed eyes, betraying that he had struck his mark with that random arrow.
"What if it does?" Red Eyes asked after a drawn out moment; Pink Eyes glanced at his partner as if wondering what his companion's gambit was.
Smiling disarmingly, Pernandi shook his head as if dismissing his earlier guess.
"True, that should have no bearing on the arrangement we are making. I have to admit, looking for runaways is not cheap, especially using old pictures of these fugitives. I do have a network of snoops and bounty hunters who are highly specialized in their fields, they will not work for coppers...," he raised his eyebrow expectantly, ready to dismiss their first offer. Instead of listing a price, Pink Eye held up the small suede pouch. When Pernandi did not reach for that disappointingly small bag, the Faelora, with snake like speed, grabbed his free hand and placed the object in his palm. Taken aback, Pernandi squeezed the bag slightly and discovered it did not hold coins at all. The two Faelora smiled slightly as he loosened the drawstrings to peer inside the container.
A score of faceted rubies sparkled when revealed. A prince's ransom in value. When he gaped at the two, Pink Eye's smile held a superior quality.
"Of course we require your utmost attention to detail, and nothing less than full discretion from you and your network," he stated, knowing he had more than paid for such services and then some. "You will receive ten times that sum when you can deliver our- uh, fugitives to us." Ten times more? Pernandi was already holding more wealth than he had ever beheld in one place before. His voice shook when he spoke again.
"H- how do I con- contact you?" Looking pleased with themselves, Red Eye pulled out a dagger with a deer antler hilt. Power radiated so intently that Pernandi feared even mundane people could see the red energies; he looked about checking to see who was watching.
Hesitantly, he pulled out his oddly carved diamond and touched it to the dagger's hilt. Both he and Red Eyes drew power out of their relics tying a magical knot around both items with mystic ribbons. Now they would be able to communicate with each other no matter where in Tanbril they each were. "How did you know I was a magister," he whispered feeling uncertain. Pink Eyes answered for the duo, still seeming pleased with himself.
"We too have a network of discrete... uh... professionals. We know many things." Happy with themselves, the two Faelora turned about and walked away heading in the direction Pernandi had come. They knew there was no need for a handshake or a contract, they had more than paid for the deal now existing between them.
Long after the two men had turned into the street that held Lakehill's rusty portcullis, Pernandi cast glances between the pictures he yet held, and the path the stranger's had taken. Becoming aware of the chill nibbling at his bones pulled the southerner out of his bemused state after several minutes had passed. This is a lot more than a simple search for two people. They paid too much money. Politics stinks. Pernandi found his limbs almost uncooperative when he did start moving, his feet and hands had become numb from winter's greedy hold. Ah crap! I'm going to get that pins and needles feeling when I start to warm up. He did need the heat, but the pain of having sensation return to his extremities was not something to look forward too. He had just fumbled the pictures back into their folded up state and into an inner pocket when he entered the Meadowlark Tavern.
Brown skin or not, three patrons and the bar tender gave him stink eye until the door was closed. Warmth from two fireplaces almost made him sigh in delight, but he still understood why no one had been pleased for the few seconds the outside had scrambled in to steal most of that heat away. Victouer the proprietor was working behind the bar this day, the lack of a crowd excuse enough to not bring in his regular trained staff. That man's eyes began to shift about when he recognized Pernandi. Victouer may have a lot of access to information, but a spy he was not. The seven four person tables and the bar itself were all well made and well maintained, all hardwoods of some sort that Victouer made sure were coated and sealed against moisture.
Several pictures of Lakehill's countryside were posted on the east, north, and west walls, the bar itself taking up the south wall next to the only entrance. Behind that bar were stacks of barrels that held several types of beer or ale, a back room was reserved for the ten varieties of wine they had, as well as the six hard liquors they were legally allowed to sell. Victouer's office and living quarters could be accessed by a steep set of stairs in the south eastern corner. One man was seated at the bar which had seven stools before it. The other two patrons were set as far as possible from each other among the spread of tables on the main floor.
Licking his lips and failing to act casual, Victouer shifted uneasily behind his station.
"What can I get for ya, Pernandi?" Smiling Pernandi gave his usual answer, an old joke that always seemed to calm the proprietor.
"I'll have a willing southern woman. If you don't have one of those for me, then you can get me a rum." Smiling broadly Victouer relaxed, the northerner's rejoinder was unexpected.
"If there was a willing woman in this town, none of us would be here." Ambushed by the humor, a chuckle burbled out of Pernandi, and just like an earthquake ramping up its shakes, that chuckle built itself into an outright laugh. Pleased with himself, the tavern's owner reached down behind the bar and came up with a bottle with brown liquid inside, he plopped that bottle on the counter then turned it so the label faced Pernandi.
Surprised and delighted once again Pernandi offered wide eyes to Victouer.
"Kalinama Rum! You have Kalinama Spiced Rum? How did you ever get the city council to allow this into Lakehill?" Beaming as if he were responsible for distilling the rum himself, the tavern keeper offered his tale.
"Three of our council men and women traveled south to Trutore for some diplomatic crap. They each sampled it while down there. Guess what? They pushed to amend the law when they got back. Takes half a year to get a crate here, but it's catching on," he said as he poured a three fingered shot for Pernandi. Victouer did not insist on being paid before letting the southerner enjoy a taste reminiscent of his home, he knew Pernandi would be lavishing him with coin for both drink, questionable goods, and information soon.
The beverage burned his throat on the way down, alcohol fumes flooding his nasal passages, but the explosion of warmth in his stomach seemed to mitigate the returning sensation in Pernandi's hands and feet. The sweet after the burn made him close his eyes in sure delight. That flavor, oh that flavor! When his eyes fluttered open, he found the owner now had a serious expression. Victouer leaned in to whisper trying and failing to be surreptitious.
"I have to wait for Ulga to get back before we can head upstairs. I hope you don't mind." Pulling out three pentamarks, he laid the big silver coins directly in the northerner's hands; six times the price of the crate of rum. Sweeping up the bottle, he replied.
"I need a few minutes of privacy to get my thoughts together. Can that be arranged?"
Instead of an answer, Victouer set a second shot glass on the counter next to Pernandi's, he then tilted his head to indicate the stairs up. he had to balance the two shot glasses and the rum when he reached the door to the office, but he managed to get the door open with fingers that were only partially recovered. Two chairs sat upon opposite sides of the desk, they had concave shell like backs built upon round stool seats. Stuffed red fleece cushioned the seat and the interior of the back, allowing those seated to recline if they chose. Two one foot by one foot pictures were on the wall. Victouer, his late wife, and the young versions of his two children sat on the east wall. The man's mother, father, and older sister posed with five year old Victouer in front of a flower bedecked gazebo in the other; the paintings were almost as good as the two pictures the Faelora soldiers had given him.
More nails than necessary seemed to be holding the legs on the desk, and this was just the side facing the door. Wooden posts had replaced the desk's legs on the far side of the abused furnishing. This was the one item in the Meadowlark Tavern that had not been lavished with care, yet it was good enough to hold the rum and glasses. A door in the north east portion of the office was a portal leading to two other rooms, the owner's living space. All three partitions shared the same reduced head space caused by the ceiling's steep slope. Pernandi ignored the furnishings, running passed a bank of three filing cabinets along the west wall, none of which matched in color or dimensions. The hall leading to the back rooms was clear of people as was the far side of the desk when he checked there, Victouer's side of the furnishing.
After making sure he had complete privacy, Pernandi produced his shaped diamond relic. Using his will, he pulled forth three different colored ribbons of power from the relic. He wove those slender bands about each other, the result looked like the hard candies made in Landee. These he whorled together until he had a bowl of energy tipped and directed to the west. Excess ribbon was then run through the center of the bowl and back into the many pointed diamond star. Far away, almost halfway across the continent, Penandi's relic touched the relic of an old friend.
"Pernandi? Is that you? Your report is a bit early, ain't it?" Blexi the Gachtler queried. Knowing he did not have much time, Pernandi did not waste it on pleasantries.
"Is Istilirial with you? I was just approached by Faelora military agents who gave me a puzzle."
"All right. He's here, I'll tie him in." Blexi's mental image came into being in Pernandi's mind's eye, wavering like a mirage at first, but firming up as their long range connection solidified.
Istilirial also started off as a voice before his image did its heat shimmer appearance; all that was revealed were the faces and torsos of the speakers, none of the environment or background could bee seen. The Gachtler's amber eyes always looked hooded, as though indifference was Blexi's constant mode of operation. He had ivory white fur with brownish orange tiger stripes radiating around his body from his spine. His overly large battle ax, as always, was on his back. Pernandi could see the crenelated style war hammer counter balancing the broad angled ax head. Istilirial, the co-leader of Trillam Trumage's movement was a Faelora. His tourmaline orange eyes had a sad cast to them; not that he had anything to mourn, he just had that seeming. His skin tone was smooth and reddish, like freshly peeled madrone, and unlike the two Faelora Pernandi had dealt with earlier, Istilirial was honest with the emotions he expressed.
"You say you got a puzzle, Pernandi?" Blexi lead off, informing his Faelora counterpart of the spy's words.
Pernandi began to pull out the pictures he had hidden in his coat.
"I was just paid a fortune to search for a lordly Faelora youth and a Human woman in her mid to late thirties. I was given twenty cut and polished rubies that are around two hundred gold pentamarks each. The soldiers who paid me had a flying fork tail swallow marked on their claymore's pommels. I don't know what this is about, but I thought it would be important enough to pass on to you two at once." Annoyance passed over Blexi's features, his ears twitching back as his fangs made a brief appearance. That expression vanished when Istilirial pierced some of the mystery.
The Faelora leader folded his hands and rested his chin upon them, his slow exhalation was his version of a troubled sigh.
"The swallow is the symbol of the old Faelora Empire. Only Estanabril still flies that banner, which means those agents were sent by King Lorinlil. Close to two thousand years ago, before the empire's fall, Prince Lorinlil watched Humans slaughter his mother before his very young eyes. That deed, like no other, has skewed the point of view of all Faelora against Humans; the outrage was universal to my people. My guess, the quarry they are after have committed the crime of loving each other. Faelora pride would rebel most violently from a co-mingling of blood." Blexi and Istilirial's eyes met, both men calculating trying to see how this would help their Trumage followers.
Mouth twisted unconsciously in thought, Blexi floated an idea out, his voice sounding like he even knew the idea had not been fully thought out.
"If we had these two under our banner, their relationship could be used to reinforce Trillams teachings." The Gachtler even looked to Pernandi to see how receptive he was, but Pernandi was not in a leadership position within the movement. He was just a spy and information peddler. Istilirial pursed his thin lips, then slowly started nodding.
"'Only through the unity of the races will we ensure our survival in the age to come.' Yes, having these lovers could be a huge symbol for our movement. Not as big as having the bride take over running this show, when she's found, but impactful."
All smiles now, Blexi took up where his Faelora friend had left off.
"Do you have a description of our lovebirds?" he asked Pernandi. Nodding, he opened the folded papers and spread them out on Victouer's rickety desk.
"Better than that, I have pictures," he said studying the drawings. Pretty soon the images he saw appeared to the unlikely pair at the other end of the magical connection. Blexi had an eidetic memory, which is one of the reasons Trillam Trumage, when he had lived, had raised the Gachtler to be one of his captains, yet both men studied the renderings to commit them to memory.
"Okay, we will inform our other networks. Pernandi, convert as many of those gems as you need into coin. If you can, send some of that money our way. We can always use it...." Both leaders saw Pernandi's expression shift and freeze, his head tilted to listen. He had heard the bar's stairs creaking which meant the spy would have company soon. Delivering an apologetic smile to his true bosses, the southerner broke the relic's magical connection and hastily began to refold the pictures. He was withdrawing his hand from his inner coat pockets, where he had stashed his magic diamond and the papers, when the office door swung open. The tavern keeper's eyes snapped to the rum immediately and Victouer rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
"I thought I heard you talking to yourself up here," Victouer observed while maneuvering into his seat across the desk. An easy smile came to Pernandi's lips.
"Just complaining about how long you were taking. Been a long time since I've tasted good spiced rum." His prevarication was not challenged, Victouer had naked avarice on his face as Pernandi poured their shots. The northerner was looking forward to both the drink and the coins he would be earning soon; ill gotten goods would be exchanged as well.
Relentless, dangerous winter still had a tight grip on the early spring weather. Rain that must have dripped directly off an ice sheet bombarded Gilserand as he ran up the steps to the wooden curtain wall. His pebbled flesh was telling him that heavy hail was breaking his skin, bruising his flesh, but that was just the sting of cold fooling numbed nerves. Though the snows had stopped, the warmth of the season felt far far away. Burning Spirits take him, Lords of Light and Life turn thy eyes away from this son of a bitch! There were no wrinkles on my damn uniform! he fumed in his thoughts. Stripped down to an undershirt, and a pair of black and dark green shorts that were meant for warmer seasons, Gil was doing twenty laps. First he had to run up the steep steps of the first wooden tower north of the barbican, through the first and second towers, then down the steps of the third platform until he turned south on the street.
All through boot camp, Gil had been ostracized from his unit through constant punishments and scoldings no other soldier seemed to face. This treatment followed him into basic weapons training through the winter. Even though he had passed his tests, both physical and from his training manuals, Lieutenant Guerlach had held him back from advancement. Only his promise to Captain Kinnert kept Gil from quitting, though days like this tempted him mightily. The trumped up charges and punishments just kept coming. I should be in my assessment period, where the officer's figure out which branch of the guard I belong to. The planks of the parapet walk seemed to vibrate with the stomp of his waterlogged boots.
One thing the captain had said had come true, Gilserand was in excellent physical shape. He had gained almost twelve pounds over the winter, all of it sculpted muscle. If he had even a quarter of this definition when he had been a kid, he would never have had to deal with a single bully. Still, Gil's body had limits. Going down the stairs next to the third tower, he slowed way down. He had missed a step last winter, and the steepness of those stairs had not been forgiving. The only peace he had been given in the guards had been his two week stint in the infirmary with bone bruising on his arms, legs and ribs; never mind his concussion.
Running south along the road paralleling the wall, the same street he had grown up on, he came up on the rearmost wagon of a pair heading for the barbican gate. The stench informed Gil of who he was sharing the road with. Gilserand had to cover his mouth and nose as he ran, increasing the pressure on his lungs to get oxygen to his body. Human and animal waste combined with rotten produce and other less identifiable smells to make a miasma he gagged on. Local farmers paid dearly for the compost from the city's midden heap. The cold weather may be dampening the stench, but Gil's stomach tried to heave as he passed by both trundling vehicles. After he cleared the wagons, he gulped air as if he had already ran all twenty climbing laps.
Dammit, I'm going to have to pass these guys again the next time I go around! he thought as he drew nearer his starting point. Two soldiers were talking in front of the steps Gil would have to run up. These men wore armor and had halberds in hand, obviously having a bull session after coming off shift.
"Make way!" he called out, alerting the two to his presence. Though they did clear his path, they also taunted him as he ran by.
"Runner, runner, runner!" they repeated over and over, until Gilserand reached the wall's wooden parapet. Every guard knew when a fellow soldier was being punished, and were happy to heap on some ridicule to make a lesson stick. Their calls reached the watcher atop the wood tower's top platform; that guard's chant took up just as the voices below stopped, the woman leaning her dome helmeted head through plank crenelations to continue the mockery.
The officers had always claimed that shame was a great educator, that it made good soldiers better. Or it broke them. I will not break! I will not give up! I will be a soldier! he vowed, entering the pass through built into the second tower. Four steps in the tower then he hit the outside parapet feeling grateful that some thoughtful souls had lanterns burning in each tower, at least the towers he had to move through. The taunting voice from the tower platform above called out jovially when Gilserand emerged.
"Runner, runner, runner!" Great, now I'm going to be mocked at all three towers now, he thought, certain that those cries had been heard far and wide. At least on the street he would have peace.
Looking at the tower top ahead Gilserand tried to see the guard stationed there, expecting to see a helmeted head ready to shout 'runner' at him. Instead of a figure leaning through gaps in the wood, he saw them dash from the front of the tower and begin ringing the warning bell at the back of the platform. That guard looked directly at Gilserand, eyes round with emotion.
"Smoke from the farms! Raiders in the fields!"
Braking to a halt, he looked back where the guard's free finger was pointing. Sure enough a black plume of smoke lifted like an ugly banner to smear the horizon. Gilserand could not make out the farmstead itself, the smoke was too far from the wall and too close to the brooding forest. Dozens of blue tinged smoke trails lifted up from all of the farms scattered through the west, but those farmers had learned to throw green wood and oiled branches onto their fires when they spotted dangerous creatures. The black smoke was a faster signal than sending a runner. Just that quick a second distant signal fire began to rise against the afternoon sun.
Adrenaline thrilled Gilserand's blood, the feel of fear tingled his extremities. The tower guard continued to ring his bell, still pointing towards the forest, and begging Gil to do something with his eyes. He stepped over the edge of the parapet, catching the planks making up that walk. Gil dangled for a moment then dropped the dozen or so feet down to the outward swell of the stone foundation for the wall, which he raced down until he hit the street.
"Raiders in the west, smoke from the farms!" he began to call, pelting south towards the barbican and barracks. Bells from the other towers began to sound, sending the warning faster than Gilserand ever could; but those bells could not speak, could not declare what the danger was or where.
The farmers on their crap wagons were almost to the barbican, the lead wagon beginning to take a wide turn to enter the tunnel. The same tunnel the soldiers would have to sortie out of. "Stop!" Racing by the rear wagon, Gilserand ignored the sullied air in order to cut the lead wagon off. "Stop!" he called again darting in front of the horses, making them shy back from his sudden advent. Wide brim hat dripping rain, the white haired farmer gaped at Gil. "Raiders in the west! You can't use the barbican! Get your wagons out of the way or you'll get your neighbors killed!" he shouted pointing towards the keep deep inside Alren.
Guards were already piling out of the barracks, either onto the deck, the soaked street, or along the covered balconies; most of them were not preparing for trouble, just gawking. Lieutenant Guerlach had already been running in Gilserand's direction, an extended looking glass in his hand, he must have been monitoring Gil's run. "Smoke from the farms, Sir! We can't have these wagons blocking our way out!" Though the junior officer did not like Gil, he did not hesitate in supporting Gilserand's decision in the face of this alarm.
"You heard the man, get these wagons back into the city, away from these walls!" Pointing out the route he would like the farmers to take, the lieutenant began to direct traffic, but before Gilserand could take off Guerlach stopped him.
Shoving his telescope and a set of keys into Gil's hands, Lieutenant Guerlach gave him a look that seemed to be begging him for something. "Get your unit together, make sure everyone is armored and ready to go. You are responsible for issuing them their arms. Now go!"
"Yes Sir!" Adrenaline made his feet just need the barest contact with the street's stones to propel him rapidly towards all the inactive guards, only a few were treating the alarms like a drill. "Raiders in the fields, this is not a drill! We have smoke from the farms! Again, this is not a drill!" Lieutenant Tigraff who could have been Sergeant Dilburd's blond twin, leader of the West Barbican Seventeenth Platoon, had started out to question Gil, but he heard the shouts. That officer spun in place and began squaring up his unit of soldiers. Gil found himself at the tail end of young troopers trying to pile back into the southern most barracks building, a scene in common with the northern structure.
Already in his tan quilted gambeson, Private Laffe looked lost standing on the porch all by himself; his hands held his chain shirt and black and green tabard. Though Laffe often looked like the act of thinking was a chore, he was still in Gilserand's squad. "Help me get the squad together, we have raiders to the west!" Gil begged. Laffe's first expression was skeptical, then he realized from everyone else shouting and running too and fro that Gil was not pulling his leg.
"Dammit, Ritter and a few other boys are on their way to the... ah, the market." Gilserand heard Laffe's voice shift from steady to evasive and hesitant, which meant that the men in question were actually seeking the services of prostitutes.
Grimacing from not knowing what to do, Gilserand was on the verge of cursing. Just like that his mind cleared of his momentary indecision.
"Can you head them off? Do you know where they are going? We have to get rounded up as fast as possible or Guerlach is going to skin us." His soft blue eyes widened as the possibility dawned on his slow mind, private Laffe began to nod with innocent enthusiasm.
"I can do it, they didn't leave that long ago." Still carting his armor and tabard, the big soldier lumbered for the northern corner of the building. Gilserand entered the barracks, dodging around all the other soldiers now running in every direction. He continued to shout the message as he breasted the Human tide. Eighth Squad, Gil's unit, had their quarters/gathering area on the second story, south side.
By the time he had reached the Eighth's door, dozens of other guards were relaying his words through the whole building, squad to squad. He found someone almost in the door trying to shrug their chain shirt over their padded gambeson by themselves. Beyond them four other men were in various stages of dress, all chatting and laughing like boys when the school bell had not been rung yet.
"I got you," Gil said, grabbing the hem of the mail. The man stopped hopping about and allowed Gilserand to tug the rattling links down his torso until arms and a head were revealed. Private Hougeman looked surprised when he found out who had helped him, his round brown eyes and button nose making him look especially boyish at the moment.
Gil did not wait for Hougeman's comment or thanks. "This is not a drill! Get yourselves dressed and armored! Gather your field kits because we're probably going outside the wall!" Gilserand's shout had the right effect on the five other soldiers. They stopped chattering and tossing clothing about and began to dress in earnest, their speed impressive. Setting the spy glass on the desk to the right of the door, he then dashed to the left where his trunk was stationed. Soldiers who lived in the barracks had their trunks at the foot of their bunks, men who had homes, like Gilserand, had their equipment stored in trunks against the squad room's back wall on the east side. He stripped as he ran, tossing his wet garments into a hamper before wrenching the big trunk open.
By the time he was lacing his still soaked boots back up, Gil was approached by Hougeman and Machen; another private with soft boyish features but darker hair than Hougeman. Machen grabbed Gilseran's gambeson and held the garment open, wordlessly offering to assist Gil.
"Some of the boys are off to the flesh market...," Hougeman began, but checked himself when Gilserand shook his head. Both men held the quilted cloth open so that Gil could climb into the padding.
"I sent Laffe after them," he said as the two men jerked the gambeson down his frame. All five men were surrounding him when his head popped through the encumbering clothing.
"Where's the lieutenant?" someone complained.
"What's happening out there?" Hougeman asked.
"You better not mess this up, Gil." Private Tulauten snarled, making Gilserand feel defensive. "You always mess up."
Sneering before offering his rejoinder, Gil was cut off before his scathing remark ever issued.
"When was the last time that Gilserand ever mucked anything up?" Machen countered, looking at his fellow guards. "The lieutenant picks on him. Guerlach makes things up 'cause he hates Gil. We've all seen it." Alright! I'm not the only one who has noticed this! Seeing a majority of those present exchanging nods stole the heat away from Gil's defensiveness. Helping hands were also holding Gilserand's armor for him to climb into.
"It doesn't matter that Guerlach hates me. Do you guys have your field kits? He's going to be here any minute." Many hands helped pull the chain mail shirt over Gil's body, for once the heavy armor felt comforting and not burdensome. Inside the rattling chain voices were hard to make out, yet he heard one statement through the rest of the confused clamor.
"We need our weapons. We're all in for it if we're still standing around waiting at the weapon's locker."
Two figures were making their way to the squad rooms back area, but the rest turned with him when four other people clattered in. Laffe had returned with the missing men, he was still holding his armor and tabard. Gilserand quickly added his tabard to his own attire, possibly the easiest item of clothing to don. Feeling hopeful for the first time after climbing the barrack's stairs, Gil held up the keys the lieutenant had handed him.
"Help those guys armor up, I'll get the locker open after I pack my gear." He set off for the back room as he stuffed his head into his domed open faced helmet. Tulauten followed him to the back while the others jumped to assist the late comers. Hougeman was busy stuffing ration boxes into one of the back packs, while Machen was adding first aid packages to another; three backpacks sat at their feet ready for someone to snag them up and add the third component of their kit. A coordinated but incomplete chain gang.
Tulauten tossed a bag back at Gil even as he hooked his meaty hands through the straps of a second. On the north wall, opposite the locker's holding rations and medical kits, was where the equipment maintenance satchels were stored. Sharpening stones, cleaning rags, oil for armor and weapons, and half a dozen other sundries were in each canvas bag. Gil grabbed the entire stack and handed them back to Tulauten, he snagged the top most satchel for himself. "Help them, it will speed us up if you do," he cajoled. The tall sandy haired soldier sneered at him over the burden in his arms.
"Ain't we the wanna be general, barking orders!" While the squad had been given no opportunity to bond with him, Gil had deliberately been placed on the outside, he still knew how to deal with an attempt at bullying.
Taking the gamble, he smirked at his fellow private soldier, then winked. That was enough for Tulauten, his challenge met with toughness and humor, the man cheerfully turned about and began to finish loading the Eighth Squad's packs. At the back of the room was the weapon lockers, a bank of shallow closets holding the broad bladed spears his unit was to be armed with. A slender locked chain was strung through the locker's handles effectively holding them closed. Lieutenant Guerlach's keys popped that lock open, and with a few tugs, Gil removed the chain. Just in time, a line of six men moved into the back room, taking packs in hand and shuffling into a line before him. Tulauten, Machen, and Hougeman lifted their packs and lined up behind the others.
Each spear had a six foot shaft that was topped by a three foot long tapered spear head. Those razor sharp blades allowed their wielders to duel an enemy with the benefit of reach. Unlike the long spears used to drive off cavalry units, these weapons were meant specifically to reap infantry. No one in this unit would cower behind a shield and poke at an enemy. Gilserand rapidly handed each man their spear after they stepped up. The last man in line turned out to be Lieutenant Guerlach, who must have recently arrived. Accepting his weapon and keys, the officer spoke in a loud authoritarian voice.
"Good job Corporal Gilserand! Your actions at the barbican were decisive and will result in lives saved! Now everyone assemble in the square, they are NOT going to use us to man the walls even though we were off shift when the alarm sounded. Go!"
Blinking in confusion, Gil almost started off without grabbing his own spear. I just got promoted? I just got promoted! The reality of the moment just did not want to sink in, but as Guerlach peeled off to rally the other squads he commanded Gilserand realized he would have to get the eighth Squad lined up. Orderly lines of armored guards pounded down the stairs now, Gil's squad quickly joining the stampeding queue. Outside, many units were already formed and marching towards the barbican. Eleventh Squad was just forming up, Seargeant Garr stalking back and forth like an impatient beast. The burly gnarl faced soldier did not comment when Gil joined him on the southern side, standing before their respective squads. As the rest of the Eighth Platoon formed up Corporal Tangier and Sergeant Goenz, of the Ninth and Tenth squads, joined them in facing the enlisted men. Gilserand could find no fault with how his fellows were lined up and at attention.
Sweeping to the fore, Lieutenant Guerlach barked.
"Form up in lines, four abreast! Eighth Squad to the fore!" Gil walked backward, using his spear tip to indicate where he wanted his squad to align themselves. No one messed up, no one got confused or tangled up, even Private Laffe. After the other three squads formed behind Gil's men, Guerlach gave another shouted command. "Equipment check!" Those in back began to rifle through the packs of the guard in front of them, making sure there was food, blankets, first aid kits, and maintenance gear inside each. Seargent Garr Checked Gil's pack, before everyone about faced, then Gil checked the sergeant's gear. The rain began to let up completely at this point, it had started to taper off before Gil had entered the barracks.
Not one voice was raised to declare someone was missing any item of gear. Lifting his spear arm as he drifted to the new front of his command, Lieutenant Guerlach was about to issue their marching orders. However, hooves clattering on the squared off stone road interrupted him. A dozen cavalry soldiers trotted from around the southern most barrack building, heading directly for the barbican. As usual the horsemen did not consult the infantry, they just assumed the next position in the line; crowding the rearmost squad of foot bound
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| Chapter 3 Declarations |
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Posted by: frenzied67 - 12-06-2024, 05:07 PM - Forum: Off-Topic
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Ch3
Declarations
725 Years Ago
First one horn, then another, followed by a third began to sound within the Gachtler camp, followed by a tumult of confused voices; further in the bivouac those voices became more strident as metal clashed. On the outer edges of the stone lover’s army, more and more Gachtler soldiers and camp followers stood up to peer in the direction of the city they were besieging, Ilegulan, where the sounds of combat seemed to grow. With a gesture of his hand, Prince Lorinlil ordered the cavalry forward. A thousand war elk and their riders began to walk from the trees of Ahurinidan Forest, directly behind the Gachtler forces and the camp they were constructing. Luck held, not one of the furry Gachtler heard a thing, none of them turned to witness that cavalry force lower their lances as they cleared the last trees. No one heard them break into a canter as the line spread out on a broad front.
As they neared fifty yards from the short but stout enemy, Prince Lorinlil lowered his own lance; the signal to break into a full charge. The Gachtler now began to notice the swelling thunder of many hooves behind them, heads began to turn and cries of alarm rose to the heavens. Prince Lorinlil smiled in his peaked helmet as the barely five foot tall Gachtler soldier turned to face him. His prey never had a chance to react before his lance tore through the mail clad chest, ripping through and throwing the body back like discarded garbage.
Since the long spear remained whole, the prince aimed it at the next Gachtler back he raced for, beneath him his great elk mount aimed its tines at the stout figure nearest the lance’s target. Each impact of lance or antler was cacophonous, even under the swell of Gachtler and Faelora voices raised in strife, both within and now without the camp. Hundreds of the burly war elk drove into the bivouac, trampling bodies and tents alike, more efficient than a scythe on harvest day. The third victim he reaped flexed the lance a bit too much, and the stout stave exploded in a spray of wooden splinters. Secured to the great shield on Lorinlil’s left side was his artifact sword, Escu’eliter, he took that weapon in hand and raised it high; power thrummed into his palms from the contact with that ebony wood hilt.
With a toss of his head, Boshier, the prince’s war elk, hurled a burly body into the air and into a formation of soldiers setting themselves to receive the cavalry charge. Seeing the enemy finally organizing against this rear attack, Prince Lorinlil made a circle with the tip of the sword. The cavalry veered left, swift even in heavy armor. Instead of plunging into the camp, they were now paralleling the soldiers and tents, scything down those too slow to reach the forming shield walls. Shields were slung into overlapping positions that created scores of lozenge shaped domes of steel. These Gachtler shield formations were notoriously fast, they could move en masse and do devastating damage with their axes and spears. The prince made another gesture and the elk cavalry shifted course, pelting away from the Gachtler until they came to the edge of the camp where ditches were still laid out waiting to be dug.
Still no sign of our archers and infantry, Prince Lorinlil thought, wondering how much time they had spent in their initial charge. I have to continue applying pressure to these stupid stone lovers, otherwise they can rally and use their superior numbers to drive us off. We have to break them now or they will work all night to put up their exterior stake wall. He loved winning, but at this stage he hated the uncertainty of this balance point with fate more than anything.
“Wheel, in double lines!” he shouted, letting a pulse from Escu’eliter magnify his voice. Where are their relic wielders? Always, one had to worry about the magic that could be brought to bear against them. There was no clear intelligence reporting who and what the Gachtler had brought to this siege when it came to relics. Do they have artifact level weaponry in this camp? When are their wielders going to respond?
The hope had been that the relic wielders would be confounded by the sortie followed by the rear attack. In a perfect scenario, the confusion would hold the Gachtler’s magic in an indecisive state for long enough to break this siege. At his order the cavalry continued to ride passed their prince so that he would be poised at the tip of their charge as they looped about to form two lines behind him. After so many riders rode passed Lorinlil, he began his own charge. The twin lines of war elk cavalry behind him streamed back on the flank of those still galloping to the rear, like a snake coming back upon itself to return from where it had come. He leveled his sword at the nearest Gachtler dome of shields, aiming more than pointing. At forty paces he unleashed the artifact level power of Escu’eliter with a spell he had devised long ago.
Though Escu’eliter was not as powerful of an artifact as Sansilar, it was still an elevated artifact with its own name. A power that could change the course of battles, or the state of a great city. An invisible power seemed to punch the formation of Gachtler’s, carrying a screaming knot of them all the way through the dome and partially into the next ax wall. Radical velocity from that strike made the rest of the formation burst outward, shattering all cohesion in that unit. Steel shod cleft hooves trampled the fallen, great spreads of antlers and swinging swords reaped those that maintained their footing. That formation of delver's was almost annihilated to a man.
After firing his lance like spell, Prince Lorinlil had peeled away from the front of the charge, placing himself nearer the forest awaiting possible retaliation from the stone lover’s warlocks. From his position he saw the three nearest shield domes twitch. “Away!” he called, sensing what was about to happen. Though the cavalry had been killing the foe with much gusto, they broke off instantly; riding back in the direction of the forest. He had to turn Boshier’s head so as not to become a victim of his own soldiers. Movement in the trees drew Prince Lorinlil’s attention as he directed his forces back around in a leisurely loop. Those three Gachtler formations had dashed forward to cover the few survivors of the rent shield wall.
They had broken into a sprint without breaking the integrity of their dome of shields. A feat that neither Human nor Faelora could ever pull off. How do these animal men pull off this Burning Spirit devised stunt? All the other races could move their shield walls only at a slow walk, a trot was too much for unit cohesion; except for the Gachtler. His orders had kept the Faelora cavalry from coming under the axes of those three hurtling turtles of armor. Decades of training together paying off. The Gachtler angled their line and halted when they realized the elk riders were coming back around. Prince Lorinlil was now in the middle ranks of the charge. Behind the cavalry a score of voices sounded seemingly in unison, the Faelora archers had arrived.
“CARRARASIN! ESHIEL! LASUER! (SET! DRAW! LOOSE!) Those voices probably could not have been heard by the Gachtler, under the thunder of hooves the prince found the calls dim. Well away from all five shield walls directed their way, the prince caused the cavalry to shift so that they ran before the host of their enemy.
Escu’eliter flashed an electric red in color, and the ground north west of the war elk’s jumped as if from the worlds briefest but sharpest earthquake. Tossed by the sword’s power, none of those groups of Gachtler could keep their shield formations; not many of them even kept their feet and they were easy prey for the falling arrows.
“TOSH BEIS SHALENTIEL NIIT APONWE! (YOUR DEATH FEEDS THE GARDENS!)” That war cry came from over a thousand Faelora voices as the infantry entered the field; marching in square formation directly at the camp of the stone lovers. Beyond the outer rank of Gachtler, another cheer issued from Faelora throats, faint but distinctive through all the other tumult on this field of battle. A trebuchet before the city burst into flames, then two more flared into tall pyres within heartbeats.
Evidently the sortie from the besieged city of Ilegulan was having it’s own success. Slowing briefly so that they could wheel to face the stricken Gachtler, the cavalry began another direct charge into the camp. Before they struck the westernmost edge of the tents, a lemon yellow ball of writhing energy shot out from a clump of stone lovers directly at the prince. The magic had flown from a new turtle of Gachtler moving to join the units being harassed along the camps outer edge. A comet of pale green intercepted the Gachtler’s magic, negating the power in a shower of sparks that Faelora riders plowed through. Lord Isinthiel, a Faelora who had ridden with the prince’s father centuries ago, had used his relic to defend Lorinlil. Savagely, Prince Lorinlil shaped the power from Escu’eliter into another invisible lance. Over a score Gachtler soldiers were punched into the mud, forming a large divot of shattered steel, blood and mud; right where the enemy magic had come from.
Hundreds of Gachtler soldiers and support staff were trampled and gored to death before they reformed the first of three shield domes. At that point the elk cavalry broke away, riding to either flank to make room for the infantry. Sheets of arrows advanced before the swordsmen, reaping those Gachtler too slow to form up into the shield domes. The turtle formations shed the missiles, but frayed when the claymore swords began to hack away at them. One stone lover formation tried to open up to counter attack the Faelora infantry, and though their axes wreaked havoc for a moment, another fall of arrows made short armored bodies fall en masse.
Without being able to bring their relics to bear, caught between the city’s defenders and Prince Lorinlil’s forces, the Gachtler general had the animal men’s brass horns sound retreat. General Gurack Tohn knew that his only chance to survive was to keep his army from obliteration. Scores of shield domes began to move to the north west, marching in unison and at speed; they even trampled their own tents and earthworks as they traveled. At first, Prince Lorinlil was able to prey upon some of the rear most formations, breaking them up for either the infantry or the cavalry to consume.
However, the enemy general redeployed their relic wielders, and the Faelora magical assaults began to be blunted. Not stopped, just shunted aside so minimum damage was delivered. The job of keeping pressure on General Tohn’s forces was made easier when the prince’s army merged with Ilegulan’s soldiery. Together they prevented the crafty Gachtler from being able to rally and counter attack. The ancient enemy was forced to march to the old Faelora road that had once connected the western portions of their empire to the east. All roads from the west now delivered Gachtler armies into the heart of the empire; all the old Faelora cities in the west had been abandoned after centuries of near constant strife.
“Prince imperious! Prince imperious!” That call coming from the abandoned camp at the rear of the combined Faelora forces, caught Prince Lorinlil by surprise; it had to have been amplified by magic.
Reining Boshier out of the cavalry line, the prince stopped with an escort of ten riders surrounding him. Slipping through the mud and gore of the broken Gachtler camp, a single slight Faelora man in a black and silver silk toga half ran half stumbled towards the after battle slaughter. After his proud animal tossed its antlers, as though having a tantrum from being withdrawn from the battle, the prince urged his sure footed animal to the figure. “Prince Imperious!” the man called again as though to confirm who he was seeking.
“Yes?” he responded, not recognizing the youngish fellow panting from exertion. The Faelora man stopped almost two lance lengths away from the soldiers, his eyes held many conflicting emotions; most of those feelings seemed negative.
Hesitating, the well dressed stranger, swallowed hard before speaking.
“My prince..., I am Athelian Comadient..., I work for Lady... Tylinliel,” he paused to gasp from his trot across the field, and a reluctance to get to the point of his purpose.
“I know the lady,” the prince affirmed, his mind whirling from wondering what was going on. “Is all well in the camp? Is your lady safe?” Lady Tylinliel had come with his army supporting the troops she herself had fielded to become part of this expedition. Athelian waved Prince Lorinlil’s concerns away, proving there was no danger to the prince’s supplies and support personnel. Still gasping, Athelian grimaced before continuing.
“My lady… was contacted through… her relic. Huranuer has been… sacked.”
Grimacing, the dandy stepped back as if fearing retribution for the ill news he had delivered. Unable to quell his surprise, the prince blinked.
“We just turned back the Gachtler armies of the midlands, how were those animals able to take to the field again so quickly?” he demanded. Usually word came from the empires threatened cities weeks before any sieges were laid. For the better part of three centuries, Prince Lorinlil had been blunting the Gachtler’s drive to increase their own territories at the expense of the Faelora empire. Athelian’s features fell a bit more, a quaver entered his voice.
“It… wasn’t the Gachtler. Huranuer fell to… Humans. They scaled the… walls at night…, took the city by… surprise.”
Such unprecedented news was shocking to the ears, even his ten body guards turned to the prince with questions coming from the eye slits of their helmets. Instinctively, Prince Lorinlil had froze, just to keep an out burst out of his mouth, and prevent his eyes and eyebrows from betraying any of his emotions from showing. It was a close call, but Athelian stepped back in his black and silver silks, his own eyes glued to the prince as if he were reading an impending death sentence about to be called forth.
“Humans?” That question had to be forced through a constricted throat. Everyone knew that Humans had killed the prince’s mother, in front of him, half a millennia ago.
Swallowing hard, Athelian nodded before adding more to his bad news.
“Yes, your Highness, we believe… it was the same Humans who escaped, uh, Shureck Hall… the, uh, Gachtler city we have heard was, uh, razed a couple of months ago. These Humans wore Gachtler armor and weapons, uh, so the reports from Huranuer claimed.” All eyes were still on the prince, but Lorinlil had no answers. His head whirled and there was a ringing noise in his ears, as if he had fallen off a charging elk and landed on his helmeted head. We are barely winning this defensive war against the Gachtler. By the Lords of Light and Life, how are we going to fare against two enemies harassing us...?
The Present
Onanonwe clearing his throat pulled King Lorinlil out his centuries old memory. Before him, the delegates from Anatheri began their slow walk to the throne, the last calls of the Welcoming song faded into echoes flying about the far above branches of stone and the sun like light beyond them. The emissary and diplomat were still minutes away, still hard to make out. I suppose this will be better than falling back into my past. Those memories of how the War of Hill and Tree came to a close and the War of Ten Thousand Skirmishes began are not happy memories.
After the Gachtler and Human slave uprising, the Gachtler had turned on their allies enslaving them. Sweeping to their old homelands to the west, the Gachtler had reestablished their delved cities, using their human slaves to repair the cities defenses and blunt the Faelora attacks. That had been the start of the War of Hill and Tree. For nine hundred eighty seven years, the animal like Gachtler had slowly reduced the western most Faelora cities. They had enslaved or driven the populations of those cities east. Generations of Human uprisings saw those escapees congregating in the sparsely populated south, where the Humans ultimately began to drive out both races. The War of Ten Thousand Skirmishes had been ushered in, where guerrilla warfare and raids had replaced siege craft and giant armies taking to the field.
Those Cloddish Humans did not have cities to strike out at. They flowed like water around our armies striking when and where they chose. By the Burning Spirits, they did not ever face our armies, they just appeared here or there terrorizing both the Gachtler and ourselves. Small raiding bands did more damage, ultimately, than massed armies could have in double the time. A nibble here, a bite there, and never a chance to retaliate. Spreading our military out to cover more area did not help, the Humans struck too quick for us to consolidate our forces. We even increased the size of our cavalry. That didn’t even work, King Lorinlil lamented. He was still trying to devise a plan, or effective tactic to counter that form of warfare; nearly half a millennia after the fact.
When the Anetheri diplomat and envoy reached the rearmost rows of the court, King Lorinlil could begin to make out details of both men. In prior dealings with Lord Cunniel, the diplomat, that insolent prig had taunted King Lorinlil by wearing silk togas with the new colors Anetheri had chosen after rebelling against the empire, blue, black, and royal purple. Today, both Cunniel and Lord Bersisen, the envoy, were sporting silver, black, and white attire; the traditional colors Anetheri had once flown. What game are they trying to embroil me in? Do they think I’m so nostalgic for the old days that I will agree to send my armies because of their clothing choice? If this is a taunt, my sons advice or not, there will be war!
Lord Bersisen had wide cheek bones, making it so his face seemed almost as wide as it was tall. His eyes were a dark pink, looking like shaped red spinel gems, while he had the brown/red skin tone of a scotch pine. Lord Cunniel had a cleft chin that accentuated his long face, and his eyes were like yellow sapphire. The diplomat wore skin the color of clumped yew wood. Both men stepped in unison, small red pillows held forth in their hands. Together they shared the burden of a single long object under a silk covering having a purple field, gold long tailed swallows, and black ravens flying together. Those were the colors of Estanabril; the old colors of the emperium. The kings suspicions grew on seeing that cloth.
They looked neither right or left, keeping their eyes glued to King Lorinlil’s knees. Again this was a departure from normal. Lord Cunniel had never shied away from looking Estanabril’s ruler in the eye like an equal. Today they were truly acting like supplicants, men prepared to beg rather than demand or entice. Instead of bowing when they reached the ten pace distance marked on the carpet, both men knelt still holding the covered object before them. Gasps filtered up to echo in the sequoia’s limbs when the emissaries further prostrated themselves before King Lorinlil, their heads face down between their arms, still proffering their unknown object while on their bellies.
With the onlookers mutters beginning to build, Prince Lilantier barked at the two Faelora on their bellies.
“If this is mockery you present, know this. Your heads will accompany our declaration of war to the gates of your city!” This quelled the courtiers in the crowd, but it did not change the posture of the delegation.
“Now brother, you should be calm,” Onanonwe began, seeming to purr his words forth. “These men from Anatheri surely know we would never tolerate our father being made fun of. I hope that your intentions would not bring shame to Anetheri, as it would not fall upon our father the king. Please state the meaning of this display we are seeing.”
As their act called for, Lilantier shot his younger brother a brief glare, as if he were promising reprisals. Both boys were in the habit of apologizing to each other in private after days like this one. Their ruse was necessary, and they both played their parts too perfection. Raising his head slightly, but not raising his eyes, Lord Bersisen implored the king as culprits and criminals had in the days of the empire.
“Our purpose is not meant to bring disrespect. Rather we bear a gift that will show the seriousness of our proposal. All we ask in return is a private audience with his majesty, King Lorinlil Escacie Aponwe. Please accept our gift, and see it as a declaration of our intentions.”
Intrigued despite his suspicions, King Lorinlil sat forward in the throne. Prince Onanonwe hesitated for a second before he moved to pluck the shrouded object off the pillows. Whatever it was, it was a few inches taller than the prince. He had to undo two ties before he could pull the silk covering off the pole like object. It proved to be a spear with mother of pearl inlays up and down the shaft. Those sea shell fragments glowed with magic potential, and the first sight of it caused the whole ensemble of onlookers to gasp and break out in a confused babble. Caracermille, the Anatheri spear! This was the elevated artifact that symbolized the whole city of Anatheri, as Sansilar used to be the symbol of the Faelora Empire. Here, it was being presented to Lorinlil almost like an offering of fealty.
Sitting back in his seat was a declaration that his emotions were disturbed, but Lorinlil’s move did quell the speculation in the background. Anticipation was almost a palpable force coming from the three hundred onlookers.
“What is the meaning of this gift you bring?” he asked the delegation. While King Lorinlil was enjoying seeing the diplomat in beggar posture, he still suspected Lord Cunniel of laying a trap. That man made the whole room reel with what he said.
“We of Anatheri are ready to acknowledge that we are but a plant in your garden, if you take on the obligation of the gardener toward us. Please grant us an audience, your highness.”
Fealty! They are offering fealty!
Prince Lilantier turned the spear shaft slowly seeming to gaze at each shell in Caracermille’s shaft.
“I do not like this, Father, I was assuming this was about Anatheri’s infestation of Trumage followers.” Setting a glass of white wine down at his father’s right elbow, Prince Onanonwe turned back to the bar to pick up two more glasses, one for himself and one for his brother.
“All the information I gleaned said the same thing. How could we have been so wrong,” the younger prince queried. Taking his glass of wine, Lilantier handed the artifact back to Onanonwe, though he did not stop admiring the weapon.
The library was on the fifty first floor of the Seat of Power, one of many casual rooms on this level. Books lined the left side of the room in oak wood shelves, from the door to directly behind the king’s desk. Full scroll racks, also of oak, followed the walls all the way around from the right, the small bar the only interruption in the encased knowledge. Eight plush chairs in black leather were distributed about the room, each with a wheeled tray that could serve as a reading table.
“What do you boys think will be the repercussions of Anatheri tying itself to Estanabril?” King Lorinlil asked. Lilantier split off from his brother, seeking the closest seat to the bar on Lorinlil’s right, he lowered the tray next to him so that he could set his wine glass down.
“Ilegulan will seek help from the Gachtler against us, Peridiol and Unkidi will drop their feud to ally against us, and the Lords of Light know who else will muster forces to drag us into the oblivion of history.” Grimacing from his words, Onanonwe held Caracermille away from himself as though he feared it held contagion.
Now seated, his oldest son swirled the wine in the bell of his glass before inhaling the earthen scents given off.
“I’m sure the other city states will start aligning themselves against us, as Onanonwe says, but we are also dealing with something unprecedented since the second Osserjuka devastation. No other city state among any of the races has ever voluntarily grafted their fate to another city’s. This is not an alliance, not in the true sense, this is offering themselves to be ruled by our father. I am sure this will slow our enemies endeavors for a time.” Moving to his own seat to the left of the desk, Onanonwe paused to toss a nod of agreement over his shoulder.
Leaning back with a furled brow, King Lorinlil thought for a moment before lifting his own wine.
“Without knowing what is motivating Anatheri to make this insane move, I have to admit this feels like a trap; a malicious ploy to destroy us. Every nation knows that my sole purpose in life has been to unify the empire. Could King Athelian hate me so much that he would invite the destruction of his city just to see us toppled? Could this be his game?” The three Faeloran men grew silent contemplating the questions, each one swirling, inhaling, then sipping his wine at odd moments.
“I can not personally see a hatred run that deep, not among we Faelora,” Onanonwe mused.
Leaning forward in his seat, Prince Lilantier’s finger tapped the air as if he were indicating a hard clue.
“None of the races would tolerate that form of insanity in their leader. The fact that King Athelian entrusted this mission to his envoy and his diplomat means that many minds are knowing what is transpiring. Could there be a beguilement by magic that could ensnare that many minds at once.” Everyone who wielded the power of a relic knew that enchantments of the mind were the hardest to maintain, controlling many people at one time could only transpire for a limited time. The victims of such a spell would not feel kindly towards the one who had enslaved their minds after the magic was shed. Even the older prince knew such a spell could not hold over distance either.
No one had to dismiss that idea, even Lilantier had cast that thought aside after voicing it. Several more minutes passed in silence as they applied their minds to the problems they saw on the horizon.
“Even if our destruction is not the motivation of Anatheri, it will likely bring about such a response from the other city states.. I do not wish it to be so, but even I see that outcome in our future. If we decline this opportunity, who else would the Anatheri offer themselves too?” he asked his boys. Lilantier frowned as he reclined deeper into the padding of his chair. Sitting upright with the suddenness of the thought coming to him, Onanonwe’s voice was husky with the conspiracy he uttered.
“Maybe that is the intention. They may be wanting a war, caused by any means. But that too is just another form of insanity.” He looked first at his father, then at his older brother, seemingly hoping his idea would be repudiated.
“They would have to have a weapon or strategy that would see them survive and thrive in the chaos wrought by such an eventuality,” Lilantier mused aloud, working with Onanonwe’s proposition. “I know of no relic powerful enough to shield an entire city.”
King Lorinlil swallowed a sip, savoring the earthen flavor hidden in the alcohol rich apple tones.
“We are pondering the sun when night hangs over us,” he quoted. “Until we find out what the Anatheri want from us we will not be able to guess at their game. No matter what, if we do or do not take them to our bosom they will not get Caracermille back. That is their offering to us, it is not a payment. Onanonwe, the spear is now yours. All the other nations may view their fealty to Estanabril as a cause for war, but they will not react to us gaining another elevated artifact.” Pausing to give his sons a firm look he found Lilantier grinning back at him.
Turning to Onanonwe he saw his youngest dividing his attention between his father and the artifact laying at his feet. After the young Faelora’s stunned moment passed he gave King Lorinlil a sharp nod to show his support. After that he picked up the spear and began to explore it like a man discovering the soft flesh of a lover, eyes and hands roaming gently.
“Congratulations Onanonwe, I am sure you will hold this conquest over me in court.” the older prince called out. Smiling happily, Onanonwe tore his gaze off the magic spear.
“Oh, you know I will.” His boys shared a short laugh together before Lilantier posed another question that needed to be considered.
“We must have answers, but we also have to make the Anatheri delegation wonder a bit. How many days should we make them wait before we grant their audience?”
Sweet pipe smoke, stale beer, and sweat from all the tightly packed bodies vied for the prominent smell in the old tavern. The whole place had been made of left over wood taken from the nearby mining operations, gleaned and hammered together over a century ago. The tables, chairs, and counter were also haphazardly pieced together from lumber deemed not good enough to shore up a mine shaft. Three soot stained lanterns, also taken from the mines, provided the dubious illumination inside Delver’s Pub. This tavern would not have been Gevri’s first choice for unwinding after a full day, but his friend Hauknern had chosen for them. What was a Gachtler to do when a life long friend wanted to celebrate Declaration Day on the seedy side of town?
Bets were still being laid as two burly looking Gachtler men started chugging from quart sized beer steins, racing to be the first to finish. Both he and Hauknern leaned in from their nearby table, each having bet on opposite contestants, small silver and copper coins in two equal piles between them. Excitation made the hair on both men’s backs stand up, as their ears strained towards the two Gachtler men. Insults and taunts were barked out, as supporters tried to break the concentration of one drinker or the other. Not only is the color of these insults interesting, they are more inventive than anything I’ve ever heard from the merchants or the caravaners I hang out with. I thought caravan guards were supposed to have the foulest mouths and dirtiest minds.
Gevri had bet on the man with the tawny fur and reddish brown leopard spots, while Hauknern the police officer, had laid his money on the one with long grizzly bear brown hair. Both steins came down after the last convulsive gulp of brew, thick glass bottoms slammed the gray untreated planks of the table so hard the furnishing jumped. Gevri’s ears stood upright as he pointed at leopard spots, the Gachtler whose stein had hit just a fraction of a second faster. Hauknern stood with his ears laid back, complaining at the bad eyesight everyone else had; he was not the only one who was complaining about losing their bet, the cacophony was riotous and filled with good nurtured revelry.
Ears still laid back and standing before their table, Hauknern watched Gevri scoop his winnings off the table. Those ears drooped losing the aggressive tautness of before.
“Not only am I taking your coins, but I insist that this next round is on you.” His friend watched those coins vanish into Gevri’s rust red pouch, the black hammer and gem crest branded into the leather was already bulging.
“What, I couldn’t hear you?” Though Hauknern’s voice was steady as he took to his chair, his ears twitched uncertainly. Oh, you’re going to play that game, Gevri realized watching his friend. Though he wanted to smile, he kept his face skeptical.
Hauknern was two inches over five feet, a giant of a Gachtler. His short tawny hair, lion like in color, could not hide the well defined muscles the police officer had developed over the decades. Though he was not at work, Hauknern was still wearing his uniform, black and blue bandoleers crossed his thick chest, and black and blue pants were tucked into the tall black military style boots all police wore. Gevri himself was wearing a casual kilt with spiked wave patterns, greens on top fading to the orange spectrum at his knees. Though he was not as tall as Hauknern, Gevri was also tall for a Gachtler, just not blessed with the robust figure most of his people had. Tall and thin, Gevri had solid gray medium length hair on his body with a plate sized black patch on his left flank.
Tipping back his own stein, a thick walled stone carved to look like a crenelated tower, similar to a chess piece, he swallowed the last bit of hop heavy beer Delver’s Pub brewed.
“What, are you a stingy Faelora, unwilling to buy a friend another round?”
“Hey now…!” Hauknern had assumed a comically exaggerated affronted look, but his hand paused at reaching for his purse when a woman called out from a table along the north wall of the bar.
“I shall declare! Hear my words!” the woman started, standing up and digging an ouncer coin out of her purse. The big gold coin brought a hush to the premises, as all eyes turned to her. At once, all the tavern’s staff produced huge pitchers and began to move from table to table pouring beer into every stein and cup. Even the proprietor filled cups, he took the woman’s coin with a slight bow; no one had to wait long.
Holding her stein aloft, a cheap glass mug owned by the pub, the young woman took a moment to gather her thoughts atop her chair.
“I Kuernana of the metallurgists guild do hereby swear that I will do the impossible. I swear that I will find a new alloy that will make stronger lighter armor than we now have! I will do this in the next five years! This I declare!” As one, every stein in the tavern was raised to the palomino coated woman, then solemnly, everyone took a huge drink of their beverages to commemorate her vow. For a few moments the only sound was that of satisfied sighs, then container bottoms smacking down on the worn and gouged tables. After Kuernana hopped off her chair and sat in it, the conversations began to resume; in seconds the only way to be heard was to shout.
Hauknern studied the young metallurgist from across the bar for a few moments, he then dragged his chair around so he could sit closer to Gevri. There was no hints of playfulness in his friend now, and his eyes were evasive. What is Hauknern thinking about now? He’s been a little off all night, like he’s not really into this festival at all. The stein Hauknern owned was carved into the round shape of a Gobesh skull, complete with a handle where an ear hole should have been. Unlike the little forest creatures, this skull had exaggerated features lending the stein a comedic styling.
“Are you going to Declare today?” Gevri’s friend asked, possibly as an excuse to avoid what was really on his mind.
He was already shaking his head no when he answered.
“I don’t think so. I can’t think of anything impossible that I could pull off, which is what this day is all about.” Gevri’s answer pulled Hauknern out of his head. The officer waved away Gevri’s well known opinion, they had debated the significance of Declaration Day many times before. Every five years when Declaration Day came around, Gevri was prone to observe his opinion more vociferously.
“I was going to make a Declaration today,” Hauknern started, his face and eyes going vague.
By ignoring Gevri’s beef with how the holiday was supposed to be celebrated, showed that Hauknern was going to state what had been plaguing him through the night. He felt his ears come to attention on the peace officer. “I finally had a case against the Thrick syndicate. I was just about to shut down their prostitution ring near the ware house district. But the damn council ordered it so that there has to be paperwork for each piece of evidence that can be used in court. Damn it, I was that close to being able to make and complete a Declaration Day vow, and now my job has become truly impossible!” There was heat in the tawny Gachtler’s voice when he concluded, but that anger sizzled out as Hauknern seemed to wilt with defeat.
Funny, Declaration Day is supposed to be about the impossible. Everyone treats this once every five year holiday as if they get points for pulling off the possible. Hauknern was just about to make his case against one of this city’s crime families, but he had his hands tied by a new rule. I bet that girl Kuernana made her vow today because she and her co-workers are already on the verge of a break through with blending metals. Our ancestors created this day so we could push the boundaries of what was possible. Our city, Ghorkul, was reestablished because our ancestors Declared that they would make the Faelora pay for the reconstruction. They forced those tree puppets to pay tribute rather than lose one of their cities to our mighty ancestors. Those brave Gachtler pulled off the impossible and gave us a home because they strove against convention.
Tilting back his tower stein, Gevri gulped down some more beer before addressing Hauknern and his hurt feelings.
“Why don’t you Declare? Why don’t you rebuild your case, jumping through all the crappy hoops the city council tries to put in your way? Do every thing by the book and make it stick. You’re smart, you’re tough, and you can do this, Hauknern.” Though Hauknern showed his fangs to acknowledge the compliment, the man’s ears were still wilted like those of a cub failing to lift his father’s ax.
“You don’t understand, I would have to start from scratch. A case like this can take decades to build, why would I wanna risk a years banishment for not pulling off a miracle?” Hauknern complained.
Gevri slammed his now empty stein on the table, making the funny Gobesh skull bounce on the stained planks.
“You’re buying the next round, that woman’s Declaration didn’t get you off the hook!” Gevri declared after licking brew off his lip hair. “That is why Declaration Day has a limit of five years. It is a goal and an incentive. You’re supposed to work all that much harder to get the job done. We have five centuries of life that the Lords of Light and Life gave us, being banished for a year ain’t nothing. You act like a Human who only has a century to live.” Hauknern rolled his eyes during the speech, his ears pricking forward before the argument came out.
Sweeping up his mug to swallow the last bit of his own beer, the police officer growled with his frustration.
“You forget about the loss of prestige, the step down in seniority and all the other penalties that happen after you come back from banishment. I know this is your personal peeve about Declaration Day, but trying to pull off the impossible is just how they dress up the old stories. Stupid lying stories to make stupid cubs think about the old glories that were, who needs them to actually see those heroes as folks as screwed up as we all are? I mean if you really think that you’re supposed to pull off the impossible why don’t you risk being banished? When was the last time you made a Declaration?”
Seeing the fire in Hauknern’s eyes buoyed Gevri at first, but when his friend challenged him he hesitated. Being called out on the carpet was a new sensation, one that made something simmer inside Gevri. He knew his ears had drawn back, as though ready to fight, yet… yet there was a truth to Hauknern’s words. I get frustrated that people don’t strive to do what others believe is insurmountable, yet I have not Declared in decades. I’m a merchant, there is only so much a merchant can do, and all of it has been done before. After silencing Gevri, Hauknern dug out a few quarter ounce silver coins to buy the next round of beer.
Those brandished coins was bringing a piebald server to the table when an idea hit Gevri. He stood up so fast that his chair almost fell down behind him, his hands digging for an ouncer gold coin.
“I shall Declare! Hear my words!” he shouted, animated by what he was about to do; what he was putting on the line. The room was already hushed when he pulled out the large gold coin. Hauknern’s eyes were already big, as if he knew how insane Gevri’s vow would sound. Big pitchers and servers swarmed out from behind the bar, steins, glasses, and mugs were rapidly filled with the establishments home brew. “I Gevri of the merchant’s guild do hereby swear to do the impossible. I swear that I will make the Human City of Bolloren sell us those fancy stoves they make. On top of that, I will make them marry off one of their daughters to be my second wife! This I do declare!”
Grinning wide at the dumbfounded faces filling the tavern, Gevri tilted back his rook stein and gulped half the beer inside. That grin still adorned his mien when he faced all the witnesses who still gaped at him. The room required Hauknern lifting his mug and quaffing a large amount of his beverage to break the stillness. People were still hesitantly commemorating his vow when Gevri sat back down smiling like a drunk with a keg. “That, friend Hauknern, is a real Declaration.”
Though the room was called a study, it looked more like a museum. After fifteen hundred years of war, King Lorinlil had gathered quite a bit of memorabilia. Banners from conquered cities lined the walls, axes, daggers, and spears made up a majority of the displayed weaponry. This represents all the enemies I beat, the champions I cut low, the king mused as he looked at the scores of display cases, pedestals, and table stands placed throughout the study. There was still room for his youngest son to cavort with his new spear.
Onanonwe started with a leisurely figure eight spin that turned into slow finger spins on his strong side. He sped up a bit after a back fist spin that turned into more figure eights. Full speed hit when the prince began to work with both hands, complete with passing the broad headed Caracermille behind his back. His son was in full stride, moving like a dancer with a partner across the floor, when the study doors were opened in the north. From fifty paces away, King Lorinlil could hear the whoosh of the spinning spear, and he could see the narrowed eyed stares the two diplomats wore as Prince Lilantier ushered them across the threshold.
If two men were having second thoughts about their game, those two are, Lorinlil observed. Onanonwe’s martial display held Lord Cunniel and Lord Bersisen's attention while they hovered just inside the door. When his oldest son began to move into the room, the delegates faltered for a few moments before following. As they had discussed before hand, Onanonwe kept his weapon going until Lilantier was seven paces away; the younger man shouted while taking to the air. When the prince landed he held his new artifact crosswise, a barrier to further progress.
"The envoy and ambassador of Anatheri as requested, Your Majesty," Prince Lilantier called out, acting as a herald. Neither delegate had eyes for the king at that moment, their interest was held by Caracermille and the young Faelora holding her.
In their experience it was the older prince who was the martial artist, not the well manicured Prince Onanonwe. I would dearly love to know what they are thinking, seeing my son with the artifact that used to represent their land. From his seat behind the big marble desk, King Lorinlil gestured for everyone to join him. A hidden wink from older brother to younger triggered Onanonwe to spin out of the way, the prince drawing up with his spear at attention, clearing the way forward while facing to the east.
“Please, Good Lords of Anatheri, come have a seat with our father the king,” Lilantier invited with a pleasant smile; his hand on the hilt of Escu'eliter riding in it's Faewood and fawn hide sheath. As they made to cross the spacious study, Prince Onanonwe glided into their wake to trail them as they passed his position. Anatheri’s representatives nervously glanced back at the talisman, then the man holding it.
Still playing the host, Prince Lilantier indicated the two ox red leather chairs set before the stone desk. Hesitating at first because their greeting had not conformed to their expectations, the two Anatheri nobles moved to their seats. Moving to the right, the king's oldest son pulled out another red chair from the wall and set it on the desks flank, he had to unclip his artifact sword to sit, laying the encased blade across his lap. Onanonwe moved to the left and replicated his brother's move by pulling a seat out. Both men noticed the bared blade of Sansilar laying on the desk before King Lorinlil at the same time; Cunniel licked his lips and threw his gaze back at the only entrance to the room. For his part, Lord Bersisen divided his attention among Estanabrill's three leading men, calculations not squaring up in his head.
Having three named artifacts on display was too much for Cunniel.
“Your Highness, Caracermille was….”
A slap on the shoulder halted the diplomats undiplomatic performance, Lord Bersisen glared at his fellow trying to will the other man to conform. Grimacing mightily, the offending lord slid to his knees off his seat, eyes cast down submissively. When petitioning a Faelora king, the king’s was the first voice to be heard. When the empire had held, such indelicacy could have carried a call for execution. Would I be considered petty for entertaining that idea? In this day of weak governments, the answer would most likely be yes... alas.
“Gentlemen, Caracermille was the price you paid to receive this audience. You will have to admit it was a high price to pay if your petition proves frivolous,” Prince Lilantier stated, his hard green gem stare fixed upon Cunniel.
As much as he liked seeing the Anatheri lord humbled before him yet again, state craft would not be furthered by his vindictive emotions. With a wave King Lorinlil bid the man rise to resume his seat. Lord Cunniel had to get to his feet before he could take the chair again, his face working overtime to hide his bruised feelings. This one is having second thoughts about having his small little nation swear fealty to me, the king observed.
“You stated that you were willing to plant yourself under the care of The Master Gardener, the emperor. Why would you even consider such a thing?” Both the diplomat and the envoy blinked at Onanonwe’s bluntness, that made it evident they had been assuming they would have to dance around the subject, after all, they had been made to wait ten days for this audience.
Shifting in their seats, Cunniel refused to meet anyone’s eyes while Bersisen squirmed while seeking where to start.
“Your majesty… I, uh….” The fact that Lord Bersisen stammered was very telling in and of itself. We are dealing with a very touchy subject. Could there be Anatheri state secrets involved? A delicate touch may unstop the wellspring. Just by inclining his head momentarily, King Lorinlil captured the attention of the other four Faelora in the room.
“I knew your King Athelian when he was just an adjunct for the Lady Tylinliel. He learned much at her knee, just not the lessons of loyalty. Why now does he want to tie himself to our fate? Why now does he want to mark both our nations as targets for all other city states?”
Neither Anatheri men had been prepared for such a direct confrontation, they had been assuming that King Lorinlil was mired in the ancient traditions. With a grimace it was Lord Cunniel who started the answer.
“King Athelian has been judged unfit to rule in Anatheri.” His face winced again after making that announcement. Bersisen sighed then continued for the diplomat.
“We, uh, had to overthrow Athelian because of a, uh, sticky situation….” Smiling slightly, Prince Onanonwe interjected, his smooth tone goading; playing his part as rehearsed.
“It seems that the whole of Anatheri lost the concept of loyalty, this is the second time she has turned upon those set above her.”
Lord Bersisen bristled at the prince’s provocation, but surprisingly, Lord Cunniel gripped his compatriot’s forearm to halt an outburst. His face was that of a man who had quaffed sour pickle brine.
“Athelian committed a crime against all Faelora for what he failed to do, Your Majesty. He was justly dethroned for what he allowed to transpire, it was not due to our having unruly proclivities.” When the king cocked an eyebrow to elicit more information the diplomat hesitated, allowing Lord Bersisen to take up the telling and the avoidance of giving a reason. He did not continue down the same path his companion had established, which did not help the narrative one bit.
“We are willing to swear fealty for your discretion, Your Majesty, and we are willing to explore gray areas in the tangled skein of modern politics to tie ourselves to you while preventing wars of reprisal from our rivals.”
Turning his head as though listening for distant sounds, Prince Lilantier addressed the one problem Estanabrill knew it had.
“However could our cities unite without instilling fear and jealousy in the other city states, Faelora, Gachtler, and Human alike? Do you have a path of survival through the wars that would follow?” Both diplomats looked at each other, uncertain because they were unable to present their proposal as they had imagined.
"Your Majesty, please allow us to state our case. All Faelora will benefit from...."
Lord Cunniel tried, but the obvious displeasure of the two prince’s dried the words off his tongue. Bersisen had to fill the sudden silence, coming to his comrade's aid
That Anatheri lord noisily adjusted himself in the plush red leather chair, his eyes darting about as if seeking inspiration.
“We believe that if one of your sons came to assume Anatheri’s throne, we could keep the other nations from feeling jealousy. We believe that if we present a false front, a ruse to make it seem we remain rivals, then the other nations will not deem it worthwhile to act...." Holding his hand up, Prince Onanonwe asked the same question that had popped into the king's head.
"No one would believe that story with my brother or I at Anatheri's helm. That only guarantees all the city states forming alliances against both our cities. What can you offer us to make certain war worth our time?"
Both Anatheri men actually relaxed when that question was broached, despite the tone of delivery. They were prepared for this, Lorinlil realized while wondering if they had lost the initiative in these discussions. trying to be disarming, Lord Cunniel leaned forward.
"The fabrication we believe will work will mean either Prince Lilantier or Prince Onanonwe will have to pretend to rebel against you, Your Majesty. Whichever son you choose will be fleeing a failed coup attempt into Anatheri." Bersisen sat forward beaming as if his was the genius behind this concept.
"Though the chosen prince failed to overthrow you, he will succeed in taking Anatheri's crown. We believe a few staged border skirmishes will sell the lie to all the other city states. A few score fake funerals to add verisimilitude. We would start paying tribute after trade is reestablished at the end of our false war, hidden within normal commerce."
Easing back in their seats did not relieve the tension remaining in the duo, they were only waiting to see if they had sold their scheme. Without having to move his own head, Lorinlil witnessed his son's turn his way. Their faces were inscrutable, but he could see both men calculating. It will be a subtle gambit, but their idea just might work. All the details will have to be perfect in order to sell such a big lie. My son's have been playing at disunity for centuries which seems to have prepared them for this. Hold on, I am actually considering this idea? That will not serve my people. Immediately he rebelled, thinking he had stepped into Anatheri's trap.
"We will have drinks," he declared, his face studiously impassive. "Have either of your lordships sampled any of my youngest son's Shacindi? His vineyards to the south have been yielding some extraordinary vintages the last few centuries."
Pivot left when they think right is the only path available, he schemed. His choice of wines had actually been a code word informing his sons how they would proceed from this point. The two lords shared slight smiles with one another, tension left their shoulders, which indicated they were assuming the call for wine meant they had scored points. As his youngest son opened a cabinet holding three different wines chilling in ice filled buckets, Prince Lilantier growled from his seat.
"All it would take is one rival challenging the transition in Anatheri to expose the ruse. That again would result in alliances forming against both of our cities." Yes, My Boy, press them, make them reveal how deeply they have thought of this proposal. Why do they resist in informing us why they find this merger necessary?
Bersisen's face scrunched for a moment, but his hesitation was not long.
"Yes there is risks in our plan, but we already have a majority of our nobles already on board with what we are doing. That alone should prevent other cities from coming up with the idea to interfere with Anatheri transitioning her kings. The faux war we will have will also keep people from interfering, they will be hungry for our two cities to be weakening each other. They will think they are gaining ground by not interposing themselves in our business." Most of Anatheri's nobles are in on this? That idea was puzzling. Nobles in every city vied against each other for little or no provocation, be it feuds so old no one remembered the source of the hate, or from competitive natures and egos butting against each other.
As appropriate, Prince Onanonwe hand delivered the king and the heir their beverages first. He then moved back to the bar to pour the representative's wine.
"The population of Estanabrill is nearly one million Faelora. What right do you have, do we have, to threaten their existence? It is their lives and livelihoods that you want us to put at risk, even for the nebulous promise of increased power. It is a power our rivals will not allow us to keep. This secret you think we could foster will not last the test of time, our rivals will detect our alliance whether we will it or not," Lilantier continued, seeing how defensive he could make the two men. Licking his lips, Bersisen betrayed the state of his nerves, but it was Cunniel who blurted out.
"This is meant to stop a bigger betrayal! We have to prevent Athelian Comadient's abomination...!"
Leather protested making gastronomic like noises, as the envoy twisted in his seat to clap a hand over Cunniel's mouth. The older prince's baleful eyes seemed to shine with triumph as Lilantier pounced.
"You wish us to save Anatheri after you allowed her to pull away from my grandfather's rule? Now that you are discovering your big mistake, you think we will come and save you? Your audacity is astounding...." Both prince's were made to hesitate when King Lorinlil raised his hand to cut Lilantier off. Onanonwe delivered the wine to their guests but gave his father a questioning glance as he went to retrieve his glass then seat. This was not how the script was supposed to play out.
With the eyes of the other four Faelora on him, King Lorinlil posed his question.
"Abomination is a strange way to describe misrule. What policies did that upstart Athelian impose on you that caused you Anatheri nobles to rise up and depose him? Did he abandon too many Faelora traditions? Did he embrace the policies of the lesser races?" The king found it telling when both the Anatheri representatives eyes flinched off of his. There was a deep shame within both men. Yet they did not break and share their motivations. Gently swirling the Shacindi, then smelling the notes given off, Lorinlil kept his eyes on his unwanted guest's. They squirmed in their seats, they looked at each other, they avoided looking at their hosts. Finally Lord Cunniel attempted another ploy.
Eyes shying off his audience after brief contact, the ambassador opened his mouth.
"King Athelian had decent policies, he ruled us well in his brief centuries on the throne. His crimes were of the sort... well, only the might and cunning of Your Majesty can prevent the sullying of all Faelora. Only you can save us from a crime so bad that we dare not name it. Unless you take us into your embrace very bad th.., uh... please Your Majesty...."
"A plant that bears no fruit does not belong in the garden. Estanabrill will not nurture a weed, and that is all you are professing to be. You cast off the ruler you placed over you after casting off the rule of my family, and your problems sound as though it requires all Faelora to turn against you. We will not buy your arguments without being able to see the goods, as the merchants say," Onanonwe stated after taking his seat. His eyes were as cutting as his older brothers.
Subtle tethers of magic attached themselves to the two Anatheri men, energies that groped out from each artifact until their targets were ensnared. Mentally pressure was applied to their emotions with the power ramping up every few heart beats from the three royal Faelora. The directness, the reversal of the brother's public roles, the digging questions, and the dangled then pulled offerings of hope had prepared these nobles for the disorientation to take hold. If any of the royal trio faltered in laying this spell, that would alert the nobles that magic was being used upon them. Again, if either Anatheri man realized and resisted, the spell would be broken. Softly, gently, madness was laid in both Faelora's minds.
Keeping Anatheri's two lords pinned with his eyes, the king took a sip of the reddish purple wine. Drawing a breath over the liquid on his tongue, he unlocked the flavors in the fumes of the delicate Shacindi. Fael grapes and wild berries pressed in the same vats, loam, hillside winds, potent alcohol, and pollen from wildflowers all informed the wine. Astoundingly Lord Cunniel broke. At first his face was twisted with the promise of malice as he raised his fists, but he writhed in his seat, turning his face into the chairs arm to hug himself like a lost child. Tears leaked from sealed eyes as a long groan escaped like trapped steam. No better off, Lord Bersisen rocked in his chair like a Human with a mental disorder, eyes seeing through or beyond what was before him.
What crime could have been so bad that it has driven these two proud Faelora men to lie and prevaricate thus? We shall swat these side stepping evasions down! Still rocking, Anatheri's envoy gave voice to his city's biggest secret.
"Athelian's son, Irien... Irien.... He took a Human slave as his wife.... they ran away fifteen years ago. Athelian hid this. If they have a child...?"
"Abomination!" In all his long life, Lorinlil had never showed shock with such an outburst. His heart raced as the implication of what he had heard sank in. Blood drained from his face, yet he began to issue orders. "My sons, scramble your resources. The search for Irien begins at once. He and his animal lover must be found and stopped before any sullying of Faelora blood occurs... and if it has occurred, the product must be destroyed. Onanonwe, you are to take Anetheri's crown. Lilantier, you come up with a story of your brother's betrayal of me then get the military ready to move. Declaring war with Anatheri will be essential to the deceptions ahead. Athelian has brought a threat to all Faelora by hiding this."
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| Chapter 2 Gathering |
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Posted by: frenzied67 - 11-01-2024, 07:36 PM - Forum: Off-Topic
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7/30/24
*Note: I have changed the name of one of my characters. While I have done my best to make that change in here I cannot guarantee that I caught all the changes needed. Lishana is the old name of the character, her name has been changed to Leachelle. If you come across the old name realized that Lishana and Leachelle are the same person.
The Gathering
Ch2
Is it considered a rumor or a legend, this story about the school house? Gilserand pondered. Students had asked before, but Miss Hollobrand was not from this neighborhood originally; she did not know. Had this been a little church for one of the Lords of Light at one time? The school room was wide open, thirty desks fit perfectly out of easy arms reach of each other. The teachers desk sat on the only division point in the room, a raised dais area with a partial wall behind her separating off the schools shallow coat room with all the little coat hangers. Gilserand had counted those hooks when he had been much younger. One hundred coat hooks with twenty eight little cupboards in two rows above them; those cupboards held books and materials for the various class subjects.
Three four foot tall, three foot wide windows lined the walls to the north and south, while two three by two foot windows bracketed the west facing door. The floor above was always locked, but Miss Hollobrand, and Misses Aubrect before her, had always called that mysterious space storage. A steep set of stairs on the north side of the room lead straight up to that locked aperture, the top step barely wider than those below; not much of a landing.
“Hey Gil, are you working for anyone tonight?” Gurick asked from behind him. Considering the school houses provenance had just been a time killing mental exercise, those thoughts evaporated like water on a hot griddle as Gil turned in his desk seat. Just as his own shirt, Gurick’s inner garb was more beige than white. The dark blue of his friends vest did not quit match the dark brown of his knee length pants; a dark blue coat was draped over the back of Gurick’s seat. Neither boy’s hosen matched their clothes; the price of being poor.
Gurick had grown a lot in the year and a few months since they had become friends. They could look each other eye to eye while standing, though Gurick had just turned twelve two months ago. Before I turned thirteen, we used to get together before and after school. Now I have to do volunteer work for a guild after class lets out. Too bad about what happened with the letter blocks last week, I doubt if the printer’s guild will take me now.
“Yea, the guards need me to finish cleaning the upper floor of the west barbican barracks. I don’t have much left to do there, so I might have some free time afterwords.” He thought the other boy would pounce on the opportunity they might have this afternoon, because the summer just seemed to be flying by. Gurick had other thoughts on his agile mind.
“You work for those guys a lot, Gil. That might be a mistake. Next year I’m planning on working for at least five different shops.”
Gilserand raised a questioning eyebrow at Gurick, seeking an explanation for his statement. “I think that putting myself out there will increase my chances of someone choosing me at my Gathering. I think you are making a mistake by focusing most of your attention on the guards, you said it yourself, they only Gather kids they think will make good officers.” He didn’t need to vocalize his offended feelings, Gil just let one eyebrow drop and his mouth take on a sour note. For his part, Gurick leaned back raising his hands placatingly; his laugh was disarming. “I didn’t mean it like that….” The apology was interrupted by Miss Hollobrand sweeping from the back room too her big desk. Her lovely oval face was set in severe lines, blue eyes occluded by her small spectacles. Only a fool would ignore the seriousness she was presenting as she slapped papers onto her desk.
Long straight blond waist length hair swayed as she marched around to the front of her desk.
“Yesterday’s homework was meant to see how much you retained of last weeks lesson plan. Only a few of you were able to give me the names that the Gachtler and Faelora have given the Raider Wars. Please, can anyone tell me what the Faelora have named those two centuries of conflict?” Gurick snorted when Gil’s hand shot up, almost faster than a few other children. Today Miss Hollobrand’s slender figure was dressed in a smart beige bell skirt and shirt, her contrasting mini vest was pale brown as had been the small bowler hat she had worn on her way to this school, the tiny hat’s bows a plum color that had contrasted nicely.
Only a small amount of paisley embroidery adorned her shirt cuffs and dress hem, embellishments that none of her students could afford. Gilserand’s appreciation for his teacher’s form seemed to grow every day, and he was jealous of the young man she had recently become engaged to. As Miss Hollobrand scanned the students wanting to be picked, she passed over Gil with her finger poised to make a selection. That finger stabbed out to indicate Yanna Hilbrekt, a girl Gilserand’s age. Hands dropped as Yanna rose. Yanna wore a floral one piece dress that had been in vogue when they had been eight years old, the blue and red flower pattern only slightly belled out from the tiered skirt.
“Miss Hollobrand, the Faelora called that time the War of Ten Thousand Skirmishes. They lost most of their territories in those wars, which helped their empire collapse.”
Losing some of the displeasure her face had held, the teacher nodded so show that Yanna had given the correct answer. As the girl resumed her seat, Miss Hollobrand shot out another query.
“What do the Gachtler name this period in history?” Gilserand’s hand shot up again. Behind him Gurick suppressed a laugh just enough to let Gil know the boy was mocking his crush on the older woman. I should never have admitted that I thought Miss Hollobrand was beautiful, now Gurick teases me mercilessly. Though his friend hazed him, there was no malice behind it; Gurick had even admitted he liked the teacher too. This time the teacher’s finger seemed to point straight at Gil’s heart. He rose dutifully watching Miss Hollobrand study his face.
“Since the Gachtler took back the cities they had once built, they call those years the Great Reclamation.”
Her nod both indicated that he was correct, and at the same time dismissed him to return to his seat. Gurick made faint kissing noises behind Gil, trying to make the older boy crack up in class. Laughing out loud was not permitted, it was a distraction that was sure to draw Miss Hollobrand’s ire. Mollified by the fact her class knew the material, despite the bad papers she had graded, the teacher leaned back to half sit half lean on her desk.
“Okay, this question is for some of the younger students. What were the three secret cities we Humans established during the Raider Wars?” Only a couple of hands shot up followed by a trickle of more tentative students. Miss Hollobrand pointed out a girl of eight years wearing a hooped dress that had clashing patches at key points of the fabric.
“Trutore, Lansee, and our capitol Bolloren.”
Now almost smiling, the teacher continued to fire off more questions.
“This is for all of you. We Humans had been enslaved by both the Faelora and the Gachtler prior to this war. They had empires with cities, and the few of us not in chains did not. How did we overcome the advantages the elder races had over us?” Yanna and Gilserand were the only two who vied to be picked. A few appendages wavered on the point of going up, but the teacher had already indicated Yanna by the time those students tried to commit.
“We had horses which made us hard to catch,” the girl declared smartly, the braid of straw colored hair over her shoulder supplied Yanna’s hands a place to grip. She turned slightly to give Gil a Ha-I-beat-you smile. That superior look cratered a second later.
“That is true, Yanna, but your answer is only partially right. Gilserand, can you do better?”
Gilserand, on the point of bristling at his fellow students challenge, saw the crestfallen look on Yanna’s girlish face; his ire fell away when her certainty shattered. I don’t know why Yanna doesn’t like me, but I don’t have to fall into that trap. It’s not like she takes things beyond our rivalry here in class.
“Yanna was right about our speed thing… our mobility,” he said, fishing for that last word. Yanna’s eyes bugged a little when Gil supported her proposition.
“The elder races always came to take slaves and loot, which slowed them down. We Humans only raided to free slaves, and when we got good at it, we started hitting their raiders before they got home, freeing our people before they reached any elder city. The Faelora elk cavalry couldn’t match our horses.” Gilserand wondered where he went wrong when Miss Hollobrand frowned while gesturing for him to be seated.
Taking in the whole class before she spoke, the teacher pointed out how he had displeased her.
“While your answer was correct, your grammar was atrocious, Gilserand. You should have said ‘… and when we became accomplished in raiding, we started striking the elder races raiding caravans before they reached safety’. ‘We got good at it’ is a very lazy way to speak. Now, can anyone tell me how the Raider Wars ended?” This time almost every hand shot up, except Gil’s. Not only did his heart hurt from Miss Hollobrand’s rebuke, but he was bemused by the smile Yanna had shot him. It had lacked malice or superiority. There had been no sign of the competitor taking advantage of an opponent’s low point in that quick glance and grin; it had almost seemed friendly.
Is this how madness reveals itself? Gilserand asked himself. Gurick had been the lucky lad Miss Hollobrand picked. His friend’s numerous hesitations stemmed from attempting exact diction.
“They, uh, the Faelora and Gachtler made an alliance against us, uh, Humans. Uh, this was after they noticed our, uh, wandering camps were clumped... no, uh, concentrated here in the south. They, uh, the Gachtler and Faelora, formed two humongous… er, no, two huge armies to root us out. We formed our own army to mess with, uh, to distract their armies. Before any fighting happened, the, uh, Osserjuka came,” Gurick rushed at the end. Miss Hollobrand had not been the only one wincing at the halting presentation.
After having Gurick resume his seat, it seemed like the teacher had to take a moment to collect her own thought, as though the previous recitation had scattered what was in her head. Gil chanced another glance at Yanna, who was two rows to the left and one seat up. In that moment Yanna glanced back at him. She dipped her smile behind her shoulder as though pleased to see him looking her way; coyly she turned away. Have the Burning Spirits taken my wits? We always fight for the teacher’s attention. Why is she suddenly looking at me like that?
Gilserand almost felt he was falling into an ambush, like those the Starling brother’s had used to set in the old days.
“Yes the alien Osserjuka gated into our world in force. Now take notes, we are going to cover how the hordes of Osserjuka ravaged the three races thus forcing Human, Faelora, and Gachtler into cooperating with one another just to survive. We are going to write a paper, due next week, on how the Osserjuka’s advent into our world accelerated the fall of the elder race’s empires and stimulated the creation of our current political system of independent city states. As soon as Carlin or Jersen hands you a history book, open that book up to page two hundred forty three.”
As the two boys named marched into the coat room with Miss Hollobrand to grab stacks of history books from a cupboard, Gil noticed the braided girl glance his way again just before Yanna leaned over and whispered something to Hilney, her best friend. Soon both girls where glancing at Gilserand, one smiling, the friend speculating while she restructured her brown haired braid. Tapping him on his right shoulder, Gurick leaned in to give a whisper; the younger boys breath stirring the short hairs on Gil’s neck; hair that was considerably darker than it had been a year ago. Gil leaned back to hear better, turning in his seat could turn into a detention.
“You may have struck out with the teacher, but it looks like Yanna wants you to dance with her after the Gathering.”
“What?” Gilserand had not meant to shout, but surprise made his voice loud. He whirled about in his seat looking at his friend, chancing the punishment because of that ludicrous statement. Smiling knowingly, Gurick just inclined his head in Yanna’s direction, even as Miss Hollobrand called out a warning for the class to be silent.
He turned back in time to catch another smile from the blond girl, again veiled behind a raised shoulder. Hilney began to giggle as the two girl’s heads came back together, which seemed to spur Yanna into her own giggle fit.
“A lot of us older boys have been talking about asking Yanna to the dance after the Gathering. It looks like she would say yes if you asked.” No, he’s gotta be kidding me? Gil thought, shocked that Gurick would think this funny. Gurick stopped being mean to me a long time ago, how could…. Thinking that cruelty was behind his friends words, he chanced another glance at Yanna. This was pleasing to the girl for some reason. He is not teasing me…. At first Gil felt stunned, but when he glanced over at the girls yet again, he chanced a little smile of his own. The way Yanna’s smile broadened before Hilney and she put their heads together in a whisper session seemed to indicate Gurick had been right.
I wonder if the Gatherings being held out in the city are as intense as the one here in the palace? Leachelle thought, trying to straighten her form fit magenta jacket. This new fashion of wearing full size jackets instead of a mini vest and half jacket made a whole lot more sense to the thirteen year old girl. She was only fidgeting because her turn to present herself was coming up. Leachelle was three steps down from the third floor balcony. Behind her, the remaining sons and daughters of nobles and relic wielders awaited their turn to descend to the king’s ball room. Only two people preceded her on the stairs; they also fidgeted casting nervous glances back too her or beyond to the kids waiting to take to the steps.
Her jacket and hooped dress were both magenta, but her shirt and ribbon bound bowler were both plum colored; it was only the ruffled lace of her bodice peeking out of the ‘V’ of her jacket front, and the lace at her wrists that actually showed the color of her shirt. Embroidery in lightening patterns adorned her ensemble, the periwinkle threads a nice contrasting color that also tied everything together. All the hues of purple looked good too Leachelle, ever since she had been little she had been drawn to the whole spectra….
“The scion of Magister Humpher Milk, Undannu Milk!” Below her, the boy called jumped as though a monster had lunged at him.
After a moments hesitation the young man began to step down, working his head around in his collar as though the lace chaffed. The girl in front of Leachelle took one step down. She herself felt a dread of filling the space in front of her, but a snicker behind her was like a push without contact. They tell me I look like my mother, but my ears are too big, and my lips aren’t as full, Leachelle thought to herself. She wanted to clutch the fluffy braid of her long brown, slightly wavy hair, but this was not the usual braid she wore. Her hair had been styled to have three different types of braids, making five strands, that were pulled to a single point. Her hair felt loose near her scalp, but tight near her waist. It was meant to hang straight down her back, pulling it over either of her shoulders, even for momentary security, would ruin the aesthetic born from hours of hard work.
Her mother had been beautiful, her mother had made an impact in court even before she had married Leachelle’s father; and even after Leachelle herself had been born. She, herself, had large slightly down turned eyes of metallic gray, the color of her father’s though shaped as her mother’s blue orbs had been. Leachelle’s stylist said she had a diamond shaped face, but she herself couldn’t distinguish between diamond and oval face shapes. Leachelle had a tall refined nose as her mother had also had, but her cheek bones were set higher and set under her eyes rather than to the outer corners. A feature she had received from her father, who now had gained enough weight to hide any cheek bones at all.
Her lips would also never compare to her mothers full plump bottomed lip smile; no Leachelle had smooth lips that had an even contour. Neither of her parents sported such featureless lips as she judged herself to have. Her narrow chin was the only thing that kept her lips from truly standing out to her critics, a chevron of flesh was just under her bottom lip, formed by the slight thrust of her chin. What did stand out were her ears. She had been told that her ears were narrow, but they seemed as tall as her entire head; especially when Leachelle had to have her hair put up, which seemed to be the lingering fashion for hairstyles these last few years. In her eyes, her earlobes just would not quit.
More titters came from the balcony behind her, and Leachelle was certain the low murmurs she heard were unkind comments about her. Taleen Haughten, all in cream colors with silver crashing wave embroidery to her dress and jacket, and her malicious friends were back there. That platinum blond demoness never missed a chance to lash out at anyone outside of the little clique she headed. As if thinking of the girl summoned her, Taleen’s voice rose a bit.
“...has to have weights put into her shoes, otherwise a breeze would whisk her away.” That declaration elicited mean chuckles, a sound not unlike that of hyenas cackling over a kill. Lishana clenched her teeth together, suspecting strongly that she was the target of those words; yet again. Fortunately those hate filled voices dropped back into the whisper range.
This is supposed to be a day when you show people courtesy. Dreams are being made or broken all over the Human world, at this moment. Exceptional children are stepping into their adulthood for the early apprenticeships that will guarantee their success at the top of the guild taking them in. She could not even think how the evil thoughts and words of the kids above her were even tolerated by the usher, especially on this day of days….
“Lady Helene Kaithar, daughter of Lord Trayson Kaithar!” a deep voice called from below. Had ten minutes passed already? Also jumping upon hearing her name, the girl one step down from Lishana hesitated, shooting a look back and up at her. Fear and uncertainty filled brown young eyes.
Touched, Leachelle found herself whispering to the young lady.
“It is alright. You are going to do just fine.” Why had her impulse been to reassure this stranger in front of her, why had she not fed into the reflection of her own inner turmoil seen in another person’s eyes? Somehow, in some way, the young woman before her took heart at Leachelle’s words. That brown eyes gaze seemed to sharpen, her shoulders firming as she straightened, and after gathering the middle hoop of her belled out dress, began a stately descent down the spiral marble stairs. Leachelle herself just wanted to turn and run, go back and hide in her rooms. I am the daughter of a magister. My father wields the Wild Rose of Bolloren, a great talisman of magic! She thought trying to take courage into herself just to take the next step down.
Taleen Haughten’s taunting voice wafted down like a foul stench.
“Looks like the Skinny Princess is next.” Leachelle hated that nick name. That was another departure she had from her mother’s legendary beauty; Leachelle was much more slender than most of the other thirteen year old girls in the palace. Tall and awkward with pronounced thin limbs. Outright snickering and barely stifled guffaws began to break the decorum of the moment. Phinder Tugg, the son of a relic level magister called out next, his voice a sing song.
“Skinny, skinny, skinny!” At once Leachelle was tossed into a storm of confusion. There was the impulse to tear out Taleen’s wintery hair, and that was at odds with her wish to hide under her blankets within the safety of her chamber.
Why, on this day do they have to hurt me? Leachelle mourned in her mind, fury or tears waiting for one to win out in the ongoing conflict in her heart. Unbidden the memory of a conversation with her father rose up in her, from a time when he still had color in his hair and had been fit and slender. A lot had changed in the year since her mother had died.
“I play with rough people all the time, my Leaping Lilac Lilly,” he had said once, using his pet name for her. Red silks with roses embroidered had always been his motif. “I fight the enemies of our king, and there is one thing that is certain. The people that call me names are the ones who have no power to hurt me. Their words, can not cut me or you, they can’t even cause a bruise. No true hurt is taken from mean words.” All this time Leachelle had thought her dad had been too old to understand her world, that he had never had to deal with bullies in his life.
Like light dawning through a window, she understood that he had not given her false words to try and comfort her with. He had fought battles, real battles where the consequences were brutally final, where the weapons were not made of words. This isn’t even close to a real war, one of her inner voices observed; a calm part of herself that did not usually speak seemed to be offering her a choice other than tears or rage.
“I bet the only guild that will take Leachelle is the cleaning lady guild. She looks like a cleaning lady,” Taleen called out again. The kids not in her clique were beginning to look upon the taunting with less than cordial expressions on their faces, Leachelle observed when she turned to look up.
Of course Taleen’s cronies were almost outright laughing, smirking from behind the balustrade.
“You know they are watching us with magic right now, don’t you?” she heard herself challenge in an even tone, not even knowing where this idea had come from. “Mean girls are the ones who go without any guild at all.” Serenely, Leachelle turned back, the cessation of laughter a sign her fib had hit its mark. Smiling to herself she listened as Taleen’s group of friends whispered furiously, uncertain about the truth, or lack thereof, of her words. When her name was called, Leachelle stepped forward with confidence; her skirts held up perfectly so the lower hoop did not hang up on a step. It was almost as if she rode a carpet of affirmation to the second story balcony. That is where Leachelle’s confidence began to wane again, tension of her upcoming Gathering returned with a vengeance.
Below her, the spacious dimly lit room was filled with grown ups, all of whom were wearing black featureless masks; scores of void like faces were aimed her way. In the middle of the circle of adults was a clear space. The event herald was the only individual not masked, but he was also set apart from the circle; he was also the only person not in embroidered silk. He awaited her at the end of the steps she had yet to descend, his hand already held out to usher her into the bullseye of faceless scrutiny. At first she swayed like a willow, afraid to continue on. Father is down there, he is one of the people in the masks, Leachelle realized scanning before picking out his famous red attire. She probably knew, or knew of, all the people forming that Human circle.
Armed with that knowledge she was able to wrap herself around with serenity once again; her steps were stately as she moved to the ground floor of the ball room. Her mother had once walked with this kind of poise. The sea of black hosen covered faces parted before her, seeming to lure her into their insidious corral. Figures with no faces made Leachelle think of ghost like undead spirit creatures, minions of the Burning Spirits. The unnatural aspect of the onlookers was dashed when a portly lady, wearing a necklace with hundreds of tiger eye stones, clutched her hands before her ample bosom as though touched by Leachelle’s steady gait. They are people, just people. No one is an Osserjuka assassin waiting to do me in, Leachelle reassured herself while gliding into the central point of the ball room, her stomach still flopped like a grounded fish though. A male figure that was not far removed from being fit stepped before her.
She recognized the voice when she heard the faceless man speak.
“In this past year you were to have volunteered with various guilds of Bolloren. Tell me Leachelle Gueardan, daughter of Ovellam Gueardan, which Guilds did you present yourself too?” King Uldarnan intoned, sounding pleased to be part of this age old ritual. Rumor had it that he kept his nobles and magisters in the palace with him so that he could be near their children; for many kids, Leachelle included, the king had almost seemed to be a favored uncle. I think this is one occasion that he would not like us to disregard courtliness though. Propriety was in total observance at this time.
“Master of Cerimonies, I presented myself to the Relic Hunter Guild, I presented myself to the Equestrian Trainers Guild, and I presented myself to the Magister’s Guild.” She stated clearly after clearing her throat.
The king nodded before stepping back into the encircling host of people surrounding Leachelle. He held his hands up and intoned the next part of the ritual.
“There are masters of guilds among us, it is they who choose. Remember this, being overlooked is not the same as being repudiated. Not being chosen on this day does not mean that you will not rise in life to make Bolloren proud. Are there any masters who wish to claim this child?” The king’s voice echoed into a silence, and at first Leachelle felt her spirits fall. The hush seemed to weigh, to linger over long.... Wood striking marble sounded from without the circle of anonymous onlookers. In the direction of the double doors that lead to the king’s feast hall, the adults parted to reveal a hunch backed creature concealed in a hood; it held a crooked staff that looked like a denuded branch taken off an equally twisted tree.
Primordial trepidation flared at looking at the hag like figure, a childhood bogeyman that would have made Leachelle run at an earlier age in life. The figure raised its staff then struck the marble floor again. Blue sparks began to shoot out of the staff’s top.
“Tell me, girl, what is it that you see?” The voice was creaky with age, cagey with hidden mockery. A total stranger. Leachelle swallowed hard as uncertainty of the being in front of her tried to take control. Forcing her voice to remain bold almost eluded her.
“I see a figure with a twisted back before me, hidden in a hood, who holds a staff throwing blue sparks.” Please Lords of Light, let not my words be taken as unkind, she prayed, using the formal address found in the holy books.
Some in the audience of black masks gasped, which made Leachelle wish she could go back in time to amend her choice of words. The staff cracked marble once again and the figure began to twist like smoke in a breeze. Growing, straightening, the hood and rags becoming blond hair and red and gold silk adorning a muscular middle age man. Even the staff changed, but it lost length, and at one point any definition whatsoever; not until it revealed itself as a dangling locket with an eye of energy at its core. That eye bled tears of blue light that did not pool at the tall man’s feet. Her father’s boss, the High Magister of Bolloren, Uludin Hughwold stood before her.
“She has the Sight! She has the Feel!” Master Uludin called in his real voice. “We of the Magister’s Guild would welcome Leachelle Gueardan as one of our own.” Is this for real? Reality felt… skewed.
Disoriented by the masked almost spectral people, and the display of illusory magic, Leachelle felt the need to pinch herself. Yet she dared not, not at this moment anyway, because the onlookers erupted into wild applause. Some black faced specters even called out joyously, Leachelle’s father one of the loudest and most inarticulate. Dark hose covered faces seemed to contract in upon her, the split closing upon the High Magister, excluding the man who would be her boss. At the moment that Leachelle feared that talon tipped hands would begin to reach out for her, the king stepped out again; his blue crushed velvet suit straining about his growing midriff as he raised a hand that stopped the ghoulish crush.
“Congratulation, Leachelle!” he cried, sounding just as proud as if he were her father. Leachelle could imagine Kig Uldarnan’s eyes crinkling with his merry smile. “In one weeks time you will attend your new guild to begin your apprenticeship, but tonight… tonight there will be a feast to celebrate this year’s Gathering.”
Adult voices swelled as gloved hands smashed together, even these seeming dead spirits liked the sound of a party. For his part, King Uldarnan urged them on, repeatedly sweeping his arms up to encourage greater volume. After what seemed like an eternity, the king gestured for silence; which came reluctantly at first. “Retire, young lady, and prepare yourself for the festivities, for food and dancing will be your lot tonight. Before then…,” he had to pause as several people thought that had been an applause line. Though quickly quelled, the noise had been enough that the sovereign would have been drowned out. “Before then, we have to see if any other of Bolloren’s youth have risen to a point of prominence this night.” Once again the circle of adults split eastward to show the herald of ceremonies waiting to guide her once again.
This time as she passed through, the faceless people did reached out to her. Those black hosen covered visages became disconcerting again as stranger’s hands brushed at her slender shoulders, her arms, and even her braids in passing; the nameless figures behind seemed to paw the air straining to touch her. They seemed like dark spirits reaching for the spark of her life. I would not be so disquieted if their faces were revealed to me, Leachelle told herself, trying to shake the supernatural imagery. The herald, a lean man with rosy cheeks beaming at her, was a welcome face after the harrowing emotional ride of Leachelle’s Gathering. He guided her to a door under the stairs, a servants entrance. Just being with a person not concealing their features helped Leachelle begin to realize what had happened. I did it! I did it, Mother, I am a magister just like father!
“Are you still upset that the guards didn’t apprentice you? That was weeks ago.” Randera the Widow asked. Today the woman who had raised him was just wearing an old dress with tiered skirts; yellow with red rose patterns over the bodice, butterflies and roses on the skirts. She perched on a chair near the washing basin where Gilserand labored over the dishes. Naturally she sat near the ofenherd, soaking in the heat as their house was cool year round; an old porcelain tea kettle full of water sat just off the cooking surface waiting for the moment her tea mug would be washed. Her deft hands were plying needle and thread, darning socks, patching worn knees and elbows on shirts and pants, or stitching torn seams. All the cheap easy jobs that brought in copper kippers. Randera insisted those small coins added up, just never fast enough for Gil.
What should I say? Gilserand thought, scrubbing at black spots that had been food at one point. The cast Iron skillet had three remaining coin sized spots that resisted his scrub brush, wash rag, and fingernails. Being Ungathered is why Yanna broke up with me, but I also didn’t tell The Widow that I’d had a girlfriend for almost a fortnight. Randera the Widow was seated near him, only doing the low end work just so they could converse before Gil took off to hang out with Gurick and some other friends. At this moment she began to frown worriedly as Gil had let his silence stretch a little too long. Maybe I should tell her, he pondered fearing ridicule or worse. What if she thinks I’m still too young to date a girl?
Her worry grew to the point that she paused mid draw on a thread when Gilserand looked at her. His hands had stopped scrubbing though still immersed in the flesh pruning soap suds.
“Why don’t girls like a fatherless orphan? Why doesn’t knowing where and who I come from make me lesser in their eyes?” Once he had began speaking, his rent heart seemed to take off with his mouth. Now gaping helplessly, The Widow remained frozen with hand and needle poised in mid air. Her face crumpled in misery when she did lower her arm, and for several moments Gil did not know how Randera would respond.
“Gil, my beautiful boy, what happened? Is this about that girl you spent all that time with at the Gathering End feast?”
When Gilserand had been younger, letting his feelings spill out in tears would have moved The Widow to take him into her arms, where all fears, all pain would be eased. Except…. Except a hug would not solve the confusion now reigning within. Randera the Widow’s loving touch could not really bring solace, just the semblance thereof. Swallowing the lump of his sorrows away seemed harder than anything he had ever done in his entire young life. For her part, this woman before him swayed in her chair as though tempted to bring him that once necessary embrace. Her eyes swam with sympathetic waters.
“Yanna! I was her boyfriend since the Gathering!” Gil started, finding that shouting momentarily eased his turmoil…, for only as long as he was yelling that is.
Why do I fall back on anger when all I want to do is cry? His aggression made The Widow lean away from him, her sympathetic look changing to something narrow eyed and watchful. I scared her, I scared Randera the Widow in her own home. Gil, get a grip on yourself! Yet another thing to feel bad about. “I asked Yanna to be my girlfriend at the feast, and she said yes,” Gilserand started again, fighting his inner tempest. A hopeless brawl he did not feel he was winning. “I liked dancing with her, and I always stopped myself from kissing her. So I just held her hand a lot.” Now that he was rushing to the part where he had been dumped, the emotions wanted to run away again. The fight within needed his words to pause, otherwise he would have started shouting again; that or begin crying. Those were both very bad options.
Relieved that the boy she was raising was doing his best to tell her his woes, Randera broke eye contact and began stitching again; slow and measured unlike her normal lightening fast work pace.
“Ah!” she said to fill the space. “Why do you think she stopped liking you because you’re an orphan?” Gilserand’s answer exploded out of him again, he had to wrestle himself down to calmer tones.
“She said that we weren’t going anywhere! That I was Ungathered, and she was Gathered…!” He paused to gain equilibrium. “When was the last time you ever heard of a bastard orphan being Gathered? I have never heard of it. Yanna started her apprenticeship the other day, and said she doesn’t have time for me anymore.”
Nodding slowly while her needle creeped along, The Widow contemplated her work as she formulated an answer.
“Girls have a funny way of never telling a boy what they truly want, and we have a hard time outgrowing that,” she started, speaking slowly as though she was unsure where her own words would lead. “We get confused and point out minor things that are not related to our real disquiet. The closest this Yanna came to the truth was when she said you weren’t going anywhere.” Hurt flared in Gilserand and he started a stuttered defense. “Hush! Listen!” she cut in before he gained steam. Both The Widow’s outburst and the alarming insect wing buzz in his ear made Gil flinch; a tiny black body weaved by his nose on its way to land on the wall over the basin.
Scowling at both the fly and his inability to defend himself, Gilserand contemplated slamming the bug with the skillet. Cleaning that mess up would be added to his chores and scuttle earlier laid plans. Reading his foul features, Randera the Widow continued on. “Didn’t you say you never kissed her?” This was not at all where Gil had thought this conversation would go.
“Kissing is how it starts for boys. We start kissing girls and we forget how to be gentlemen; we get all lecherous and stuff,” Gilserand said, quoting the gist of what his guard friends had told him on this subject; proud that he had paid attention to their advice. Laughter erupted out of Randera the Widow, yet another act that made him feel disjointed from reality. She began to tie off the completed seam she had been working on.
“’Lecherous and stuff,’” she chortled tossing the mended mini vest towards the pile of her completed work. “Kissing is how it starts for girls too, Gil. Your Yanna wanted you to kiss her, she wanted to know you were attracted to her. That attraction is important to us ladies.”
At last one patch of burned on charred food stuff flaked off the dish he was washing. Taking off from its perch on the wall, the insect vanished before a full heartbeat in the way only flies knew how to do. Discombobulation replaced the hurt of stung pride he had been nurturing; this conversation was taking a turn he had never suspected he would ever have to expect.
“Well why didn’t she just say that?” was his first question, but he didn’t let Randera the Widow have time before shooting another query at her. “Why would she want me to kiss her knowing I would lose control and… and… uh, you know?”
The Widow’s smile grew so deep that Gil knew she was holding back more laughter.
“If a girl has to ask for a kiss, then the attraction isn’t real. For a girl, or a woman, a spontaneous kiss means the man’s interest is real.” This idea was so alien that it made Gil feel disoriented, as though he had spun around and around too long and too fast.
“But that is how guys get slapped and lose the girl.”
Threading her next needle was interrupted by her mirth spilling over, that and a banzai charge at his left eye by the reappearing fly.
“Getting slapped only happens if the girl doesn’t want to be kissed, and that could be because she doesn’t like you, or you picked the wrong time or place,” she forced out through her levity. Who wrote these rules? I don’t think I like this game! Gilserand began to fume; it seemed the woman who raised him was mocking him, making fun of his ignorance. And even though Yanna was not there, he felt her ridicule too.
The second of the three burn patches flaked away. Miffed at the mockery and the pestiferous bug, Gilserand shook water off his right hand to swat the insect when it buzzed him again. Of course the fly vanished from sight and sound, as if knowing his intent. Where did that flame cursed thing land? Come on, I want to kill you, he thought at the missing bug. Randera soon stole away with his attention again.
“By the way, kissing does not make you lose control. Sure it leads to… uh, amorous thoughts and feelings, but it does not make you lose your wits with desirous impulses,” she said using words he had never expected her to use. “Yes, eventually kissing leads to… amorous feelings, but it does not, and should not lead you to lose control of yourself. That is what makes kissing so delicious,” she said, smiling as though at a fond thought. “Riding that edge of emotion is intoxicating, Gilserand, and not taking it too far is also a sweet ride in the heart and head. A good man will stop when his desire flares too wildly. A good girl will ask you to stop when she reaches that point of losing control, and you listen to her! Do you hear me on that, Gilserand? You will be a good man!”
Randera the Widows had been riding on fond memories through her dissertation, and Gilserand had been near to feeling embarrassed by the whole talk; never mind that he was also thoroughly enthralled. When the snap entered her voice, and her eyes took on steely sternness, he was caught completely by surprise. Wide eyed, Gil dropped his poised hand, and he halfway stepped around the basin to interpose it between himself and The Widow. She was wearing that face she got when an answer was expected, eyes sharp and lips down turned. I didn’t do anything, was his first defensive thought. Oh, this is for what I could do wrong. Man this kissing stuff is a lot more complicated than I thought it would be. In truth Gilserand’s head felt cottony, as if stuffed with too many conflicting concepts.
Nodding sharply in assent, he watched Randera the Widow’s eyes warily to see if his response was the correct one. Holding her expression for several more moments to enforce her lesson, Randera only slowly let the fierceness abate until Gilserand felt it safe to ask questions again.
“If it is so dangerous, why kiss at all?” He had not meant to sound so sullen as he stepped back before the dishes, but he also felt relieved to break eye contact and feel alone in his own brain. The fly did a loop in front of his face, almost ticking his nose with it’s little black body. She began darning the toe section of an aged pair of socks, only the richer folks near the center of Alren could replace clothing when it became stained or sagged with too much wear.
“There are few things in life that bring joy into a person’s life. Kissing is one of those beautiful things that you can share with one other person, but there is more to it.” Gil’s scrubbing slowed down, his ears straining to absorb this lore.
In seconds Randera the widow had put new life in the light brown stockings, she had to pause while tying her stitching off. “Kissing is a lot of fun, and it is different each time you do it, but…. There is a feeling, a... a magical feeling when you’re kissing someone you are meant to love. There is weakness and strength inside at the same time, fluttering in the belly and your head reels with giddy feelings, but your thoughts seem so clear; and that person… the idea of that person is branded in your soul when you find yourself kissing them.” Her expression changed as she talked, her eyes far away in memories of her own. Gilserand thought her smile was wistful before it faded altogether. A thing that looked like a wince flitted over her fine features for the briefest of moments, leaving an after trail of sadness in its wake. “That magic is how I chose my husband.”
Blinking away her yesteryears, she looked at Gil to see if he had accepted her lesson. This time without pressure, he gave Randera the Widow another nod. None of that sounds fun to me, it doesn’t even sound appealing anymore, Gil complained in his thoughts as he began to scrub the dishes again. He was sure she had been waiting patiently for him to begin cleaning her thick walled mug, proof came when her eyes flicked to the object in his lather encased hands. At first he strained to get his rag wrapped fingers into the vessel, but when success came so to did the fly; it landed on his left cheek. Shaking his head dislodged the pest for half a second. Staying on his face as if it had the right was too much for Gilserand, he tried to mash it in place with a slap but all he accomplished was to spay the wall and himself with not so fresh water and soap. The Widow frowned at the water dripping down the plaster of the house, while he worked to prevent stinging soap from getting into his orbs.
Then he had to gently dab the wall dry to prevent paint from coming off, Gil winced an apologetic look at the woman who had raised him. Seeing that he was taking proper precautions with the house, Randera rose and set her tea kettle over the heating surface of the ofenherd, but only after tossing the second darned sock on the table next to its misshapen mate. Acting with haste, he dipped the mug in the rinsing bucket then began drying it. Receiving a pleased smile for his alacrity, The Widow accepted her treasured mug. She began to fill her tea infuser, stuffing dried leaf crumbs into the wire mesh contraption, its chain gently clinking like an off key chime. Burning Spirits take you! Gil raged as the fly tried for his face again, he only had a few more dishes left to clean and all he wanted was peace.
Usually their house did not suffer these pests for long, bugs usually liked warmer environs. Wanting to digest all the curious information he had just gotten, Gil did not need to deal with a pestiferous bug at this moment; every few seconds those swiftly beating wings made a cacophonous disruption in his ears and thoughts.
“Did you know that I was Ungathered when I was young?” Randera the Widow unexpectedly asked. Disbelief informed the way Gilserand tilted his head as he made hasty eye contact, Randera the Widow read correctly that he was attentive.
After finding the right cream colored thread for the ladies undergarment she had to re-seam, Randera the Widow followed up. “I was crushed of course, because I thought I deserved to be declared a master after my volunteer work had gone so well. My young pride and vanity at work. It took my mother showing me patterns that I had never seen before, and my dad taking me to the market to show me stitching I had never known, before I realized how little I really knew about my craft. They encouraged me to continue learning how to sew for the next two years, practice that served me well when I turned fifteen. I earned my apprentice guild crest within weeks after applying for sewing work.” At this point she had to pause her tale to tie off one of two split seams on her current project.
Choosing this moment to comment, Gilserand shook his head in denial and to scare off the buzzing pest that was making another attempted landing.
“I thought you were a guild master, how else could you be practicing sewing from our home?” His question seemed to produce a slight smile from The Widow, as she flicked a glance his way; her eyes shifted to the tea pot afterword, seeking to see if there were vestiges of steam sputtering out of the spout. The water had not been heating long enough to even have become warm, so she returned to tacking the last frayed seam down with pins.
“The top two tiers of journeyman ranked guild members are often allowed to establish their own shops. But you are right, Gil, I did become a master clothier.”
Alighting again on the same spot on Gilserand’s cheek, the bug haunting him continued to taunt the boy; vanishing again the second he dried his hands to begin swatting at it. Trying to trick the pest, he pretended to start washing again holding his hands just within the basin. Vexingly, the fly refused to show itself; until he did actually return to work. His foster mother chose that moment to continue her story. “I was pregnant the first time I tried for my guild master crest. Those tests are tough.” she said with a frown. Those down turned lips seemed to droop further as she continued. “Each master devises a series of tests for darning, patching, stitching, and even making a unique pattern for a complete garment.”
She was trying to maintain a light voice, but there was a hidden strain that highlighted the falsity in her attempt. “Then the vats burst in the brewery and Guy was killed. I was granted a stay by the guild, of course, but I let the time go by after the baby died just one week later. I didn’t even try to contact the guild masters because all I wanted to do was die, I wanted to listen to the Burning Spirits whispering in my head, telling me to follow them into death….” Her voice rose in pitch, as though a scream was still trapped inside Randera the Widow’s soul. Her pain made Gilserand erupt in denials
“What? No!” His gaping face made Randera think twice about her revelation. That milk would not be going back into the tipped bucket though.
Too forestall any more outbursts, to allay the fear in her boy’s eyes, Randera held her hand up.
“I was a mess at the time, very confused… and hurt by all my sudden losses. When those wood cutters showed up with you, and handed you over, it was like those revelations they talk about in the scripture books. I knew, I just knew I had to live on, and do my best in this strange old world of ours. I earned my master’s crest by the time you were four years old, not that it made us rich.” Gilserand tried to imagine his life without Randera the Widow in it. He couldn’t bring himself to construct that imagery too long, there was too much fear in the concept. What will happen to The Widow if something happened to me? Would she want to kill herself again? I don’t know about all this stuff I’m learning today, he thought. How am I supposed to know when and where to try and kiss a girl?
None of this was sitting well, his brain felt like it had indigestion. Gilserand needed something to distract him, give him time to think. Without knowing it, Randera the Widow had given him that out; she had opened a door on a subject he knew she had not given him all the details on when he had asked in the past.
“You’ve told me some woodcutters brought me to you, how did that happen? Am I the son of a woodcutter who didn’t want me?” At first The Widow smiled at the question as if she too were eager for the change of subject, then the smile began to melt off her features as she studied Gilserand. Of course he had asked this question before, but this time even she knew from his face that there was a difference in this query.
Dish held unheeded under the water, Gilserand studied her face waiting for her answer. He did not want her to gloss over the details as she had when he had been younger, and she was sensing this change. She actually swallowed before answering. The damn fly corkscrewed at his face, causing Gil to shy away from another landing. He tried to track its flight again as Randera composed her answer. Sounds were coming from within the tea pot as the water reached its boiling point; pressure was building in the vessel and in the two people.
“I didn’t ask where you came from when that soldier and two woodcutters showed up with you, Gil. Not at first. You have to remember I was in a dark place at the time. Only after holding you and feeling as if the Lords of Light and Life still had a purpose for me, did I think to ask about you,” she started, staring at her work as if she were being evasive.
Gilserand felt his eyes narrowing as suspicion began to take hold, but Randera the Widow glanced up and stared into his blue orbs. “That took a couple of weeks. The woodcutters had gone back into Oldbeard by then and couldn’t be found, so the only person I could question was the guard. He told me that the woodcutters had found you in the forest next to your mother who had died giving birth to you. Of course I asked why they had brought you to me. Guard Kinnert said that when the woodcutters showed up at the barbican, no one knew what to do with you. His officer was one of my ex lovers, a man who still thought fondly of me. That officer ordered Kinnert to bring you to my door, hoping that I would take you in.”
My real mother is dead? His stunned thoughts managed to formulate as this expanded bit of personal history sank in. Of course the fact that Randera the Widow had lovers before and after her husband was not a shock to Gilserand, she had never been shy about bragging at the number of men who had sought her favor. Why was this woman in the forest? That is not a safe place for a pregnant woman, even Alren’s woodcutters have to go armed and have a squad of guards at each camp. Dunking the new washed ladle in the clean water bucket, it was Gilserand’s turn to realize the worry on Randera’s mien. She was studying him as if searching for cracks. No wonder she’s worried, I’ve had my head packed full of a lot of stuff today. I’ve got a lot of things to get right with, especially the guards lying to me about kissing girls, and The Widow wanting to kill herself back in the day….
His contemplation was broken when Randera the Widow suddenly burst out, attempting to reassure her young charge; the boy she loved as her own. “Just because you’re an orphan doesn’t mean you are less than anyone else Gilserand! I love you so much because you are a good boy, and I see you growing up to be a good man….” Though his smile was marred by the creases between his brows, it was enough to make The Widow realized she had not struck anything tender in Gil’s psyche. Trying to defend and comfort him was not where her attentions were needed.
“Guard Kinnert? That wouldn’t be Captain Kinnert now would it?” he queried rubbing the ladle with the drying towel.
At that moment the tea kettle began to sing like a bard seeking coin, pent up steam venting out over the ofenherd. Randera rose to take the pot off the heating surface, all the while studying Gil as if he were a stranger. She seemed really unsure about the determined look on his face as well as the unexpected direction his question had taken. Not at all the actions of the boy she had raised. That boyhood was falling away in the same way trees shed their leaves when the season called for it. He could tell she was searching her feelings in the face of the changes she was witnessing, she did not respond to his question as she turned to pour water over the infuser.
Gilserand was reaching to hang the ladle with the other cooking utensils on the far side of the ofenherd when the fly buzzed by his head. His swing was savage, the ladle extending his reach. Yet the insect was looping away even as his tool cut the air with a whoosh, and Gil knew he would miss. Amethyst light seared the backs of his eyeballs, leaving a magenta afterimage that occluded the entire room. It was as if he had stared at a purple sun for too long of a moment. Though he could not see clearly, Gil thought a tiny waft of smoke wavered in the air a few feet in front of him. It was gone after he blinked to clear his sight, seeming to never have really existed at all.
Spinning about he wanted to see how The Widow was reacting to that bright flare. Her back still to him, she was swirling the infuser by its tiny chain intent on how she wanted to answer his question; as though there had been no interrupting flash of light. Gaping at her back, Gilserand felt uprooted by her lack of reaction. His eyes still had the flash burn memory that made their house seem dark and dim, though the noon time sun was beaming through the windows.
“Yes, I believe Kinnert is a captain now. Why do you ask?” Lords of Light and Life, what just happened to me? Am I dying, is this a sign that I have some sickness? Bemused by his fear filled thoughts and the inordinate amount of time it had taken Randera the Widow to answer his question, Gilserand still wiped his expression clean when she turned to face him. How can I explain this without sounding insane? It is insane!
Expectation adorned her fine features, though her eyes wore a wariness she was trying to mask behind her own question to him. Gilserand cocked his head as he studied The Widow. Worry flared in her eyes before she raised her cup to sip at tea too hot for consumption. Steam stopped her efforts, making her shy back from the heated rim of the cup and the burned lip that could have happened. Why is she so worried?
“I know him,” he stated before he began to declare his intentions. “I’ve been curious my whole life, but now knowing where I come from feels really important. Did you ever see those woodcutters again? Did you find out what they saw out there?” Her gray eyes became evasive as she blew over the rim of her brown mug, she hovered between the table and the chair still holding her sewing projects, unsure of where she wanted to be.
Not taking her seat to resume her work was a tell that her spirit was disquieted.
“No, I never saw those men again,” she said turning to study the row of seven unused mannequins east of the ofenherd, anything to avoid his gaze. Did she really not see that light? Oh, by the Flaming Spirits, does she think I don’t need her anymore… that I’m seeking a replacement? That question knocked the strange event clean out of his head; now he only had worry for her concerns.
“Listen, I have a lot of questions about the people I came from, but there is one thing that will always be true to you and me,” he started. His words made her eyes flit in his direction. His blue orbs caught and held hers, the earnestness on his face compelling. “You will always be my mom, you will always be the one I love the most,” he reassured.
Though the tower still went by the name Seat of Power, it also had been called the Spear Imperius when it had been the administrative building for the disbanded Faelora empire. It was a narrow seeming spire centered in a growing spiral of outer towers, stepping stair like in height around the main tower shaft. This tower’s point could be seen from ninety miles distance. Not only was it the tallest building in Estanabril, it was the tallest creation made by intelligent hands on the continent of Tanabror. Relic magic had been used to raise this massive building, that and stone laying techniques that had never been learned by the lesser species of the world. Not even by the stone wise Gachtler.
The twelfth floor had been, and always would be, the throne room, chosen for the number of major constellations in the night sky. The father of the Lords of Light and Life was known by the twelfth constellation, and songs of prayer were made to him before every audience or judgment; a call for guidance. Even now the priests and priestesses voices rose, calling upon the wisdom of those deities; the interplay of male and female voices like clarion
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| Chapter 1 Gilserand pt1 |
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Posted by: frenzied67 - 09-28-2024, 04:36 PM - Forum: Off-Topic
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Once again the writing bug has taken a nip from me. I love having a story begin to seep from me, gaining shape and taking character on the page; the unexpected turns as the tale takes on a life of its own. After crafting a series of scenes one has to begin editing and refining the words and sentence structures, but there comes a time when the writeres eye refuses to see prose that limps or crawls inelegantly. New sets of eyes are required to point out the flubs and stillborn scrawlings. I have removed the information dump scene, parcing out KIng Lorinlil"s memories while making this racist character somewhat of a sympthetic character. Still, I need other eyes to point out the flaws my mind does not currently see.
Gilserand
Old Beard forest seemed a never ending mass of dark green stretching to the northern, southern, and western horizon. The interior seemed imposingly dark, a place where the sun dare not shine. The deciduous trees, mostly oaks and maples, standing at the forest margins all had the seeming of grizzled veterans standing as defiant guardians over the foggy interior of their domain. Each tree sported some form of moss on trunk and branch, mostly a pale green dangling moss reminiscent of swamp growths. The deeper one traveled into this imposing forest the more mosses and lichens adorned the brooding sentinels.
East of the forest marching thigh high grasses waved to the caress of the breeze, swaying in a unity no other life form could achieve. An abundance of flowers shared the gentle hills with the grass, though a person had to be on top of them to notice they were there. Equally, the odd bush was not tall enough to challenge the waving stems; only a few trees were able to do that, but they were so distantly spaced from one another that their infringement was negligible. Closer to Rularic Creek than to the hoary forest, a few human farmsteads had been carved into the grass kingdom; oddly spaced in the league of grasslands before the little city. Walls and lookout towers around their homes showed that these people were more watchful of the fogbound forest than in tending their fields.
Wheat and hay easily blended with the grasslands, especially this early in spring. The smaller vegetable plots were closer to the houses than any other crop, which meant they were there more to subsidize the farmers diet rather than be used to sell in nearby Alren. Chickens made up the predominate species of livestock, though random goats or pigs were kept on some farms. The more numerous farms east of Alren had a greater variety of both crops and animals, but they did not farm the highly desirable wheat and hay the western farms specialized in; they were also not as threatend by the wild races and monsters of the world. Paths from the farms converged to form a dirt road that ran spear straight at Alren, at the Western Bridge that road became paved with flat topped stones that had the semblance of having been planed before being set into the dirt and gravel. Ruts in the western dirt track showed how often farmer’s wagons became mired in the overlong rainy season, while the rock and gravel just had slight rut lines.
Rularic Creek flowed leisurely by the Town of Alren, taking a break from the rapids north west in the forest; preparing itself for the swifter race it made in the Alren Falls many miles to the south east. The Western Bridge’s brown rails stood over the dirt and stone road grade, the dark brown paint recently applied and thus crisp. The span itself could have been drawn with a compass it was such a perfect half circle over the water. How that pristine arch could have been crafted from cement and torso sized stones stymied many of Alren’s residents and the farmers around the town. A mated pair of crows sat atop the thick wood of the guard rail’s planks, resting from their instinctive drive to build this years nest.
Restively they napped for a few moments at a time, reflexively popping their eyes open to check the area around their painted brown perch; the human youth gently snoring under a cottonwood tree a score of yards away receiving most of the bird’s intermittent scrutiny. This person was in that indeterminate stage of life where they were taking on the aspects of a man, but still thought of themselves as a boy. Sandy hair, bushier over the brow, capped an oval face. Ears, slightly too large at this stage of maturation, sat at each side of his face. His nose was almost tall with narrow nostrils, and a smattering of freckles spread from cheek to slightly chubby cheek bridging that nose as though a painter had flicked a brush to add this feature.
The slight lines around the mouth and eyes seemed to hint at the quick changes of expression this boy had, and if his blue eyes had been opened one would note a clever intellect. Those mercurial expressions his face implied, would be by design and not by the whimsy of emotion. A slight snore was broken as thin lips parted in a sleeping sigh, those lips remained parted through several breaths before closing to allow the purr loud snore to resume. A bronze vest laid open, sprawled out like the man/boy, revealing a once white blousy shirt that covered his torso; open laces exposed some skin from throat to sternum. Though the bronze did not match the almost bright vest, the boy’s breeches were subdued as though dusty; an off or burned bronze. They were grass stained at the knees. White hosen continued on where the pants ended at the upper calf, running down the lower leg until covered by cheap brown leather shoes.
A stick spooled with thin line lay half fallen from the youth’s right hand, a couple of loops around his index finger kept the stick from falling completely out of his palm. Hidden by the grass, that string ran from his finger down through the river grasses along Rularic’s bank and into the water. That finger jerked, pulled by an outside force on the far end of that line. Gilserand’s eyes flew wide as both his hands spasmed closed, his right clutching the string wrapped stick; the loop of string had come off his finger. Again there was a tug on the line, stronger than that which had awakened him. With the speed of a man swatting at bugs, Gil set the hook by sweeping his arm until it was parallel to his shoulder. And the fight was on. The line cut through the water heading upstream as the pre-teen sat up, trying to bring his arm to his sternum, while the fish strained for the far shore; a place Gilserand knew hid large line cutting rocks.
It’s too early in the season for trout or salmon, Gil thought surprised by the fight he was receiving. This early in spring he was angling for the yellow perch journeying back to the lakes in Old Beard Forest, but perch did not have the power this fish was exhibiting. He forestalled the beast’s headlong drive for the submerged rocks by grasping the hand line with his left hand, cocking that hand so the broader surface of his palm was braced against the string. Slowly but deliberately he turned the fishes head, not wanting to apply too much tension this soon. That was a sure way to break the thin but sturdy cotton and horsehair braid. Vexed, the fish took too the air, hinging back and forth in its furious flight. Bass! That is a big old bass! The youth exalted as he recognized his piscine foe.
After splashing side first into the stream the line seemed to go slack. For a second Gil thought the worst had happened, the fish had cut the string or had spit the hook; then he remembered how these fish liked to run at the angler to create slack. Gilserand’s arms worked like pistons as he grabbed his line and pulled it in, right, left, right over and over until he felt the fish’s weight against his hand. Outsmarted again, the bass began to pull downstream. Knowing that trying to pull that fish in now would likely break his braided string, Gilserand let the fish run pulling back some of the line gathered in his lap. As the stretchy filament sped between his thumb and forefinger, he occasionally gently pinched down to apply pressure to make the fish work.
Another jump turned into another run upstream for those rocks. Again he turned the bass’ head, gathering enough line to bring it up short. The next time it ran, it ran upstream toward the bridge that the crows had abandoned when the splashing had begun. Gil let it take line as he cunningly applied his finger brakes to tire the fish, he was prepared when the fish turned and began to dash back his way. This time as he gathered line, Gilserand was able to keep continuous pressure on the bass so that he did not have to race. For the first time he had the fish on his side of the wide stream. With a powerful turn the bass ran for the far shore, forcing the boy to let it take line. He turned it’s head downstream long before it came close to those pool hidden rocks.
Trying to run downstream again, Gilserand noticed that his finger braking did not meet as much aggression as before. His prey was tiring! This time, when he turned the fish’s head, he began to pile line in his lap in earnest. It tried to run three more times, but Gil did not let it get too far, keeping his fingers braking through the whole run, then turning the head as the bass lost steam. Rolling up to his knees, Gilserand felt more trepidation at this moment than through the entire fight. Pulling the fish into the shallows where the river grasses did not grow, he worried that the bass had one great burst of fight left in it. The line’s tension was different than when the creature was in the deeper waters, it could spit the hook with just the right flip of its tail. Though the bass did flap, it did not kick itself up into the air and free itself as many others had before.
Gilserand did not remember getting to his feet, but in a flash he was at the stream’s edge hooking his fingers into the large mouth bass’ maw and hoisting it up out of the mud. Flapping furiously, the forearm long fish discovered the energy reserves it had not expended to this point. Mud droplets spattered the boys attire unheeded. Try as it might, it was now in Gil’s element and in his grasp, the young lad’s arms were jerked about a bit though; a testament to the power of the caught fish. Holding it aloft like the prize it was, he looked the fish over. Black goggle eyes studied him back, as fin and fluke alike was held extended, their spiky edges ready to impale Gil’s flesh. All the healthy green collars, darker along the back and becoming paler along its flanks, all drew Gil’s appreciation. Green/black chevron shaped hash marks formed patches on the flanks and those ran from gill to tail; the bass’s lateral line.
While admiring the healthy tones of the fishes scales, Gilserand had began walking upstream angling away from the water briefly on his way towards his wicker fish basket that lay submerged in a small stand of cattails. The thought of his basket brought him up short. Not only was this fish larger than the container, if the bass struggled it might shake the whole thing apart. Turning back about he carried the trophy fish back to the shade of the tree where he had his palm sized bashing rock stored in a root catch. Though the idea of eating this monster appealed to him mightily Gil did not like the act he was forced to perform; the way the creature’s fins and tailed spasmed tore at his soul. He could not move fast enough to hide his deed in the wicker basket, dropping the lid down so the fishes rock mangled head was was no longer visible.
To stave off the guilt of killing the bass he tried to imagine the Widow’s reaction to having such a fine meal. She will be able to save money for the next couple of nights for not having to buy food, Gilserand thought. The woman who had raised him stitched and sewed for the coin that supported both of them. All Gil’s life had been spent watching Randera the Widow in near desperation trying to make ends meet. She is going to be so happy, he imagined as he looked to the sun to gauge the time. Just that fast, Gilserand ceased believing he had done a good deed. By the burning spirts, how long did I sleep? Moron! I’m supposed to be in school now!
His eyes darted for the north western wall’s towers seemingly at the far extreme of Alren. The stacked flint wall and wooden palisade on top curved toward the north east from there so the squared off wooden towers blocked Gil’s vision of the true north west region of the town. Behind those walls, where the turn began, was where he was supposed to be this moment. For a second he saw both Randera the Widow and Miss Hollobrand glaring at him, the small beauty mark quivering over the right bow of The Widow’s lip as she restrained baring her teeth, while the teacher’s narrowed blue eyes sparkled with the promise of scourges of ice and fire. Though a decade separated the women’s ages, they both knew how to cut a lad with their looks of disappointment; which would come after the cutting words he would receive.
Tying the basket as best he could with the bass’ tail hanging out, Gilserand’s first instinct was to cross the road, parallel the Rularic on the foot path, and enter the town through the sally port near the little school house that served the poor quarter. He even took three or four running steps before he pulled up short. Let’s think about this, he began calculating, his mind in a furious turmoil. He would just face Miss Hollobrand’s brand of anger and guilt tactics early because half the class time had elapsed. Later, he would have to face Randera the Widow’s wrath and worry after Miss Hollobrand stopped at the house to tell on him. I’ll get it from both women then. That is like three punishments.
Now if I take my time going home then I face them both at once, so only two punishments which will only feel like one because of the timing. Deep down he knew he was trying to game the system, but Gilserand, through experience, knew that it paid off for him more often than not. Bending his steps more eastward Gilserand quickly found himself climbing the shallow grade to the stone road, it bent a little south east heading for the great stone gate towers and barbican. I’ll wander around the market until the next bell, he plotted.
Like the bridge, the wall was made of the regions flint boulders, but these were cut and stacked in uniform rectangles. Swooping up like a wave cut off at the top, the stonework was thicker on the bottom and thinned as it rose to its ten foot height, the top was twenty feet deep and twice that at its foot. Atop the wall was a log palisade that added another fifteen feet to the wall’s height. Each of the town’s five gates were flanked by round stone towers and barbicans sporting portcullis that were rarely closed. At fifty foot intervals were square wooden towers looking like the poor provincial cousins to the gate’s protections. The few professional soldiers from the capitol existed in the towers and along the wall only allowing the town’s militia in their domain during the monthly mandatory training drills.
No sooner did Gilserand reach the stone road as it followed the outside wall, than a wagon trundled out of the barbican’s aperture heading his way. Even from where he was he could see residual loose hay shake free of the vehicle’s gray wooden bed. Quickly crossing the road, Gil took to the grass just off the stone and gravel. Bawling what sounded like a complaint, the ox flicked it’s ears as it trudged. The beast sounded as though hauling the empty four wheel cart was just as onerous as pulling it fully loaded. Hidden under his wide brimmed hat, the farmer just flicked the reigns and sat like a fixture in the raised seat.
Just as gray as the old wagon, the farmer ignored Gilserands greeting as they passed, but the boy did see the craggy and grizzled features of a very immobile face before the man was behind him. Most of the people that lived between Alren and the Oldbeard were less than friendly. That frowning forest hid a lot of raiding creatures, and the western farmers were always the first to suffer from the attacks that issued from under those dark limbs. Dangers that rarely reached the town at all. Gil was unable to determine the farmers true age from his glance at the man. He could have been young under the dirt and whiskers, or he could have been as old as the boards of his ride.
After the farmer was clear Gil returned to the road, it provided easier travel compared to the uneven grass along the route. He followed the stone road south until it turned east into Alren, directly into the shaded mouth of the west barbican. Above Gil the front set of barbed spikes from the portcullis seemed like sparse teeth ready to fall and devour. Forty some odd feet away, the inner portcullis was hidden in the perpetual shade of the barbican. Coming in from the outside, Gilserand would not be able to see the murder holes above him until he was almost to the far side of the inner gate house. Professional soldiers would be able to see him while he would be shade blinded.
These musing jolted to a halt in his head with a shout from a familiar voice.
“Dilburd, I caught one of ‘em! I caught me a genuine Trumage spy tryin’ to sneak in!” A slight short man stepped from the shadow with a brandished halberd, an easy sneer marring his face. As the farmer he had passed, this man also needed to shave.
“Graeseed, I see you did. A right ugly spy with some vile burning spirit device meant to maim and kill,” a taller stockier man responded, lowering his halberd to point at Gilserand as he too stepped out of the shadows. Despite the threatening steel aimed at him, and the accusation of belonging to an all but dead seditious movement, Gil let his grin free.
“Ahhh! He ain’t gonna pee his breeches,” the guard named Graeseed complained. Both men raised their weapons, and Gil noticed something that might have been respect flitter over tall Dilburd’s mien. These two men had always been friendly to the boy, though their jokes were rough and seemingly violent at times.
That humor had taken Gilserand years to get used to, despite those times when he had earned a clout upside the head for the many violations he had been caught doing by this pair of men. Their stern features made it hard to tell when they were serious or just playing.
“What do you have there, Gil?” Dilburd asked from his over six foot height, pointing at the fish tail sticking out of the basket.
Both guards were armored in chain mail that was hidden under long dark green and black half and half tabards, only the coif buffering their helms showed the chain links to the world. Graeseed was half a foot taller than Gilserand with a round face marred by a chin scar, he seemed too short to be one of the professional soldiers protecting Alren. His best friend Sergeant Dilburd looked more like a guard, tall and sturdy with rectangular features and deep dimples in cheeks that always sported a five o’clock shadow. Their every gesture was punctuated by rattling chain, or clanking plate; those noises were part of the men’s charm to Gilserand.
Before Gilserand could answer he was interrupted while raising his basket.
“Ain’t ya supposed to be in school or somethin’?” Graeseed queried, easy suspicion clouding his features. The boy could not quell the guilt that question raised up, but he tried to appear as world wise as his two older friends.
“I, uh, fell asleep while fishing and missed class,” he began. A prolonged moment passed as he pulled the monster bass out of the little basket. “This bad boy woke me up when I caught him stealing my grasshopper.” Gil could not help but feel pride in himself at the enlarged eyes of the two men, they were easily impressed at the goggle eyed specimen he held by the lip.
Graeseed swore then whistled his appreciation. Avarice crossed tall Dilburd’s face, his attention glued to the fish.
“Now that is a tasty looking monster. The missus would be right pleased if I brought that home. Gil, my boy, I’ll buy that off of you for a real silver coin.”
Gilserand was not the only one who felt surprised by this sudden turn, even Graeseed peered at his chum in confusion. He lowered the fish staring hard at the tall man. Gilserand had seen smaller fish than this bring a pentamark of silver at the market. Offering a single silver was an insult. Seeing Gil’s expression, and the dawning disapproval on his fellow guard’s face, Dilburd grimaced then changed his offer. “Alright, alright. That is a prize fish,” he conceded. “How about eight silver, a pentamark and three singles?”
Oh my Lords of Light and Life, Gil thought awestruck, his mind trying to do sums and figures. Randera the Widow might earn that much coin with her sewing in a good week if she were lucky, and here he was being offered that much coin for one fortunate caste into the stream. For some reason Dilburd was allowing a grin to grow on his face, as Gil pondered this new problem. The Widow and he could eat well for two nights in a row off of the two fillets he would get from this fish. On the other hand, he and the woman who had raised him could get three or four meals from the coin being offered; though the fare might not be as tasty. He hesitated unsure of what to do, fortunately neither man pressured him, granting him time to reason out what could be the best decision in this stretched out moment.
As though sent by the Burning Spirits, a selfish thought passed through Gilserand’s mind. Maybe I can make him up his offer. If he really wants it he would pay ten silver for this fish. The lure of real money, two pentamarks, in the pocket made him ponder taking this route. Then he looked at Dilburd. Even before Graeseed had become a guard Dilburd had looked out for Gil in his rough way. Dilburd had established the tradition of saving him from the various bullies he knew, as well as other kids he had angered in one fashion or another. No, I can’t do that, Gil concluded. As though he read the passing of greed from the lad’s thoughts, Dilburd settled back on his heels with the expression of a man about to make a deal.
Holding the commodity aloft he nodded at the guard.
“I like your second offer, sergeant.” Dilburd had always preferred people address his rank while he was on duty, rather than being familiar and use his name. He held the fish up as though to pass it off, but the guardsman instead fished out a dark red leather money pouch by reaching through the side slit of his tabard. Instead of pouring the contents of the purse into his palm and then selecting the right coins, Dilburd instead rummaged through the bag; a lot of copper coins were produced then shoved back into the drawstring guarded purse mouth.
“I thought you might have been insulted when I just offered one coin, Gil. I apologize for that. I forgot who I was talking too.”
That admission struck Gilserand, and his guilt reared up.
“I, uh… for a moment I thought about trying to gouge you.” Gil instinctively leaned away expecting a flare of anger at his confession. Instead the two guards exchanged grins with each other.
“A lot of these Alren jackasses woulda tried,” Graeseed growled, his face turning sour just to enforce his statement. Gilserand was glad that anger was not directed his way.
“Sad truth is that a lot of us guards, especially those not born in Alren, misuse their authority on these people first. The thing about you, Gil, is that you’ve always been a straight shooter. My first offer was messed up, and you knew it, but when I gave you a real proper bit of dickering you only hesitated a second before agreeing. We saw that little moment of greed come and go. I appreciate that you didn’t act on it, Gil, and I thank you for this fish.”
As the tall guard beamed proprietary delight at the bass Gilserand found himself thinking furiously. They saw what I was thinking? How did they do that, I was trying to be as…. What is that word Missus Hollobrand used...? Oh yea, stoic. I was trying to be as stoic as these guys are. I can rarely tell what they’re thinking. Sergeant Dilburd offered the four coins, the larger pentamark seemed to dominate the man’s palm. He offered the fish again as he accepted the coins with his other hand. The guard made no move to take the trophy. “I, uh, could I borrow your wicker basket to get it home in?” Gilserand drew back for a moment.
Through the years they had always had a friendly relationship, but he had never been asked to surrender a valuable possession before. Not by either man, not even for a temporary amount of time. Did he know and trust these men enough to let his fishing basket go?
“How would I get it back?” he asked trying to think of some way to deny the request without looking distrustful.
“We got street patrol the next couple a days, in the textile districts,” Graeseed stated, seemingly offering a non-sequitur into the conversation. The taller guard nodded as though this information was important.
The taller man mused for a few moments looking within himself.
“We will have gate duty again three days from now. I can return your basket then. Just pop by this barbican and look for us.” Now that the older man had come up with a solution, Gilserand realized that his trepidation had evaporated.
“That sounds good. I won’t be fishing again for a while after today. Missing school has gotten me in between a rock and a hard place with two women who are going to gang up on me.” Guards loved to talk about women, tales where they either gave the women a tickle or got chased with a broom. Ignoring Gilserand’s effort to start interesting banter, Graeseed instead studied him for a moment; his hawkish gaze becoming intense.
“Maybe we can start having Gil here running us some errands on that day?”
That query made Dilburd snap his attention on the shorter soldier. Gilserand did not understand what was going on with these two men, and this summoned forth a nervousness in the lad. There was an energy, an intensity being exchanged by the two men that was going over Gilserand’s head. The taller guard turned an assessing eye on Gil, the boy wondering if this was how pigs and cows felt when the butcher was considering where to start cutting.
“Really? He’s a year or two away from Gathering age?” Dilburd started, still measuring Gilserand. The Gathering was a kind of right of passage that happened with some boys and girls when they turned thirteen. A lucky few kids would be taken on as apprentices by various artisans and trades folk at that age. Those kids usually grew up to be bosses in their respective fields while the children not chosen would be stuck with menial jobs when they turned fifteen.
Why were these soldiers taking such an interest in him, and what did it have to do with the Gathering? Gilserand was a year and a few weeks away from his thirteenth year, and he was already certain that he, as a bastard orphan, would be overlooked for an early apprenticeship. “He’s too young and he might remain a scrawny runt.” For some reason this assessment hurt Gil’s feelings; Graeseed was not fond of the sergeant’s words either.
“It aint a man’s size that counts, it’s his guts and smarts that makes him somethin’. This boy’s got man sized balls, I know you see it.” The way the smaller man seemed to bare his teeth at his larger friend totally bemused Gil; for a moment he thought Graeseed would launch himself at Dilburd, the heat in his eyes seemed to come from some inner fury.
Is he mad because he is small for a guard? Are they talking about making me a guard? I thought all the guards came from the capitol? Dilburd held up his hands as he shook his head showing he was unwilling to let this conversation become a fight.
“I see what your saying, but it’s too soon for the boy. He’d be marked out by other guards wanting to sponsor, plus any bully who saw him working for us. Let’s see how he comes along in the next year or so.” These words seemed to take the steam out of short Graeseed’s agression; both men continued to look at each other. More silent communication going on between them. Curiosity had it’s hold on Gilserand, but he knew deep down that important somethings were passing between his two older friends.
“Do you guards take apprentices? Is that what you’re talking about?”
Though they held each other’s stares for a moment more, it seemed as if Gilserand’s questions had cut off the silent dialogue.
“Anyone tough enough to survive the training can join,” Graeseed started. The way Dilburd finished the other man’s thoughts made Gil almost double take.
“Most of our noncoms and all of our officers are recruited on Gathering days, though.” Odd how these two men synchronized each others sentences sometimes.
They glanced at each other again before the shorter soldier made his face stony for Gilserand.
“You don’t need to worry about it though, a kid that skips school doesn’t get Gathered.” He almost bought it, then he remembered the hard sense of humor these two had. They are only pretending to be mean to me again, the boy realized.
“You sold your fish, you got your money, why the hell are you still bothering us?” Dilburd asked, his face full of false disdain.
Though their faces showed him negative impressions, the sparkle in their eyes implied joy in their game. Gilserand wanted to grin at the retort that jumped into his head. Throwing up his hands he began to move into the gatehouse.
“Alright, alright, I’m going. It was only the smell of the fish that made you guys tolerable.” Graeseed started laughing immediately, pleased by the insult. Dilburd feigned outrage, he lowered his halberd and advanced on Gilserand as though to spit him. The steel spear point over the ax and spike was aimed at his heart, which did cause him to scamper back a few steps; then the sergeant stopped and joined his friend in laughter. Grinning at the exchange, Gil waved then turned and marched for the light at the end of the barbican.
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| To Do, Game Hooks, and Loose Ends... |
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Posted by: Ravenblade - 06-23-2024, 05:24 PM - Forum: Erath 5e Background
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Personal Hooks
Enkili:
*Break evil Efreet's curse barring him from his homeland
*Return the Skull of Al'marihm to the Sacred Oasis
*Bring the Sainted Sword to Al Madii and restore his family name.
Jolrael:
*Discover the secret behind his brand (Tattoo) and reveal his foe. "The Whispers of the Pale Lady," found in the Wizard's Peak Library, may reveal such knowledge
*Seek out magical formula to construct non-detection item. Once successful, Gorvenal Commons will introduce Jolrael to the Artificer to construct the item.
Riardon:
*Someone who knows of his crimes has been arrested on an unrelated matter
*Needs to produce guild dues before defaulting.
Leiya:
*Rescue Miria (and other Rusty Bedpan folk) from the slavers
Party Hooks
Decode the Slaver's Documents:
*Scholar/Sage: Portent - specializes in cryptography, translations, and (personal) interest methods divination. Not a practitioner of magic.
*Eye of Liral (Minor Relic) which is said to grant true sight for the bearer
*Find the Cipher Crystal in Darsta.
*Access the book, "Whispers of the Pale Lady"
Eradicate the Chained Wings and disrupt the Slavers Guild operations:
*Reveal the slave trade routes
*Explore the ruins of Darsta
*Drive out the hags from the Darkwater Lighthouse
*Explore Lyral, the lost temple of Eyah
*Lord Bercel is looking for adventurers willing to inflitrate the Slavers of Nemsh
Loose Ends
*Ethorm Mourgan, father of the slain Baredal Mourgan, had fled to Norack... but has sworn revenge!
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Leiya (and Riardon) level-up information |
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Posted by: Xura - 06-22-2024, 05:54 PM - Forum: Level-Up Information
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Leiya
Cleric, Level 10
Hit Points: just apply the average, please.
The rest of it: as per the PHB for standard Cleric.
Actions, plans, ideas, wishes, etc.:
Use Sending to report to Solare temple and check for news, or if they have any requests or orders for her; etc.
Use a Sending each day to try to contact Miria.
Check through her spell-component needs and invest where appropriate -- diamonds for Revivify spells, for example, if the party wants to consider that.
Leiya is quite concerned about the news of the plague in Brant, but is still deeply invested in the Chained Wings and the fate of Miria and the Rusty Bedpan children (including Hubert's young ladyfriend). She would probably opt to keep pursuing that, unless her temple orders otherwise, or the party wants to do something different.
Riardon
The following are only suggestions -- the character's creator of course gets final say. If player has already submitted his leveling, please disregard all of the below.
Level up as: Arcane Trickster
New Cantrip: Mind Sliver (if allowed; this is from Tasha's Cauldron). He could, I think, consider and acquire this spell due to his intelligence, keen concentration/people-watching, and discussions with Leiya (who has the Telepathic feat) and Blaylocke (Dissonant Whispers and other spells).
Alternative Cantrips: Blade Ward (from PHB); Infestation (Xanathar's); Poison Spray (PHB); Toll the Dead (Xanathar's).
New 2nd-level Spell suggestions: Crown of Madness (PHB); Mirror Image (PHB); Phantasmal Force (PHB); Tasha's Mind Whip (Tasha's Cauldron).
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| Enkili Level 10 |
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Posted by: frenzied67 - 06-10-2024, 09:15 PM - Forum: Level-Up Information
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Character/ Class Archetype: Enkili / Battle Master
Hit Points gained= Hit Point Total average 6+3=9 (90 hp?)
Proficiency Bonus= +4
Features: Archetype Bonus- 2 maneuvers- 7) Trip Attack, when I hit a creature with a weapon attack, I can expend one superiority die to attempt to knock the target down. I add the superiority die to the attacks damage roll, and if the target is large or smaller, it must make a strength saving throw. On a failed save I knock the target prone.
8) Riposte Attack, When a creature misses me with a melee attack, I can use my reaction and expend one superiority die to make a melee weapon attack against the creature. If I hit, I add the superiority die to the attack’s damage roll.
Improved Combat Superiority-Improved Combat Superiority (d10)PHB p73
At 10th level, your superiority dice turn into d10s.
6d10’s.
Enkili will also purchase a crowbar (2gp, 5#), 50' silk rope (10gp, 5#), and a new grapnel hook (2gp, 4#).
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| The Slavers Guild - Hubert's Report |
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Posted by: Ravenblade - 09-15-2023, 12:00 PM - Forum: Erath 5e Background
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As the party settled into their seats at the table, Hubert’s grim expression became apparent to the adventurers. “I’m afraid I have poor news regarding the Chained Wings and the slavers,” he started, “The report of the winter location was a ruse. Thankfully, we got word to you in time.”
Shifting uncomfortably, Hubert continued, “Unfortunately, Bercel sent a number of his people to reconnoiter the fort, and the slavers struck in their absence. Most of us were able to fend off the attacks. However, a number of establishments were sacked, including a Melanian temple and a druidic grove not far from Freehold.”
“Never before have the slavers given such a show of force and brutality… so many taken…” Pausing momentarily to compose himself, Hubert resumed his report, “We’ve known for some time that the Chained Wings were acting as agents of the Slavers Guild. It has now become obvious that the Slave Lords themselves have taken a keen interest in our efforts to undermine their wretched commerce.”
“Please, there’s more!” said Hubert as he waved away the sudden burst of questions and exclamations from the party, “Our mole sent word of a remote island off the coast of Yri that appears to have been long-used by the slavers. They had made a waypoint along their slave route and base some of their operations in an old temple there.”
“Lord Bercel is currently in ongoing engagements with the local lords, but they appear to be cowed by the attacks. The regional Sedarin Magistrate is also too busy quelling unrest in the slum quarter to spare aid, if that is their intent.”
Hubert leaned forward conspiratorially, “Lord Bercel says he has a ship and captain insane enough to make the journey. He asks if you are too.”
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