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Chapter 3 Declarations - frenzied67 - 12-06-2024
Ch3
Declarations
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."
RE: Chapter 3 Declarations pt2 - frenzied67 - 12-06-2024
Alren's prison was a series of four rectangular buildings, three stories tall, set at the cardinal points of the compass. One twenty foot tall cement wall with eight towers surrounded those buildings; guards walked parapets that faced inward. Another twelve foot high wall surrounded that inner defensive barrier. This structure sported four towers and one gate, there were no parapets, but thin blades and broken glass festooned the tops of that outer wall: complete with old brown stains showing the barriers effectiveness. One road ran from Alren's eastern curtain wall, meandering through the tall grasses burned brown by the summer's sun. This stone road ran five hundred yards to connect the disheveled prison to the town, the tall grasses extended out for half a dozen miles spotted with farms and orchards.
Guards in the towers flanking the gates kept their eyes on a lone figure waiting on the little stone road, no doubt sweating in the mid summer light. Gilserand could no longer be mistaken for a boy, and he no longer thought of himself as one. In three days time he would turn fifteen and become a legal adult. Gil had grown a lot since his disappointing Gathering Day, his hair darkening to a brown color. Though he was still youthfully slender, he had taken on the physique of a man. Broad shoulders and narrow waist, veins standing out on his hands and forearms. He even sported fuzz that could be mistaken for whiskers some day. His freckles had also blended with the rest of his skin tone, and his features had taken on a chiseled look; his baby fat softness gone.
Sweat stood out on his face, plastering his side burns down. Impatiently, Gilserand glanced at the gate wondering when it would open. A couple of year ago he had gone to Captain Kinnert and had asked the man about the woodcutters who had brought him out of the forest to Alren. As a favor, the captain had done a little light investigation. One wood cutter, who had been named Trint, had been killed in a Sauri or Gobesh ambush in the forest. The other man had been imprisoned seven years ago for killing someone in a knife fight, his name was Hughberk. For the last year Gil had been waiting for this Hughberk to be released so he could ask him about his birth mother.
Three days! Everything is going to change in three days! Gilserand did not know how much he should worry about his upcoming birthday. Sure, he would not have to go to school anymore, but he would also be expected to find a job. Naively he worried that the process of gaining employment would be similar to the harrowing experience he had faced on his Gathering Day. This may be my last chance to question Hughberk, working a job isn't going to let me have free time to investigate who my parents could have been. Another worry reared up. Is he actually going to be released today? Gil had pestered the prison guards until they had sent him to the court. Court records had indicated that mid summer of this year was Hughberk's release date; this day.
Corporal Graeseed and Sergeant Dilburd, his old friends, had also looked up the day of Hughberk's release for Gilserand. They were quite familiar with both the documents and the procedures of the court system, since they had to file those documents when they arrested someone. They knew how important this was to Gil, they would not play one of their pranks on him for this. Would they? Waiting and heat gave his imagination too much time to concoct uncertainties. Wait, he suddenly realized. I might be stationed here if the guards hire me. I might become a prison warden, or a camp guard for the woodcutters. Those jobs did not sit well with the youth, his ideal was to police Alren and arrest criminals; maybe even be called out of Alren's walls to scare off the non Human tribes that lived in the woods and jungles.
What do I do if the guards don't hire me? That was one of the scariest questions of all. Gil had never thought about his future until about three years ago, when Dilburd and Graeseed had shown an interest in him. Ever since then, Gilserand had set joining the guards as his paramount goal. In the year leading up to his Gathering, he had also tried working for West Alren Standard a printing company. A job that had proven too intricate for his twelve year old self, and one that just did not appeal to this day. He had also worked at a grocers for a few weeks, that was a job that was not intricate or stimulating. Why aren't there jobs with adventure included. I would like to travel to foreign lands, meet interesting people, maybe face strange situations that gets the blood pumping.
Shifting his coat to his other arm, Gilserand looked back at Alren. Over the wall he could see small shapes erecting scaffolding around a three story house. Someone was adding another floor to their existing building. Our town is growing. I wonder if the rumors are true? Is the council going to petition the king in Bolloren to allow us to expand our defensive walls? Will we be able to grow our town into a city? That would mean that there would be a new outer ring of streets. Would money come into his neighborhood so that he and The Widow would not have to live in the poor quarter anymore?
That would allow Randera the Widow to have better clients who lived closer to her, people willing to buy the fantastic clothing she designed. As it was, she had to travel to the center of town to consign her designs in the well to do inner circles of Alren. That was where she made good coin, pentamarks of silver or sometimes those coveted gold marks. All her nearby clients could not afford the velvet, silk, and lace that were Randera's favorite mediums, the clothes they could afford brought in kippers or single marks.... Tung tung screeeeeee! That noise had come from inside the prison, beyond the outer wall.
This had been the first new sound coming out of the penal enclosure, and the only double retort and squeal loud enough to have reached town. That has to be the inner gates, Gilserand determined, hating that he could not see through the wall at this moment. When he looked at them, the young man learned the guards of the outer towers were looking into the outer yard rather than waiting for Gilserand to do something other than shift from foot to foot in the heat. There! Though the voices did not make distinct words, someone inside the wall was shouting. How communications were passed by the wardens, and all other military groups.
Gilserand drew himself into attention, standing on his toes as if that would help him see inside. Some of the tower guards were shouting back.
"Yes Sir! We are ready to discharge Prisoner one four eighty eight, our security detail is ready to merge with your unit, Sir." This is it! he exulted, meanwhile anxieties played a new worry into his brain. What if this isn't Hughberk? What if they are discharging another prisoner? A few moments passed where he did not realize he was shifting from foot to foot, like a kid trying to figure out whether to run away or not. With a metallic pop and ear numbing squeal, the outer gate doors swung ponderously open.
An officer with a satchel accompanied a tall man wearing ill fitting clothing, he was holding his full length pants up with a hand. Ten yards behind the two, a dozen armed guards seemed to be shepherding them towards the gates, their spears held to receive. Their crescent formation walked casually despite their ready weapons, keeping in step with the odd duo. Though he was fifty yards away from the gate, Gilserand could see and feel their eyes upon him. Soon, however, after the officer and civilian passed through the gates, the pressure of being watched left Gil when the ensemble stomped to a halt. With a militaristic pivot step, the captain faced the freed man offering the canvas and wood satchel.
After the tall man accepted the bag's handle, the officer lifted his right leg for another left foot pivot. His stamped foot heralded the officer now facing the gate, and without further flourish or drama, proceeded to return to his post behind the walls. When the gates protested being closed, the tall man glanced up the towers, seeing a few crossbows aimed his way. Gil couldn't see the man's expression, but what he did see was a man with a long rectangular face. Sandy blond hair, shot through with white at his temples and sideburns, was cut short. Craggy features locked onto Gilserand before the gate was half way shut. And even though Gil could not see an expression, he knew the man was fixed on him as he began to walk falteringly down the little south wandering road. Those wincing steps were due to the man being shoeless, One hand had gathered the extra material of his pant's waist, gripping the cloth so that the breeches did not fall to his ankles.
Nearer, Gil could see the man had a tall ski slope nose with somewhat wide nostrils. The eyes were a pale blue, and they showed a mix of curiosity and a bit of disappointment while viewing Gilserand. He showed the man a smile, but he knew his offering was anemic.
"Are you the wood cutter Hughberk?" he asked when the man was close enough that raising his voice would not be necessary. Those pale blues narrowed.
"Who wants to know?" The stranger's voice was naturally raspy, like someone who either drank hard liquor too often or who had smoked tobacco for too long. His voice was higher than what Gil had anticipated, though still deep enough to not be too disconcerting.
This isn't how I had imagined it would be, Gil confessed to himself. At this moment his uncertainties plagued his mind, wanted to steal away with his need to know. How was he to respond? Should he respond? Gilserand's hesitation saw full suspicion freeze on the older man's face. He was in prison for knifing someone in a fight. What made me think I could deal with this man? Tension and wariness made the man stop several steps away, and Gil knew he had to do or say something to alleviate their little drama.
"Fifteen years ago, you found me in the woods. You and a friend brought me to Alren."
The light dawning on the older man's face came with widened eyes and a little chuffing noise, like a boxer who had taken a thump to the guts. It is him! For a few moments they stood in silence, the man looking him up and down. The wood cutter did not see the old clothes or the worn leather boots. Hauberk studied the young man before him, and seemed to come to a favorable opinion. Almost smiling while shaking his head the man moved over and sat down on the grass.
"This is the last thing in the world that I had expected," Hughberk said as he began to rummage around in his satchel. And just like that, Gilserand felt ignored. The attention he had received was gone just that fast, as Hughberk pulled a crazed leather belt forth. The worn out strap was set aside as the recently freed man continued to search around inside the bag.
Without using his eyes, the man rummaged around. His longing look was directed at Alren's walls. "I lost a lot of weight in there. My clothes don't fit anymore," Hughberk suddenly announced, pulling forth a stocking of thick gray material. Too many cross stitched threads around the toes showed the footwear had been worn beyond its natural life span. He went back to rummaging. "Been fifteen years, what can I do for you?" Now faced with the question that was the crux of his reason to be there, Gilserand's thoughts tried to evaporate once again. Then one of Randera the Widows lessons on courtesy reared up.
"Oh, I... uh, my name is Gilserand. The lady you dropped me off with gave me that name." His words made Hughberk turn his head and look at Gil. He gave a nod, but the questions remained in the man's eyes.
Why was this suddenly not as easy as he had thought it would be? "The older I get, the more I wonder where I come from," he finally got out, hoping his hesitations were not being seen as rude. From his seat in the pushed down grass, the man produced a single pitch stained glove.
"I don't know what I can do about that," Hughberk stated stuffing the glove back in and resuming blindly groping about. Ire flooded Gilserand, and his eyes narrowed. Then he realized Hughberk's words were more true than he himself had wanted to hear, he probably did not know any more than what Gil had been told. Yet this guy had been there. His memory could hold details that might help me out.
As a boot with another often mended gray stocking came out of the canvas satchel. These joined the first sock and the worn belt in the grass near the stone road.
"So you did not know the woman you found me with? You had never seen her before?" A shrug came before the disappointing answer.
"Nope, I had never seen her before. Look, me and an old friend who is dead now, were out in Oldbeard. We heard you crying from some distance, so we came to investigate. We found you next to this dead woman. You were still attached to her by this gut tube in your belly button. That's all I know kid." Okay, proof that the woman was really my mother. That is progress.
Smiling now that he had hope some details were still with Hauberk, he squatted down to eye level. Hughberk had not been expecting Gilserand to do this. He was slow pulling out the last boot, puzzlement stark on his features.
"That actually helped. Some people had doubts that the woman out there had actually been my birth mother. Was she young, middle aged, older?" Viewing Gilserand's smile seemed to break through Hughberk's disinterest. The idea that he was actually helping produced the twitch of a return smile. This from a man who did not come across as expressive.
"She was young, maybe a handful of years passed her Gathering age. Trint thought she was a princess cause she had the good looks, fancy clothes, and jewelry of one." Hughberk said, stuffing a foot into a stocking that was begging for retirement.
She was rich? That would make her stand out. Rich women don't vanish without someone going out of their way to find them. These clues were pure gold!
"Do you think she came from Bolloren? Was she wearing the fashions of our capitol?" While drawing the boot over his heel, Hughberk gave a slight chuckle.
"Listen kid, I'm a woodcutter. I wouldn't know fashion if it came up and bit me. One thing I can tell you, no one around Alren wore clothes like she was wearing. She also had the brown eyes and brown skin of them folk who live near the southern sea. Trint, before he got himself killed, he checked up with the guards. The guards had sent a sketch of your mother to Bolloren. No one knew her in the capitol. No one came looking from foreign parts. Don't know what to tell you about that."
No one looked for my mother? That doesn't add up, Gilserand thought, trying to do the math without the full formula to work with.
"Did she have anything with her name on it, or was there a necklace or ring with a family crest on it? You said she was rich." Hughberk pondered this query as he laced up his boot. He shook his head before the words came out.
"No nothing like that. Her jewelry was nothing but fancy metals and fancier gemstones, those were in the only pouch she had on her. Nothing in there but a few rings, some bracelets, and a fancy silver necklace. If we had been big criminal masterminds, me and Trint would have nicked some of that stuff. Neither one of us knew a fence, or had ties with the syndicates. We talked ourselves out of it cause we were sure someone would come looking."
Hughberk had been busy stuffing toes into his other old stocking when he said that. After the admission had passed through his mouth, the man realized he might have triggered the offspring of the dead woman. Having grown up in the poor quarter of town, Gil did not have the instinct to protest such behavior. He knew he would have faced the same temptation if he had been there. He just nodded at the older man, as he tried to think of some other means there were for identifying a person. Relieved, the woodcutter quickly put his last boot on and began to work the laces.
"Did she have any tattoos or scars on her, anything that would stand out and help identify her."
Now sure that he was dealing with a person he could relate too, Hughberk's mien took on a little more animation. His smile actually lingered for a few seconds.
"Man, you think like a guard. When Trint got killed, I had to answer a whole batch of clever questions like that," Hughberk said, tugging the laces taut. Gil blinked at the compliment, even though the former prisoner had not thought it one. "Nah, she didn't have no visible scars or tattoos on her. Just her face. Sometimes it would be nice to have the tongue of a bard, cause when you see a beauty like that you wish you had the words to describe her, to make other people believe. Even dead, she hit me and Trint right here," he said, thumping himself in the center of his chest.
Gilserand found himself smiling, relating to the former prisoners longing for eloquence. He rose from his squat, still trying to find questions that would make tracking his real family down easier. Instead of an idea, Hughberk gathered the excess cloth of his pants then reached a hand out for Gil to help him up. Having grown up working hard, then playing even harder, Gilserand was able to heave the larger man to his feet. Awkwardly, the wood cutter began to feed his old worn out belt through the breeches belt loops. They both began speaking at once, Gil readily gave way to his elder with a hand gesture.
"I wanna thank you, Gilserand. I just got out of that bleak little hole and I was certain life out here wouldn't have been any better. You showed up and reminded me that I have done some good in my life, and that I still can do good. It has been a real pleasure seeing you, and seeing that you have grown all the way up."
Not certain why Hughberk would say something that nice too him, Gilserand was almost nonplussed. He recovered though, his own parting message needing to be expressed.
"It was nice meeting you too, Hughberk. Thank you for answering my questions. You may not know it, but you tripled my knowledge of that long ago day. A lot of people doubted that woman had been my mother at all. People thought I had been stolen from my real parents by a crazy lady." Hughberk studied him earnestly for a moment, taking in his features as if trying to memorize them. That moment eased when the older man smiled and nodded a farewell to Gil. Leaving Hughberk still threading the decrepit belt onto his pants, Gilserand turned south and faced the distant west bend in the stone road, and began the long walk back home.
Five Days Later
How can bitterness and excitement be working in me at the same time? Gilserand asked himself taking his place in a line of twenty people, many of whom were as young as he was. Possibly they were all there in Alren's Central Administration building looking for one of the many jobs the city had openings for. Even though he had a long wait before him, Gil felt an odd excitement. He was about to apply for a position in the guards, his first and hopefully his last application. However, his choice of careers was the reason why Randera the Widow and he had clashed that morning. Gil knew his joy was greatly muted from the words they had exchanged.
He had come out of his room that morning wearing the nice new clothes Randera had made for him, tailor fit for his fifteenth birthday. He was proud of the silver knee length breaches, and the rose red hose under them. His red shirt and silver vest actually complemented each other, and his silver tailed coat tied the whole suit together with its rose lining. These were the types of clothes that lace and embroidery had been made for, though those features were lacking. Satin begged for such embellishments though. Between the privacy closet and his bedroom was a full length mirror, one of the most expensive furnishings in their house.
The Widow found Gilserand admiring himself before the mirror as she came out of her own room, stuffing a shirt into one of the non hooped skirts she wore while working.
"Now I know why you say a tailored fit is much better than a general cut," he had said turning to see his profile and feeling lordly. These were the best clothes he had ever worn, and the fact they were his tended to boggle his mind. Though she smiled briefly, she seemed distracted as she weaved by some of her dummies holding partially completed projects. Her goal was the ofenherd, which he had stoked before getting dressed. Discovering that she did not have to light a fire, she wrested a skillet off the wall and started warming it before going to the cabinet that held ingredients.
Squatting with her head seemingly inside the cabinet, Randera the Widow called out an admonition.
"I made those clothes so you could go out and get a job, not for your everyday wear." Turning some more to see how well his suit fit him from behind he had to admit the coats tails were indeed unique and flattering. Breaking free from his reflection Gil also weaved around a stack of partial bolts of cloth and a modeling dummy with just a pinned up pattern on it.
"That's what I'm going to do. I'm going to eat then I'm going to go land a job." She popped out of the cabinet to give Gil a look, balancing three decent sized tea tins. Those containers had been repurposed to hold other sundries.
Setting one tin on top of their miniature larder, Randera the Widow's put the other two tins back inside then started moving things around on another shelf.
"So soon? You just had a birthday. You just got out of school. I thought for sure you would take a few days to catch your bearings." Gil started clearing off the end of the six person table closest to the ofenherd, but an imp of humor took hold of him.
"I'm old enough to drink now, and the road to alcoholism takes coins. As they say, time is wasting."
Popping out of the cabinet with a basket holding four eggs, The Widow gaped at him. An expression that turned sour when she witnessed his self satisfied grin. She was definitely not humored.
"That is not funny Gilserand. Why do you have this rush to grow up and get a job, why can't you wait?" Age had been catching up with Randera the Widow this last year. Her smile lines were now very pronounced and her crows feet showed full time rather than when she just smiled. Her hair had white roots as hair dye was a luxury item that she had to save up for. Seeing that she was not in a mood for levity, Gilserand sobered up. Why doesn't she want me to get a job...? Oh, she doesn't want me growing up on her.
Suddenly understanding Randera the Widow's motivations, Gil felt a wave of fondness fall over him. Since one seat was already ready and in position, Gilserand began clearing fabric scraps and a pin cushion off the other.
"When I was young, bringing a few fish home was a big help. Doing chores around the house was a big help. You know what would be a bigger help? Me doing those things and adding a job. Me working might just keep us from just scraping by." Features softening, Randera moved over to the table with several tins and eggs. Her next move was to grab her medium mixing bowl and their bottle of milk.
"What places are you going to apply at today?" she asked after she had let her feelings marinate for a minute.
Knowing Randera the Widows preferences, Gil moved the pin cushion to a small stand in the north west corner of the house. The drawer was full of pin cushions, but her favorites were displayed on top of the yellow painted furnishing.
"I'm going to apply with the guards first, Central Admin might take me the whole day...."
"No!" The Widow's voice cracked like a whip, making Gilserand turn to face her. Her face was splotchy with parts that were too red surrounded by flesh that was too pale, she was aiming a batter dripping whisk at his chest. "I was hoping you would grow out of that phase of your life. Every boy wants to be a soldier or a fireman because boys are stupid! Dammit, why haven't you grown out of it? Those jobs are dangerous!"
Gilserand had seen The Widow angry before, he himself had gotten on her bad side a number of times, but this display was something new. The woman who had raised him looked like she was ready to launch herself across the room at him.
"It's not that dangerous...," he started confused by her reaction. Randera the Widow did not allow him to finish, she actually advanced halfway by their six person table on him, the whisk held sword like in her small hand.
"Dammit Gil, the guards are constantly in danger! Every day...." Catching momentary control of the fury possessing her, she drew a deep breath that barely calmed her. "Is this because you like to fight? Were you a bully in school, Gil? Is that why you were always in trouble with Miss Hollobrand, you like the violence and now you want to continue beating on people?"
For half a second Gilserand was stung by the accusation, then his own anger flared. She fell back when he began to step around the table, his face twisted by how lowly Randera thought of him.
"Me a bully?" he hissed. "Everyone I ever fought was a bully. All the kids in school looked to me to protect them from the bigger kids! How dare you call me the bully!" Though he had stopped advancing his words seemed to drive Randera back to the ofenherd. Thoroughly stung by her baseless accusation Gil just marched for the exit. Slamming that door behind him, Gilserand had left the house and had stormed off for the center of town.
There was only one person dressed better than Gilserand in the line waiting for city applications. It was an overly plump older woman in embroidered pink silk, she had lace at her wrists and along the edge of the equally pink parasol she held over herself. Women are batty as hell, Gil observed placing his attention on the parasol. She's indoors, why, by the Burning Spirits, does she have that parasol open in here? Eventually he chalked the woman's behavior up to habit or affectation. After looking at the garb everyone else was wearing, Gilserand felt superior at first, but as he thought about things that feeling shifted and he began to feel self conscious. He stood out, and that might not be the best thing. Guards were never this fancy.
Without a clock, the wait in line started to weigh on the young man heavily. Though he doubted he had been waiting for a full hour, Gil thought that time mark might be very close. In that time only three people had received paperwork, and were shown to the left side of the waiting room where worn cubicles and ink quills waited. A familiar figure stepped through an eastern door that was only open to the bureaucrats working in the admin building. After turning around from closing the door behind himself, Capatiann Kinnert started to move across the room. Naturally the officer's eyes were drawn to the pink lady near the front of the line of people, but Gilserand was the second person that caught his glance. Gil thought it comic the way the man in his dark green and black uniform performed his double take. About to dismiss the young man in nice clothes, Kinnert's eyes snapped back as his boots squeaked on his sudden swaying halt.
Grinning at the surprise on the man's face he sketched a partial salute to acknowledge the captain. Wherever the officer had been heading proved to be unimportant as Captain Kinnert pivot stepped and marched directly towards Gil. Several of the other patrons in line started to watch the officer as he neared, finding the stimulus, any stimulus, was better than their wearisome wait.
"Are you here for what I think you are here for?" Captain Kinnert asked, studying Gilserand with his sharp dark blue eyes. Kinnert was tall and burly, capped with dark hair. His face was not the most expressive, but was usually set in negative lines as if he were ever ready to bark at a person's trespasses. He did have a pugilist's mashed nose and cauliflower ears, since he had been on the boxing team in his youth.
Despite his severe aura, Captain Kinnert was actually a gentle man. When Gil had been volunteering with the guard two years ago, the captain had been very receptive to his young often immature questions. The directions he had given Gilserand had always been thorough and well described, making the boy's training so much easier. If it had not been for Captain Kinnert doing him a favor, Gil would never have learned how to find the wood cutter Hughberk, volunteering his time to help cut through the red tape that would have caught the thirteen year old Gil up.
"Yes Sir," Gil said, drawing himself up, almost at attention. "I'm applying to the guard today."
Those eyes seemed to penetrate Gilserand as the officer studied him.
"Are you old enough yet? If you're trying to join before you're fifteen the guard will never take you." Gil's face must have assured Captain Kinnert before his answer issued forth.
"I turned fifteen two days ago, Sir." Please notice how soldier like I am being, he begged in his thoughts, trying to read the older man's mood through his visage. The soldier actually swayed a bit as puzzlement flashed on that hard mien.
"I partied for a week when I turned fifteen. What's your rush, Gilserand?" Because it is hard to respond to such an accusation when you do not think you are in a hurry, Gil was momentarily nonplussed. Soon his grin won forth as his mind found the perfect answer, however the man behind Gil cleared his throat. The line had advanced and they were holding the people behind up.
Taking Gilserand by his arm, Captain Kinnert eased the younger man out of the queue of people. No one hesitated taking Gil's place once he was clear. Feeling the loss of his position, Gil completely forgot to answer the officer's question. However, it seemed Captain Kinnert did not require one.
"Come with me, Gilserand. We'll get you set up in my office." Performing a smart about face, the officer started marching for the same door he had exited moments before. Elation began to fill Gilserand as he fallowed the officer to the north east of the waiting area, by having his application put directly in an officer's hand he was bypassing scores of indifferent bureaucrats. His papers would go directly to the high ranking officer's who actually made the hiring decisions.
From his position a few steps ahead, Captain Kinnert spoke again.
"Did you know Sergeant Dilburd and Corporal Graeseed recommended we take you on Gathering Day two years ago?" Pivoting to turn sideways, Captain Kinnert looked back at Gil while he reached for the door's handle.
"Yes, Sir. They had been thinking about advancing my name since I was eleven, almost twelve." Creases formed between Captain Kinnert's eyes as he ushered Gil through the threshold, obviously this was news to the officer. Gilserand waited for the soldier to take the lead again, as he had no idea where they were heading down the long white tile hall ahead.
As with the waiting room, the hall was lit by Gachtler made glow rods spaced every ten feet overhead. Those wrist thick, four foot long rods looked like some strange metal that glowed bright white. No Human knew how the clever little delvers made such fantastic contraptions, but over the last century, the price of these rods had come down so that they were becoming common place in many of the well to do districts in Alren.
"Dilburd and Graeseed are some of my best men. They're only alive because they work so damn well together. Highest arrest record in my unit, those two," Kinnert said as he moved ahead to lead the way. To Gil, it seemed the officer had been assessing him with his eyes in passing, whether for good or ill he did not know.
Half a step behind and on the officer's left, Gilserand had to agree with the older man's assessment. Doorways with numbers on them alternated every ten feet on first to the left then on the right, they passed one side passage that headed west on their northern route.
"Yes Sir. Sergeant Dilburd and Corporal Graeseed have been looking out for me for most of my life. They kept quit a few bullies off my kiester when I was just a scrawny little pup, until I could take care of them on my own. They may come off rough, but they are both fair." Stopping before a door numbered 462, Captain Kinnert opened the door and again indicated Gilserand to enter before him. The office was small, almost claustrophobically so.
There was a picture along the north wall, over a bank of three foot tall filing cabinets. The country scape west of Alren was captured in fine detail, though the bridge and track were shown to be rutted dirt. The picture must have been painted before Alren had laid the planed stone roads. East were more filing cabinets with barely any space to allow Captain Kinnert to squeeze by and get behind his spacious desk. That furnishing butted up against the south wall with two padded chairs that had floral patterns. Droll daisies vied with vivid pansies on the chair's fabric, they too lined the south wall. Behind the door was an unused coat rack.
As Captain Kinnert was taking his own seat, he indicated that Gilserand should pull out one of the gauche chairs for himself. After Gil was situated, the officer continued to fidget behind his desk, pulling out drawers and not finding what he was after. The man had to push back his big black leather seat in order to access the main drawer in front, his quick grin noted success as the man pulled out some papers, a quill, and ink bottle. An anomaly on the paper drew Gilserand's eye.
"Let's get you started Gilserand. Let's start with your full name." Gil saw the application in front of the captain already had his name spelled out in the first box, and Kinnert was just now unstopping the ink bottle.
Confused, Gil hesitated.
"Uh, Gilserand." Still not ready to begin writing, Captain Kinnert distractedly replied.
"No, son, we need a last name to put of this application." Gravity and clear thought seemed to distort at those words, Gil felt his heart sinking.
"I... I'm an orphan. I... was found in the woods. I don't know my father's surname... I don't know my father." Kinnert stopped casting about his desk for the item he seemed to have misplaced, his eyes were sharp but compassionate.
"That doesn't matter, Gilserand. We need a last name on this application, so make one up. It doesn't matter what it is, just as long as we fill that space in." Seeing that Gil was thinking about the instructions, the officer resumed casting about. The man had to retrieve another piece of paper from the front drawer, before he turned his attention back onto Gilserand. An eyebrow raised with expectation.
Though he had always wondered who his father might be, what his surname actually was, in all of his fifteen years Gil had never thought of granting himself a last name. While the officer had been casting about for his folded paper, Gil had been constantly distracted in his surname quest by memories of the fight with The Widow. The deep ache of her accusation of bullying still felt like a sundering wound in his chest.... That's it! It's a bit dramatic, but it sounds cool! Waiting with his pen poise to dip in ink, Captain Kinnert sat expectantly.
"The Rivenheart," he blurted, then calming he said it again with more dignity. "I am Gilserand Rivenheart." For once the smile stayed on the officers face for more than a few seconds.
"Ooh, I like that. Very dramatic. It's sure to get the ladies all bothered, that's for sure," Kinnert stated while nodding his approval.
As the quill wiggled back and forth in the writing process, Gilserand watched the new last name form upside down after his lifelong first name. That made him wonder why the captain had an application with Gil's name already on it. "Okay, we already know you're a resident of Alren. Do you have a house or are you to be quartered in the barracks with the other enlistees?" He found himself blinking at that question, Gil had assumed that his first year would have been spent in the barracks.
"Sir, I thought I had to live in the barracks at first?"
"Oh, you will. At least through your boot training, which takes about six to eight weeks. We are just wondering if we have to provide your housing and keep, or if you will be taking some of that expense upon yourself. The army likes to save a kipper when it can. believe me, the term food wants no association with the slop we serve in the barracks. You'll see."
With the troubles at home, Gil hesitated. Randera the Widow may be mad enough to kick me out. Should I assume that she'll be okay with me staying there? Should I just leave home now and be done with it? The officer broke in on his thoughts. "Your pay will be a little bit higher if you remain home, but not by much. We can change your status if you require it at any time in the future. We just need to know how you're initially going to set up just in case we have to fit you in. You lose about a pentamark each month staying in the barracks." A whole pentamark! How much does a guard get paid? Gilserand had never thought to ask in all his years of associating with Alren's soldiery.
"Unless I get kicked out, I have a place near the west walls."
"Okay." Kinnert said as he filled in the box, only pausing to take on fresh ink every once in a while.
That pen continued to fill in boxes, even though Captain Kinnert had not asked a further question. Gil wondered what information the paper was asking for.
"Sir, how much does an enlistee earn each month?" He felt silly asking that question, wondering if it might reflect poorly on him, make him seem greedy. Without looking up from his work, the officer had no qualms in answering, allaying the younger man's fears.
"You'll be getting twelve marks a month, since we won't have to get you in condition. If you were fat or skinny then you would only get ten marks a month because we would have to get you in shape. After you get out of boot camp, and you're more buff then you've ever been in your life, then your pay will increase to fifteen marks. Pay raises after that are at the discretion of your commanding officer."
Gilserand was stunned. He would be doubling the income Randera was already making. They could pay off the house in just a few years, and never go without meals again!
"That woodcutter got out of the pen almost a week ago, did you ever speak with him?" Captain Kinnert's query sideswiped Gil. He had not known that the captain would have remembered that detail of their earlier dealings, it had been two years ago. On top of that, the topic seemed out of place; they were filling out his application for a job after all.
"Uh, yes Sir, the man had some details that no one knew before." The quill stalled for a second as Captain Kinnert looked Gil in the eye, an eyebrow raised expectantly. "Uh, I had indeed been born on the spot, and my mother died. He said the umbilical was still attached. My mom had the brown skin of the folk living near the southern seas, wore nice clothes of a foreign design, she had some fancy jewelry in a pouch, and supposedly she was young and very beautiful."
The captain had returned to filling out Gilserand's application for him as the fifteen year old spoke.
"Do you think she was a noble woman?" Kinnert asked without looking up.
"I don't know. It sure seems she might have been. Hughberk had that impression, because of the fancy clothes, but even more so for the jewels." Now checking some boxes on Gil's behalf the officer did not raise his head.
"She might have been a pretty girl who caught the attention of a noble or royal. A noble man is not above lavish gifts when seducing a pretty face. They are also notorious for assassinating the mother's of their unwanted bastard children. Don't forget that fact. There are always alternate reasons for the way something seems. It will be your job to consider all the options why things could be the way they are, and not fixate on what looks most obvious. Details save lives. What major illnesses have you had in the past?"
The transition from lesson to question threw Gil off for a moment.
"Uh, I- yes Sir. Fogair fever when I was nine, Sir." More boxes were checked at speed. "Uh, Sir? Why would you have an application ready with my name on it?" Captain Kinnert partially looked up, the quill pausing mid stroke, but raised up off the ink starved paper. The gaze was sharp and the Captain's lip twitched up a smidgen. The older man pondered for a moment, then he responded without touching the question laid before him.
"From day one you are going to find yourself singled out like no other recruit. The officers will pick on you, make you work harder than the others. They are going to try and break you. Don't let them do it, Gil. Do the extra work, do it well. Don't give them a real reason to berate you. Memorize your books, absorb every lesson imparted on training days. Just don't quit! Promise me that you will honor your declaration to serve and not break, Gilserand Rivenheart?" Gil did not understand, but Captain Kinnert's sharp hopeful gaze was compelling.
RE: Chapter 3 Declarations - frenzied67 - 12-06-2024
Rare this far south, Bolloren had been struck by a blizzard on this last month of winter. Though the winds had howled like some titanic beast that had striven to drive all the heat out of the palace, the morning dawned clear and magical. Through Leachelle's window the world had been transformed to a pristine white wonderland where all the old scenery had been made innocent and clean looking. A new world, a young world carpeted in playful fluff. For only the second time in her fifteen years, there had been a snow that had not melted within hours of falling.
Her spirit was buoyed at the transformation of the capitol, gravity had only the most tenuous hold upon her as she dressed for her first day of leading a class of relic crafting. Though she was still but a student herself, she had mastered the crafting techniques for both organic and inorganic magic nodes. Leachelle herself would be graded on how well she passed on her knowledge of preparing and fastening a magic node into a setting to Ungathered students. This snow made her confidence swell almost beyond the bounds of her physical being. This was going to be the best day ever! Unfortunately she had not been able to share her joy with her father Ovellam, the staff claimed he had been called away before sunrise by the king.
Bundled up in her doe skin, sable lined great coat and matching mittens, Leachelle had set off for work early. She had wanted to enjoy her walk, in the fresh wonderland Bolloren had transformed into. Only a few children and horse drawn carts had beaten her to the snow. The kids skirmished with lofted snowballs or patted snowmen into being, their delighted cries tugging at Leachelle's own joy. The horses breath bellowed great plumes of fog as they crunched through the crust covered roads, their mincing steps proving they too were as unused to this type of weather as Human's were. Opening the door to her class was when all the magic was stolen from Leachelle, she was greeted by an all too familiar voice.
"Well, well, if it isn't the skinny princess." Taleen Haughten declared with a forming sneer.
As usual the platinum blond girl had two of her co-conspirators flanking her, and their smiles took on a predatory cast. Though Taleen and her interactions were few and far between since Leachelle had been Gathered, the blond girl had many adherents. A few times a week Leachelle, mostly in passing, would have to deal with Taleen's faithful who never let an opportunity pass to remind her of their animosity. Tall spindly Phinder Tugg and his shock of brown curly hair sat on Taleen's right, he liked to glare then check to see if he had won any approval from his blond master. Gorsche was a new addition to Taleen's cronies, a muscular but average sized young man with a very broad mouth. He had bleached his hair so that it looked like he had a blond tonsure at the top of his pate.
All through the class the trio sabotaged the lesson plan, talking over her, casting doubts upon Leachelle's assertions, and eventually resorting to a near assault on her person when they tried to hook her dress with a hoist that was in the classroom. The nightmare of her day was reflected in how she found Bolloren once again changed on her walk home. The roads and walks had been trampled into a gray slurry that was difficult to navigate and hideous to view. The padding of snow on top of buildings now seemed patchy and skewed after mostly melting. The long daggers of icicles had turned into vestiges of themselves, little toddler finger sized spikes that dripped their misery on to pedestrians below. The city had cut the viscera out of winter's gift in less than a day, making a hell scape out of so much promise.
The cutting cold that had felt so enervating that morning seeped into her bones while walking home, bringing shivers and wretchedness. Three ladies of the palace staff met her at the door. One began to dab at Leachelle's boots, drying them before water was tracked into King Uldarnan's home. Another young staffer helped Leachelle peel off her mittens, the third had a tray of mulled cider. The cinnamon and brandy seemed to spread heat through her chilled body from the first sip, like liquid salvation. Father should be home now, maybe he will have an idea of how I can regain control of my class. Thanking the three young women, the apprentice magister began taking the nearest stairs to the north western portions of the palace.
Even though Leachelle was now in the palace, the memory of being mocked in her own classroom played and replayed in her mind. The entire class had laughed when Gorsche had lowered the hooked chain of the hoist behind Leachelle's back, then had attached that hook to the lower hoop of her dress. She had felt the tug when trying to walk, demonstrating three differing types of files used in shaping settings for a relic. At that point, Phinder had ran to the hoist and began to work the windlass, raising the hook. Leachelle had looked ridiculous trying to hold her dress down and remove the chain from her clothing. Echoes of the laughter still made her ears and face burn with the shame. Her leadership trials were already in a tailspin, and she was terrified of the weeks to come.
A long time ago Leachelle would have darted for the solace of her bedroom, her safe place from the worlds slings and arrows. Now she tried to hide her disquiet as her boots echoed up and down the marble floor and gilt edged hall paneling. While exchanging a curtsy in passing with a young noble lady on the third floor, Leachelle felt mortification when the girl's eyes had flashed to her magister guild pin. Only two years into her job and she was already failing so miserably making her unworthy of her title. That shame was hard to hide, hard to conceal with her oft practiced neutral face. Father please be home, I need your help more than ever! There had been a time where that unspoken plea would have been directed to her mother. The stairs up the next flight never seemed longer.
Turning into the third hall heading west, where the walls were light blue, the molding dark blue, the picture frames and display stands inlaid in silver, and the marble floor had bluish whorls, Leachelle noticed two guard officers walking her way. Heads together, they seemed quite intent on their conversation; their eyes flicked to her and then off in less than a heartbeat. They were the out of place element in the palace, making the young magister stare. Rarely was there a military element above the ground floor, except in times of emergency. Did the blizzard cause more problems than just dumping a large amount of snow on us? What could be another reason for the soldiers visit? Through her father's close association with the military, Leachelle had been privy to many security discussions.
Officers always talked about campaigns, and more often than not, those military matters were about foreign wars and not associated with Bolloren at all. Still, she had not heard of any wars going on. Not that the Gachtler or Faelora had not started something this last summer past and the word was just now reaching the Human world here in the south. Could that have been the reason behind her father leaving so early this morning? Why would a far off war require his attentions though?
".... cavalry will be useless in Oldbeard, especially in this weather," one declared to the other as she was passing.
"We'll need them if this campaign starts taking more time than we think...."
What campaign are they talking about? Leachelle wondered after her ears ceased to pick up on the guard's talk. Bolloren was practically surrounded by Oldbeard Forest. What was happening? Turning into the slight recess that held the door to her and her father's suit of rooms, Leachelle had to shy back when that door opened and the threshold was filled with two more officers. Older men with higher ranks than the two men in the hall. Though their eyes widened as hers did, the surprise mutual, their salutes to her magister's pin was immediate.
"Pardon us, miss," one said as they parted to allow her entry. Hesitantly she stepped in to find their living quarters a hive of activity.
The main room of their quarters was a large eye shaped oval, with an area for dining next to a carpeted area with sofas and chairs to the dining tables in the room's east. The western portion of the main area held her mother's paintings and sculptures, most of which she had made herself; a miniature art gallery. Five families could live in the main room without any friction from close proximity. Four other apartments adjoined the main living/dining area, before each door was a series of three marble steps and a marble landing that was round. In the north east was Ovellam's circular bed chamber. As with all four rooms, the space was half the size of the main living area.
Across the room in the south west was her father's study, a place that was part library, part laboratory. Leachelle's quarters were in the north east across from the family library and music room. Mother's now silent piano was surrounded by the books she had shared with her husband and daughter. Ovellam was directing servants into packing items into travel trunks and duffel bags even as he was stuffing rolled maps and papers into a water proof cylindrical case at the table. This had happened before. Leachelle's heart fell as a selfish part of herself realized her father would not be acting as her advisor.
That part of her psyche fell silent as her other fears reared up. He was taking to the field which meant danger. Only battle drew Ovellam out of Bolloren, though there had been occasions when he had been sent to straighten out the politics of some towns and villages that served the capitol. Having seen officers in their place meant it had to be war, and not a local diplomatic event. Now I understand why mom cried when he left to serve.
She crept forward a few steps then stopped to study her father, wanting a mental picture in case this was the last time she would see him. In the last two years he had slimmed down from the three hundred plus pounds he had weighed, but he had not come close to the slenderness he had when mother had been alive. In exchange, his once dark hair had become even more peppered with white, and he had stopped wearing his short cropped beard; that had lost all color. How can he be so calm and in control, Leachelle wondered as he directed a man in palace livery not to pack his good cloaks, I would be terrified. He even laughed, finding the exchange with the staffer humorous as the man returned the clothing to his room. Still smiling he turned and caught sight of her near the threshold.
The way his smile grew caught at Leachelle, only a great joy in the heart could be expressed that freely, that readily.
"My little leaping lilac lily, come here," he said opening his arms. Ovellam greeted her in the mornings, every morning with a hug, and every night when he came home he met her with the warmest embrace. If he heard her sob when she flew into his arms he did not make a comment. He just folded his arms around her and held on tightly. That secure hold did not change one iota as she hid her tears in his red silk coat. Only when Leachelle had gained control of her emotions and laid her cheek against his chest did his grip lessen a little. "I guess you know what's going on?"
Before answering, Leachelle intensified her own hug.
"I know you're riding off into danger again. What is going on?" Before pushing her an arms length away, Ovellam sighed heavily. His gray eyes probed his daughters face for a few moments, the space between his eyes creasing a little at what he found.
"It is the Sauri. They came out of their swamps and met up with their forest cousins. Together they raided Halems Court a few days ago, this is a small village four days south of here. Over two hundred people were killed." His mouth twisted with distaste for the loss of life.
"This is bigger than them hitting a few farms isn't it?" Leachelle's question made fondness and pride vie on his face for a few seconds.
Letting go of her forearms, Ovellam half turned away. He called out to the staff bustling around their living quarters, before directing his attention back to her query.
"Okay that 's enough! Please load this on the carriage when it comes around! Make sure the whole bundle is wrapped against the weather, it will be wet and miserable enough without me wearing clothing that has sucked up all the rain that falls in the south! I thank you all for the help you have given me! This is much bigger than some raids. The tribes are riled up for some reason and they are blaming us. King Uldarnan wants us to end this quickly, but the Sauri are nigh impossible to pin down. These upright lizards know the woods, they are not going to stand still to meet us. Not unless we get real lucky that is."
Ovellam's shoulders slumped a little as he talked, like a man who was weary even before his labors had started.
"You are not going to be able to end this quickly, I take it?" His smile had a wincing quality to it.
"I've played this game before. It will take months before we catch up to one of their bands. If we don't put the fear into them with that opportunity, then we will have to chase them around for several months more. If we kill enough of them right off, then they will either melt away back to their swamps, or they will sue for peace and list their grievances. Their demands are always bizarre as all get out, they never seem to understand that each city is it's own government. They think all of us humans are one people, monolithic and unified. So if Lansee in western Tanbril stole their fish, they would consider raiding Bolloren's territories as teaching Lansee's people a lesson.
That was not just the Sauri's view of the three magic using races, many of the tribal species viewed Humans, Faelora, and Gachtler each as monolithic races. Gobesh and Giants were just as confused about how the three civilized races were structured, even though they had many 'nations' with their own people.
"How do you usually come to grips with the Sauri?" she asked pulling out a silver inlaid chair of white wood from the matching table. She had to hold the top and middle hoops of her skirt so they would flex rather than crumple when she perched on the seats edge. Ovellam handed his map case to his assistant who was helping the palace staff haul the trunks and bags out.
Leachelle's question made him think for a few moments, his distant eyes turned inward to view memories. Ovellam grimaced slightly before relaying his answer.
"A decade ago we trained to fight in smaller units. We could break our forces up, but remain close enough that the leading units could be reinforced in minutes. We could scour a larger section of the wilderness which increased our chances of finding the tribes, then we would be able to coalesce and deal with them." She read the regret on his features and realized her questions were brushing upon something her father was not liking.
"A decade ago? How are the guards training differently now?"
Leachelle did not like how wan Ovellam's smile was, but he did reach over and squeeze her slender shoulder; one of the ways he demonstrated he admired her sharp mindful questions.
"They aren't training differently. What is happening is that King Uldarnan listened to the wrong advisors. I have to ride out with green troops and inexperienced officers, and use the troops of the towns and villages where we maneuver. I am not getting any help from experienced veterans. His Highness believes he has to conserve his experienced soldiers to defend the city. I'm not even allowed to command veteran relic wielders." That answer sent chills down Leachelle's spine, her father was going into increased danger since he was not surrounded by soldiers who knew what to expect. "How about you, Leaper? What has your heart feeling down?"
One thing about her parents, living and dead, they had always been attuned to Leachelle's emotional well being. She did not know how Ovellam knew about her bad day, but he had somehow sensed she was low. But my problems are so small and petty compared to his! How can I burden him now, he has so much more on his shoulders than I could ever handle? Grasping his forearm, feeling the embroidered leaves of the roses stitched out in thread under her fingers, she looked up at her father.
"I wish I could go with you and watch your back out in the field," she said, avoiding her problems to address his.
Ovellam's eyes widened for a moment, as if he were viewing the Burning Spirits pit of torments, before they softened into his expression of fondness.
"Be careful of what you wish for. I dread the day you start combat training with the relic you will bond with. If your magic relic manifests like mine, then you will live a life time fighting, breaking things with the army instead of creating. While I would feel safe under your protection, my wish for you is to become someone who builds things, whose abilities help make people's lives better." Shortly after that conversation, Ovellam had to leave. His job required him to liaise with the guards and make sure they had the equipment they would need. He stated the first battle his soldiers faced would be requisitioning enough food, clothing, weapons, and ammunition they would need in the field.
Leachelle sat for a long while in the silence of their apartment wondering about her father's upcoming battle with the bean counters, then the solitude of her situation struck her. No one was around, no life existed in this great big oval space. Not even the fires crackling out heat alleviated the sheer emptiness in and around Leachelle. After a while she realized she was overdressed, still in her mink lined coat and mittens. The act of shedding her outside clothing felt like an exercise in loneliness, a form of movement that lacked meaning. When the servants brought her dinner, Leachelle wanted them to stay, wanted any contact she could get. They just set her table, laid out her food, then cordially sought her pardon before leaving.
Mother, what do I do? Father has gone to fight again, and I am failing in my tasks. I thought to soar oh so high, but my wings are broken and the ground spins closer and closer. The problem with talking to the dead was they did not answer. The mental images she held of Inagred Gueardan were beginning to fade, no longer an anchor of solace Leachelle could cling too. After picking at her food for over an hour, the quietude began to weigh overly heavy. So Leachelle resorted to a coping mechanism she had sworn she was too old for. She went to bed early, huddling under her blankets as she had as a child. Instead of safety, instead of comfort, she found her worries. Her class laughing at her. Her father turning and walking for the door, his fate uncertain.
Hours dragged by bringing her the torment of that hook raising her dress' hem, Taleen cackling uproariously leading the class in their mockery of Leachelle. She rolled about fruitlessly, mussing her bedding till it tangled with her limbs. Hours of watching Ovellam's pained wince, "I've played this game before. It will take months before we catch up to one of their bands. If we don't put the fear into them with that opportunity, then we will have to chase them around for several months more. If we kill enough of them right off, then they will either melt away back to their swamps, or they will sue for peace and list their grievances." Over and over, the torments of the Burning Spirits keeping her from the sleep she needed to face her next day.
Again she held up the channeled wood chisel, "What do you think this is used for?" she had asked her students. With hooded eyes and sneering lips Taleen answered.
"Maybe you can make some breasts, you haven't seemed to grow any of your own." All those snickers had grown into full blown laughter. Father's shoulders sagged from all the responsibilities he shouldered. Over and over the images brought her pain, keeping Leachelle from formulating a plan or tactic she could use to regain control of her students; or even fill the emptiness of her living quarters.
Dammit, I need solutions! I need sleep! Leachelle was fatigued, so tired that her thoughts were muzzy and disjointed, her round room of silver and blue overly quiet with the late hour. Her body writhed slowly with the disquiets haunting her. No solution hove to in her mind, just another haunting vision of her father. "I've played this game before. It will take months before we catch up to one of their bands. If we don't put the fear into them with that opportunity, then we will have to chase them around for several months more." She did not even have the spirit to scream into her pillow, instead frustration started to sting her eyes with tears.
Just like that, the clearest image of her mother appeared behind her eyes, a memory from long ago. One of the rare times Inagred had chastised Leachelle, her perfect face twisted with disapproval.
"Listen to your father, he is trying to teach you how to be a good person, and you're acting like all the other brats that live here!" Shocked, Leachelle tried to hold onto that image of her mother, so many details of that face she wanted to cling to. Yet all she could grip was the ire filled blue eyes seeming to look down on her. In Leachelle's efforts to grip that memory, she stopped rolling about.
"If we don't put the fear into them with that opportunity, then we will have to chase them around for several months more."
At first her father's words seemed like interference with her efforts to bring her mother's image back, then their importance began to dawn on Leachelle. This is how father deals with his enemies! These are tactics! How can I apply this idea to my problems? Leachelle wondered how she could put the "fear" into Taleen, knowing that if she figured that out, she could salvage her class. This idea felt like she had been put on the right path, clarity chased the fog from her thoughts. Possibility beckoned her on, the solution was at her... finger (yawn)... tips....
Servants in the king's livery throwing her curtains wide brought Leachelle out of her sleep. Morning light streamed in, from a sky that held clouds dark with the promise of rain or snow. I fell asleep. Thank the Lords of Light and Life! I'm tired but I think I can come up with a plan before I leave for work. With a smile the plump older woman attending her finished pouring hot water into the washing basin then moved from Leachelle's room, the sounds of her breakfast being laid out came from the outer chamber. She moved over to her wardrobe and began to pick through her scores of dresses, most of them displaying colors from the purple spectrum, each waiting for her consideration.
Here we go, Leachelle decided, finding a dress that did not sport any lace, and the periwinkle embroidered daisies made the outfit seem no nonsense. Something she could work in or possibly brawl in. How am I going to put the fear into Taleen today? she mused as she washed her face. Her purple and pink pajamas were flung onto her tossed bed, as she dressed with determination, everything would be cleaned and made up for her by the time she came home. Scenario after scenario was concocted, then discarded. At the lonely table in the main room, she ate with more gusto than her evening meal. Between bites of toast and boiled eggs an idea did hit her, and she was shocked at the daring it would require. The repercussions could even prove disastrous to her career. Lords of Light and Life, give me an alternative, she begged; nothing else presented itself to her troubled thoughts.
Walking to the workshop classroom was not as carefree as the morning before. Not only had most of the snow gone, except for the dirty gray heaps of piled snow and forlorn snowmen with drooping faces, the whole city of Bolloren seemed gripped in a soggy chill. A city as uncertain as one of its daughters wondering if her course of action would be the right one. Before her classroom door, Leachelle paused, still in two minds if her gambit should even be tried. It was bold, too bold for her usual approach to life. Yet it was the only recourse she could see. If only there was no chance that her students would turn her in for abuse. Mother, watch over me, Lords of Light and Life, watch over me, I need thy aid now, she prayed trying to put steel in her spine. Opening the door felt like she had set herself careening down the steepest of hills, towards disaster.
Feeling as if she were gripping false determination Leachelle marched into the old shop. The interior of the combination shop and classroom was dominated by a large circular wooden work bench. All her students were seated around that circle of scored and scorch marked wood. More benches lined the north, west, and south walls, but those stations had drawers and racks that held the tools and paraphernalia of the subject she was to teach; those work stations were even more scarred and stained than the central one. An office space, with open rectangles where windows should have been, took up the east side. A small box like desk was in that office, but Leachelle's only use for that space was the coat rack near the useless door. Any one could enter that place through the large empty window spaces in the wall. The large hoist with its dangling hooked chain sat between the office and the round bench, five feet from either feature. A series of tracks on the ceiling would allow that hoist to be positioned almost anywhere in the facility.
Taleen, Phinder, and Gorsche with his Gobesh grin seemed delighted when Leachelle swept confidently into the shop, they perked up in their seats near the hoist in the northern part of the class. The twelve other teens, her students, looked expectant, as if they were certain they would be entertained.
"Good morning, class," Leachelle said walking toward the table while stripping her mittens off. No one returned her greeting, but grins broadened throughout the room. Her own smile felt false in the face of all that ridicule waiting to come her way. Tossing her mittens onto the bench between a girl her own age, and a burly man a few years older, Leachelle's hand dipped into her pocket and pulled forth her relic level wand, her second training relic made of stained maple wood.
All those smiles vanished into wide eyed uncomprehending looks when tendrils of power lashed out from Leachelle and her wand. Taleen was hoisted out of her chair by her hair, more feelers of magic gripped the blond girl by her ankles stretching her out in thin air, another lash gagged the scream of pain and terror that almost tore the air from the beautiful blond girl. Some students fell out of their seats as they scrambled back, Gorsche gaped helplessly at Taleen, but Phinder's hand darted for his vest pocket.
"If you pull your talisman I will rip her hair out by the roots," Leachelle threatened Phinder, her face a mask of malevolence. Inside Leachelle a three front war waged with her emotions. Fear of the repercussions that could fall her way, fear of how easy the violence came to her, and the exhilaration she found in her capacity for violence; the power it made her feel.
The tall curly crowned fifteen year old boy licked his lips, his eyes switching between Leachelle and the girl he followed like a pup; his shaking hand moved away from any of his pockets. She spread her cold gray gaze onto the rest of the students to make sure they knew her threat was for them as well. She had their complete attention. With a circular motion of her wand, the leashes of magic holding Taleen alternated, spinning the girl until she was held upside down in midair. Leachelle advanced upon her victim, secretly reveling in the fear she found in the girl's pale blue orbs. "Before us lie several choices," she started, amazed at how steady her voice was. Standing inches from Taleen's gaping face, she could hear whimpers escaping the gag of magic.
Raising the wand up next to her own face, Leachelle made sure her nemesis saw and realized that her relic was more powerful than the talisman Taleen herself carried. "You can report me for this assault on your person, which is legally your right... well it is the right of every one of you students to report me." She spread her look around to make sure they all knew this message was not just for the terrified blond. "Sure I will be removed from teaching, but during the investigation the disruptions you brought to my class will be revealed. I will remain a magister, but you, you will be kicked completely out of the program. Now you can choose this course if you want, but the alternative is this. You learn what I have to teach."
Still staring into Taleen's streaming eyes, Leachelle felt more than noticed the palpable change in the room. Her words seemed to be reaching receptive ears, at least among the students not trussed up and dangling in the air. "You don't have to like me, but you stop sabotaging my class. You will learn the proper way to prepare and affix a magic node to an item making them into relics, and advance to the next phase of becoming a magister. I will do that for you despite how you feel about me. In six weeks we will be done with each other, and that will be it," she said backing away from Taleen and looking once again around the learning facility. Eyes were still wide, but the fear was gone from everyone but the three who had tormented Leachelle since puberty.
Using the magic from her wand, the red faced girl was once again spun about til she was upright but still hovering several feet up. The tendrils that gripped Taleen shifted to hold the girl around her torso rather than suspending her by her mussed platinum tresses. Sobbing silently was all her old enemy could do, while tall poofy haired Phinder all but wrung his hands with the anxiety he was exhibiting. Gorsche was introspective as he spread his looks between Leachelle and Taleen. Though he had bleached the top of his hair blond, he did not look as enamored of Taleen as he had at the beginning of class.
Dropping the magic gagging Taleen, Leachelle faced her one last time. "Do we have a deal, student Taleen?" Unnable to use her voice from her sobs, the blond nodded with eye water and snot forming droplets off her upper lip. Doubts about the violence she was using still threatened her commanding demeanor, yet she still lowered Taleen and released her from the skein of power. My gambit isn't through, she admitted shaking on the inside, wondering how Taleen was going to respond to her assault. "I understand that what I did to you was an affront, if you declare the necessity of satisfaction you could challenge me to a duel."
This produced multiple gasps throughout the room, and the mood returned to mass tension. Gorsche tilted his head and studied Leachelle as if seeing something he had never expected. Phinder put his arm around Taleen, attempting to console the weeping teen. For her part Taleen turned her face around and down, not wanting to make eye contact; unwilling to choose this third option. She only savagely shook Phinder Tugg's arm off of her after Leachelle turned her attention to the rest of the class. It worked! I "put the fear" into her! That jubilant thought wavered then fell away to fear and disappointment when Taleen grabbed up her coat while heading for the door, Phinder slow to copy her. Burning Spirits take me! She's going to tell on me!
Wide mouthed Gorshce just pulled his stool back up to the large round bench. What do I do? Leachelle was certain her enemy was about to leave and go report this incident to the guild, yet her victory also sang in her veins; heady with the power of the whole exchange. "Can anyone remember the difference between a stone chisel and a wood chisel?" she asked as the rest of the class began pulling their stools up, seats that would not have been out of place in a tavern. As Leachelle was finding out that she would have to repeat parts of yesterday's bungled lesson, Taleen and Phinder hesitated at the door. The tall boy whispered at Taleen, gripping her by her shoulders. He seemed to be urging her to leave. Again his hands were shook off, before Taleen led them back to their stools. The girl cried through the entire class, Phinder and his unwanted attentions agonized nearby.