Chapter 7 Manifestation

[frenzied67]

7/30/24

Ch7
Manifestation

Gilserand felt as though he was set between two worlds. Behind him fires flickered and guards laughed and played games with dice and cards, the living sounds of Humanity. Before him, as he stalked between the line of horses and the sharpened stakes angled at the night, tree frogs and crickets sang among strange trees wearing robes of moss. A world with the continuous whir of night music that could drown out all other sounds if he let it. After a month in the field he had learned that it payed dividends to pay attention to the horses, they could detect unusual things in the night that he could not see or hear himself. Even under these moss laden trees, tied to the picket line by their halters, they were better sentries than he could ever be.

This night the camp was on a high point of land in the forest, twenty five feet below a somewhat steep slope was the nameless jungles that were farther south than the lands controlled by Bolloren. After reaching the end of his meander before the horse lines, Gil turned about and began the fifty yard march to the northern stretch of the picket. There was one forty five degree bend in his line where he paced, where the horse lines not only had a gap, but they bent to accommodate the contour of the high ground. A blood bay horse snorted and stomped just ahead of Gilserand. When the horse did not pull on the line and continue snorting he realized the animal had awakened from the scent or sound of a person it knew; it was not shying away from a foreign stimulus.

Funny all the things I've learned this past month, mostly from observation. Sure enough a figure appeared where the horses pickets split at the bend. Just a slender silhouette, the person peered left and right. The way they tilted their body, one leg raised for balance, to peer up the northern bend informed Gilserand who his visitor was. She obviously had not seen Gil when looking his way to the west, the young lady was definitely night blinded from the copious firelight she had just quit.

"Gil?", Private Astrude queried the night, her voice low and vaguely tremulous.

Clearing his throat first as Gilserand continued to pace closer to the scout, he could not help but smile for what he intended.

"I ssspit you for the glory of the Sssauri nasshion," he declared in a quiet voice, extending his sibilants to mimic what he thought a Sauri would sound like. Alerted by the gravelly throat noise he had made first, his fellow guard turned his way with a laugh.

"It would be my luck to be speared by the ugliest Sauri ever hatched from an egg." His smile broadened as he came to a halt before Scout Astrude.

"Wait a minute, I'm a prince among my kind. By what knowledge do you judge my looks?" With both hands Astrude pushed a bowl into his chest, steam carrying a savory stew like scent to his nose.

With her usual quick wit, the scout had a counter to his joking challenge, as if she knew before hand what he would be saying.

"My urge to retch in your presence is all the criteria I need." In the light Astrude was a pretty brunette with long brown hair. Her dark eyebrows were thicker over her dark brown eyes and really thin at the edge of her orbital sockets. Wide cheek bones fit nicely with her oval face, deep smile lines framed nose and mouth. She had a short sloped button like nose with seemingly wide but delicate nostrils, the top of her smile lines followed the contours of those nostrils then angled out to the outer edges of her lips. Those lips were thin on top but somewhat thick with the lower swell; her teeth seemed to shine in the dark when she smiled, vestigial dimples formed just outside her smile lines when her grin manifested.

Gilserand was also very aware of her long smooth neck, which he imagined more than saw in the twilight margins between the Human world and the natural one. The private was a very desirable young woman, and she seemed to like Gil for some strange reason. Yet, though he loved spending time with her, the fire of desire never quite seemed to flare for him. For Astrude's part, she never quite provided tender for a flame to take root; though she flirted mercilessly when she thought an officer was nowhere in the vicinity. She seemed to have found him a safe vehicle to test her wiles upon; though there were many who did find her attractive, Astrude was not as confident in herself as someone with her looks usually was.

When he tried to take the bowl her hands remained under his for a few moments longer than a hand off required. Trust not lust. After the fiasco three weeks back where three scouts and two rangers had been murdered by the Sauri, the Bolloren rangers and Alren scout units had adopted Gilserand and even championed his cause with the senior officers. No more were the horse jocks allowed to haze him or abuse him.

"What mystery stew do we have here, and how many casualties did we take from the cooks tonight?" Gilserand asked as Astrude slowly withdrew her hands from under his. Chuckling at his characterization of the fare they were fed, the guard woman gave a surprising answer.

Taking his dueling spear from him, Astrude stepped back a half step.

"Tonight it's actually good. They didn't mix a bunch of food packs together for once. We scouts and rangers finally got permission to take game if we're not on the line. There's rabbit, squirrel, partridge, and I think one of those new tiny jungle deer in this stew. If only we had fresh vegetables to go with, then we would be living like kings and queens." Gil wasn't sure if she could see his widened eyes or amazed expression.

"You mean this meat wasn't stored away when our grandparents were young?" Her laugh came out as clear as water flowing in a rocky stream bed.

Firelight made her toothy grin seem to glow as she was pivoting to face north, Astrude began to walk along the parameter line so he could eat.

"Only the potato, carrot, and onions saw the passing of the last Faelora emperor. Eat up, I'm missing out on a killer card game for your stupid ass." She began to pace in earnest after he saluted her with the bowl. Squatting with his back against the tree where the picket line was anchored for the western horse line, Gilserand whispered a reassurance to the nearest horse who had snorted at the stew's smell.

Astrude had not lied to him, the fresh meat in the stew made a world of difference. Even the old vegetables seemed softer and more flavorful due to the addition of the various game meats. I wonder if we'll get the extra dried meat and jerky in our lunch rations now that we're getting fresh game for our other meals? Lunches were usually just meal packs that the cooks opened for the soldiers. I wonder how much trouble Major Liethor will actually be in when this expedition is over. They say the colonel was not very happy when he found out how the cavalry was treating me. If there's a courts martial I'll have to testify. It won't actually go that far will it? Unable to find an answer then and there, Gilserand just ate his stew and teased Astrude when she passed by walking his parameter.



Her refuge, the black she had retreated to while being beaten, was shaken by an odd slithering warmth across her back that wriggled then vanished. Was a serpent crawling across her body? Or was this her own warm blood still spilling out from the beating she was taking? The sensation returned, it slithered across the small of her back, oddly warm but cool at the same moment. Once again the sensation was transitory, there, then gone. A male voice droned indistinct sounds, and was answered with a woman's voice; a single uttered sound that did not register as a word. The raging pain in her body seemed to be fading away. They always said agony vanished before death came, still she thought it was better to die in the void....



"Hmm," a strange male voice intoned before Leachelle heard porcelain tap wood. "She obviously likes dolphins and horses, an odd combination of creatures."

"They have no bearing here. I just want the girl to wake up before we have to release those other kids, we need to know who was torturing her, and why," another male voice, not as deep as the first, responded. The word torture triggered her last waking memory, and Leachelle's eyes flew open; heart hammering. Above her was the familiar canopy of her own bed, the smell of lavender on her pillow also helped her orient her whereabouts. She was home; she was safe. How?

Before she could turn or lift her head to look at who was in her room, the last speaker realized she was stirring. "Gunther, she's awake!" Once again fear suffused her system when she saw two strange but well dressed men in her room. The man on her left was short and dark, having the stamp of a people who lived along the south western coast of the southern sea. Brown eyes and black hair with curls so tight they looked like batches of tiny springs adorned his head, this man had a flat nose with wide nostrils. The Bolloren magister's pin he used to hold his cloak told Leachelle who this visitor was; Sir Odemphi Sulhu, the only magister to have been knighted in Bolloren's history. Chief investigator in charge of the guard protectors.

It was the other taller man who addressed her though.

"Be at ease, Leachelle Gueardan, I am Lord Gunther Kriegle, truth finder for his Majesty, King Uldarnan. This is Chief Investigator Sir Odemphi Sulhu. Do you remember what happened to you last evening?" Lord Kriegle was a very tall man, possibly close to seven foot in height. He had wavy golden hair, styled to perfection. Dark eyebrows hinted that his hair or brows may have been colored. His blue eyes had an intensity that alarmed Leachelle, like those of a raptor about to dive on a fish; she felt like the finned creature he was currently fixated upon. He had a long thin nose, almost aristocratic, but failing that by having a slight bump at the bridge. His lips were thin and seemed permanently set in serious lines. Like Leachelle the lord had long ears, which was probably why he wore his hair longish and had the waves trained to cover all but his earlobes.

Sitting up made her back muscles pull uncomfortably, all around her ribs and belly the tissue felt stiff and sore making her adjustment more of a chore than usual.

"I... I was beaten with relic magic," she admitted, raising her hand to feel her cheek where she had been lashed. Thank the Lords of Light and Life, I must have been healed. Though her muscles twinged, she did not feel any of the lacerations she had sustained during the skirmish, and her face felt smooth and unscarred. She had been put in her peach night shirt, a bit of clothing she had not worn for over a year, her hands and wrists showed old yellowing bruising.

"His Majesty saw to it that you were sent to the healers, you were beaten most severely, Miss Gueardan," Sir Sulhu informed her. "Can you tell us who exactly it was that assaulted you?"

When Leachelle had been younger, she had her huge bed chamber set up with curtains to divide the space into a dozen sections, each with their own purpose. Those fifteen feet tall curtains ranged from lavender at the top of the dividers to dark purple at their base. To her right was a silver and white night stand with a lantern seemingly balanced upon a white porcelain horse. Beyond that was her matching vanity, which was basically a desk with many drawers, and a large mirror. Make up products were still scattered haphazardly across it's surface. That is where the marble wall was bisected by a curtain that curved in a semi circle around her canopy bed.

Rectangular tables sat end corner to end corner, next to and following the drapery's crescent, all were painted white with silver trim; dolls and stuffed animals in the thousands faced her canopy bed from those platforms. Nearer, five round tables with the dual argent motif were set in a crescent between the outer barrier of tables and her bed. Four of those tables were dedicated to porcelain figurines, while the one on the far left was for her breakfast; the only table with chairs. Lord Kriegle was just in front of the middlemost of those five tables. To Leachelles left, along the marble wall, was two large wardrobes dedicated to her sleeping garments, then nearer at hand was her other nightstand and matching horse lamp. Sir Odemphi was between her eating table, and her wardrobe, just before the gap in her drapery leading to her alcove of fashion which held racks and dressers dedicated to her clothing.

By the Lords of Light and Life, this is an official investigation. These men are Bolloren's top investigators, not mere guards. Leachelle had a guilt laden vision of herself suspending Taleen upside down in the class she had lead last winter, and she knew this deed would become a point to the two men before her. Wincing at both her physical discomfort and the trouble she was about to land in, Leachelle briefly thought about what to hide and who to protect.

"I was beaten by Taleen Houghton and Phinder Tugg, but there are other people involved." The knight raised an eyebrow, his thick lips pursed, but it was Lord Kriegle who fired off the obvious query.

"Who were these other people, and what was their involvement in this situation?"

Licking her lips, Leachelle worried about informing on Mishiel. Then she realized the girl had never been her friend. I thought she liked me, I thought we were becoming close. It was all a lie. Mishiel planted herself on me, and helped plan the attack!

"Mishiel Orngutter helped set up the ambush for Taleen, Lieutenant Echart Dunn bribed the doorman for the use of the cellar. There were two dark haired young men who acted as Taleen and Phinder's lantern bearers, I don't know who they were. Buchanin Hansil was my date, but he didn't come to help me through the attack. I doubt if he was involved, but at this point I don't really know. Who came to my rescue? Who broke up the attack on me?"

At her question both men tilted their heads like dogs trying to hear familiar sounds from their Human's diatribe. Mound like furrows formed on Sir Odemphi's brow.

"You did, Miss Gueardan. You shielded yourself with your relic then knocked the club's cellar door off it's hinges. We've been told that those are both rare feats for a magister in training." Leachelle tried to pull her head back as her own forehead wrinkled with troubled thoughts, her headboard checked her bemused reaction.

"No. What? How?" Unable to fathom that information, her statement and questions came out sounding like she was near babbling.

Like the tag team duo they were presenting themselves as, it was the king's truth finder who spoke next.

"We have been told that you have manifested a rare genetic talent that few Human magisters have, a talent some ancient Faelora manifest. You were able to forge a connection with your relic without physical contact. Are you telling us that Buchanin Hansil and Echart Dunn had involvement in this issue? We were assuming those two were just bystanders injured by the flying door. That is how they characterized themselves." How they characterized themselves? she asked herself, trying to fathom what had been happening with the two men while she was being tortured. Buchanin should have said he had been my date, that he was there with me....

Not liking the sums she was coming up with as far as her blind date was concerned, Leachelle tried to establish the picture as she had seen it.

"Mishiel and Echart set me up on a blind date with Buchanin. Buchanin and I didn't quite hit it off, but there shouldn't be animosity between us. Not on my part. Mishiel and Echart are...paramours, or that is how they acted all night. What have they been telling you?" Both men paused long enough to show eyes without sympathy, as though they were wondering what lies she had told them thus far.

"I'm sorry, Miss Gueardan, we have found we get a better picture of events if we ask the questions and don't answer them. We would not want to color the responses you give us with information that might... change how you might craft your narrative," Sir Odemphi stated.

The knight moved over to her breakfast table and pulled out a chair. Instead of sitting, the man set a foot on the seat and rested an elbow on the raised knee. "If those two soldiers were indeed involved why were they not down in the cellar with Miss Orngutter, Miss Haughton, Mister Tugg, and the two whom you claim not to know?" Emotional pain struck hard, as Leachelle briefly contemplated that question. The cold calculation it had taken Mishiel to spend those few weeks acting as her friend defied her sense of right and wrong. Who would go that far to get revenge on behalf of someone else?

"Mishiel claimed that she wanted to talk to me alone, implying the boys would join us after we were done speaking."

Eyes shifting to where the marble walls joined the wood paneled ceiling, the truth finder seemed like he was trying to picture the events with the white and silver trim.

"What was the purpose for all of you to be going into the cellar anyway?" Leachelle winced knowing how her answer would paint her. The High Magister is going to hear about this, she realized. The urge to lie reared up in her, she just did not have a possible cover story that would not leak like a sieve.

"I, uh- I was convinced to give a magical demonstration with my relic; which I know I am not supposed to do."

"What was it that Miss Orngutter wished to speak to you about?" the knight fired off, not commenting on how her face had twisted before her admission.
This isn't going to make me look much better, she thought. Again the urge to concoct a lie reared up in her heart. I'm going to look no better than Taleen and Mishiel before this is through. Knowing her grimace had given her worries away, she still answered.

"Mishiel wanted to offer Buchanin and myself the use of the little back room for- uh, amorous activities, instead of for me to entertain them with magic. I speculate this was verisimilitude to keep me following her to the back spaces of the cellar." Neither investigator commented on her theory, but Sir Odemphi did look to the Kings truth seeker as though passing the baton of questioning to the man.

"What happened next?"

I was disarmed then beaten! she railed in her head. Making me relive that is cruel! Leachelle did not give voice to her reticence, did not act on the fear and horror rearing up at the memories surfacing. Deep down she knew the negative presentation of herself was coloring her reaction to being questioned. She was having a defensive reaction from telling on herself.

"The light coming from the little back room flickered then went out. I was pulling out my wand to use if for a light source when Mishiel... Miss Orngutter, requested that I do that exact thing. When I did produce light, that was when she ripped the wand out of my hands and tossed it on top of the eastern most wine rack. We were plunged back into darkness again." I will not use her name again, she doesn't deserve that kind of recognition from me, she vowed in her head feeling the hurt turning to something dark. During her recitation both men glanced at each other a few times, using significant glances to communicate silently.

As Leachelle paused to gather her resolve, it looked like Lord Kriegle was about to demand more from her before he realized she was just collecting herself. "Miss Orngutter retreated from me taunting me with the knowledge that she and Taleen were friends, and she had been pretending to be my friend these last few weeks." We worked together, we had fun talking and comparing fashion; talking about young men. She had me so fooled so easily! "Phinder Tugg's light bearer lit his lantern first, and I saw Mister Tugg's getting an energy lash ready from his arm bracer; they were closest to the stairs out of the cellar. Then Taleen Haughton appeared from the back of the cellar with her light source. Her lash cut, while his hit like a clenched fist."

Shrugging caused tight muscles to pull, yet that was how she let the investigators know that was the end of her tale. Nodding slowly, the knight considered for a few moments. His companion continued to watch Leachelle as if he wanted to find a misstated fact.

"Why would Taleen Haughten and Phinder Tugg have such animosity towards you? People who are familiar with a person usually have a reason to attack them," Sir Odemphi asked with a raised eyebrow. Sighing because she had to yet again relive an uncomfortable past, Leachelle started her answer.

"Taleen used to live here in the palace, she had collected a large number of followers among many of the other kids who live here-" she started before interrupted.

Clearing his throat, the Kings truth seeker bulled in on her story.

"Were you jealous of her popularity?"

"No. Not at all. The people who flocked around her were not the sort of people I could relate to. Unfortunately, they would not let me live in peace. For some reason Taleen and her friends liked to bully me, call me names, and torment me in the halls here-" Again she was cut off by the dogged lord.

"Are you trying to say that this assault is a case of bullying that went too far? A mean prank that got out of hand?" Now she hesitated. This was the point where her admission would land her in trouble.

Both men came to attention with Leachelle's grimace, like hunting dogs actually glimpsing their prey after following a scent on an overly long trail.

"No, I'm not saying that at all. I made the mistake of fighting back and humiliating Taleen one time. Just one time. And she concocted this scheme to get back at me." She grimaced again, realizing that she was getting angry.

"You fought back? In what way did you fight back?" the knight asked, removing his foot from the chair and coming upright. Here we go.

"This winter I headed a beginner relic crafting class as part of my own education. Taleen and Phinder were my students. The first day of class they disrupted my lesson plan, taunted me, and humiliated me in front of my other students...."

Trailing off, because this was the crux of her confession, she made yet another face. "The second day of class I, uh- I used my relic to haul her out of her seat and held her upside down, bound by magic. I, uh... I made her helpless and humiliated her, then gave her the option of telling on me and getting kicked out of the program or letting me teach her. I ended up teaching her, but I guess she wanted revenge for my revenge." Both men considered her for a prolonged moment, then they met each other's eyes for brief nonverbal communion.

"Why would you resort to violence when you could have consulted with the magister's overseeing your training?" That is what I should have done, she admitted to herself after Lord Kriegle's inquery.

Inclining her head at the truth seeker indicated she agreed with him.

"My evaluation was for how well I taught my class, how many of my students came out able to shape and fashion a magic node into a talisman level relic. I believed that running to my teachers with this problem would have reflected badly on me. My solution was a bad solution, I admit that, I was greedy for good marks on the assignment."

"You must agree that your confession here makes you complicit in the events of the other evening, Miss Gueardan. The judge assigned to this case will have to take that into account." Sir Odemphi stated, looking pointedly at her.

Moving over to the dark skinned knight, the king's truth seeker had his own words.

"His majesty was very distressed to hear you were attacked, Miss Gueardan. He will be even more distressed to hear how convoluted this mess has become. He will not like that you brought this on yourself. Is there anything you would like to add to your statement at this time?" At first Leachelle blinked at the two men. Why are they acting like I was the bigger villain in this mess? Is this a tactic on their part?

"Tell me, will the judge or King Uldarnan consider my part in this worthy of attempted murder?"



"Come on horse, give me the oat bag!" Gil demanded as the dun mare turned away, tossing her head up and down as if teasing him. "The oat bag is empty, why do you wanna keep wearing it, you oaf? You can't wear it all night." The horse swung her head to Gilserands left fast enough to evade his hands, again nodding like she thought this was a great game of keep away to play. "You won't be able to graze with that thing on, did you think about that?" As if the horse understood it stopped stepping away and wagging its head, looking at him with equine side eye. As if convinced to cooperate the bay faced him directly and let Gil slip the feed bag off her head.

Chuckling at the interplay that had just occurred, Gilserand scratched the horses muzzle. All around, the soldiers of the expedition were setting up the evening camp, their main effort was angling man tall sharpened stakes to face the jungle. He was stuck with feeding the cavalry horses, as usual. All fifty cavalry mounts had already devastated the five bales of hay he had laid out, now the horses were taking turns munching a bucket of oats with the ten feed bags the expedition had brought. The last horse with the tenth feed bag stood still and allowed him to divest it of the head gear; it must have heard his spiel about grazing. His next task was to toss a bucket of oats in the bags to give to the next ten horses on the picket line. Of course the feed wagons were parked near the middle of the camp, no where near any of the animals working with the army; a fair hike in a camp with close to seven hundred people.

Draping some of the filled bags on his shoulders, Gilserand balanced the rest on the haft of his dueling spear; which he propped angled on one shoulder, the bags sliding down against his back. Carrying the spear crosswise would have distributed the weight better, but the three foot blade would have threatened his fellow guards as they worked. He had to walk somewhat stooped, ten full feed bags had close to a hundred pounds of weight altogether.

"There goes Gilserand with a whole batch of horse scrotums on his back, as usual," Astrude called out from the left. Scouts and other infantry setting up tents nearby laughed, looking up from their work to view the spectacle of his labored hunched walk; eager to see how this accusation of bestiality would play out.

Half turning in his stooped gait, Gil fired back.

"That's why I'm winning all the popularity contests with the animals and you're not." Even the lovely scout guffawed at the quick and unexpected rejoinder, the levity sparking chuckles among everyone nearby. Only Major Liethor frowned. The cavalry officer was stalking along the lines of workers like an overseer denied the use of a whip; her hawkish glare watched Gilserand almost all the way to the growing encampments margins. To the north east of the picket line a pair of cavalry privates were carting over a portable trough and some buckets of water. Their tool would only service a pair of tethered horses at a time; their job would take much longer than Gilserand's.

Pricking their ears forward, the animals came to attention and did not fight him slipping the food bags over their heads.

"Funny how you guys don't give me grief at this part," he said patting a pair of necks. I guess I'll help those guys now that I have a few minutes to wait. Normally this was a point where Gil would take a few moments to himself while letting the horses eat their allotment of oats, but the watering detail usually arrived after all the feeding chores had been attended to. A wagon paused nearby so that a trio of soldiers could unload a barrel of water between mounts; they were stationing the water for the guys with the portable trough. Each of those guards filled a pair of buckets which they then ran over to spill into the trough, even as the horses were lapping it up. Several pairs of extra buckets were stacked near the end most barrel and Gil aimed himself for those.

After five weeks of observation, Gilserand had learned that each barrel only supplied water for ten horses; five barrels a night just for Gil's equine charges.

"Corporal, could you help me move this trough instead of grabbing buckets?" one of the horse jocks asked. Obliging the young man he took one end of the contrived trough. A metal drum had been cut in half, then fused end to end; after that the fabricator had welded bar stock handles at each end, then X frame legs with plate feet had been added on both ends and middle so the trough would stand tall enough for the horses. Even though the pair of horses had almost drained the container of water, the trough was very heavy. With the weight distributed between the two of them, they still had to lift with two hands to move it five feet east.

Casting an eye back at his charges, Gilserand noticed they were almost finished with their feed. The horses were eating their oats almost as fast as others were guzzling water. After his second to last haul of oats, Gil helped move the trough again and run a pair of buckets once. After serving the last ten horses their oats, Gilserand was conscripted by an officer of the Alren Rangers to glean fire wood. The lady officer reviewed her mixed unit detail on how to tell dry seasoned wood from green or wet specimen, then let them fan out and begin shagging out branches and dead trees into large piles. Every thirty or so minutes a work horse or oxen drawn travois would show up, and then the detail would load those stacks of gleaned wood for removal.

Moving west a dozen yards after their third load, the troop scattered out to begin shagging another pile into existence. Gil plucked a nice branch from some grass when he noticed a downed tree behind a screen of bushes.

"Got a three man job here," he called out as he moved towards his find. After determining which part of the thick end of the fallen trunk he would lift from, Gilserand looked around waiting for his help to arrive, keeping an eye out for the enemy. Nearby, a wound on the trunk of a maple drew his eye. The bark was freshly scraped away in a symbol he recognized. Fear adrenaline spiked in his system immediately, only by focusing on unlimbering his dueling spear was Gil able to keep from shaking. "Eyes out!" he shouted, scanning the brush for hidden Sauri.

The jagged outline of a trident head had been inscribed on the tree's bark, the wound on the maple fresh and stark; four tines faced down, the second prong on the left a bit longer than the other hooked spikes. The same symbol he had seen months ago on the loincloth of the big Sauri he had faced just outside of Alren. Backing away with his weapon facing outward, Gilserand soon found himself the point of a chevron of condensed soldiery.

"What is it corporal," a woman's voice asked from behind him, the Alren Ranger in charge of this motley detail.

"Ma'am, I found a Sauri symbol freshly carved on that big maple tree behind those saplings" For a second there was silence all about.

"Really?" The lieutenant's voice was charged with supreme skepticism. "You know Sauri symbols?"

For a few moments Gilserand wanted to bristle at the junior officer's sarcasm. All the other soldiers began to become restless, relaxing and beginning to grumble because they thought Gil was a high strung alarmist making up stories.

"I've seen this symbol before, on the loincloth of a Sauri that was almost as big as an Orag. The same night they raided those farms in west Alren. An inverted four tine trident head with the middle left tine longer than the others; each tine having a single barb."

"Really?" This time there was no hint of ridicule in the woman's voice. He used the dueling spear to point at the tree as his answer this time.

Sensing that the officer had tipped towards a believing opinion, the grumbling stopped and tension radiated into the uncaring wilderness.

"Dammit," the woman muttered, her voice low. "Okay, box formation shields to the front, spears second, archers third, slow advance when I give the word!"

Her commands were sharp and unambiguous. The fact that this group was pulled from several different units made the formation shift a bumbling cluster for a few moments. All Gilserand had to do was lift his spear point and take a step back, but three different people stepped into him. Yet, the confusion did not last long and the lieutenant had her square formation manifest out of collision and chaos. "Slow advance, go!"

While formation changes were different for sword troopers, archers, and spear, the one thing they all had in common was the cadence of the march. In less than ten yards the scrap mark on the tree became visible, though the details were still occluded from distance and underbrush. Their formation was a good one for an open field, but brush and uneven ground was about to force disunity into their defensive stance. "Corporal, cover me while I check your mark out." The officer's hand fell on his shoulder blade, pressing steel links into his gambeson with slight pressure. In turn Gilserand tapped the two soldiers before him on their shoulders, one sword and shield and one conventional stabbing spear and shield.

Those two took a step forward, then one step to either side creating an opening which Gil flowed through. Armed with a bow, the lieutenant's training kept her at his back instead of coming up along side; it was he who had to make way for her to step up when he reached the tree. If this actually was the season where deer rubbed their antlers, I could see someone doubting this was carved. Up close though, you can't help but see the knife marks where they used the tip to make this engraving.

"Ma'am, I know I'm not a tracker like you, but these cuts look really fresh to me. The Sauri are close."

[frenzied67]

Nothing more occurred that night. However, the next day, trees with carved trident symbols were found all along their march. Even appearing all around the encampment when heavily armed details scrounged for firewood. And no one spotted a single Sauri or scared up anything other than tree rodents and birds. Night watches became terrible in their silence. Tree frogs, crickets, and other little serenading creature refused to perform. The horses also became prone to fidgeting through til dawn. No one was playing games around the fires anymore, not through the next week that saw the halfway mark of mid spring month arrive and go. During the morning drizzle it was announced that they were going home, the expedition had exceeded its mandate in time and distance.

Leaving the margins of the jungle behind had accomplished a sea change in the guard's attitudes, not a full recuperation, but an obvious uplift. After the camp had been established, a few games of chance had sprung up around some fires. Stalking before the cavalry horse picket in the early evening had been made beautiful with Oldbeard's virtuoso artists, the crickets and frogs. Gilserand had deliberately let those whirring sounds drown out all other distractions and preoccupations, letting the sounds becoming the focus of his being for several minutes. An embrace of a world he had never thought to miss until the Sauri had chased it away through the last week. Yet as usual, those songs faded as evening advanced, until it was only the call of owls and the pips of bats that made the drowsy night feel alive.

This evening the army had found a sizable clearing, so the horse picket had been established with metal poles that had been dug in rather than using tree ties. A lot of green wood had gone into making the pointed protective stakes that were set every three feet apart, a parameter Gil thought was far inferior to an actual wall. Still it was his job to walk along the line to the north east corner between the animals and the barrier, see and be noticed by the next sentry in line, then march back to verify and be noticed by another sentry west of his horses. Unlike their Humans, the horses were still restless this night, waking often and snorting or pawing at the ground, while tossing their heads in protest.

With the camp fires burned down to nigh embers, Gilserand was able to see farther in to the benighted forest; the moon defying all the leaves and branches bent on keeping any light from the forest's floor. He had neither seen a hint of movement other than breeze blown dangling moss, or heard anything other than the distant calls of bats and other beasts. Almost done, the next shift should waking up and getting ready to relieve us, he thought, yawning and dreaming of his bedding. Oh I can't wait to get back to Alren and my real bed. My stories may horrify The Widow, but I won't have to miss out on her welcoming hugs anymore. I wonder what my next assignment will be? I hope they won't stick me with the rangers, I'm done with this forest. Truth be told, Gilserand missed both boot camp and initial weapon training, those were the routines he now craved.

Mid yawn, Gil realized that the forest had gone completely silent; no owl or lonely insect was making a sound. Before he could react to that, the entire line of cavalry mounts seemed to awaken with equine shrieks and stamping hooves, pulling at their tethers connected to the picket line. His vision took on a familiar and feared grape hue as he discovered he was watching himself gape at the riled mounts; the disembodied perspective chilling as it implied that his soul was not properly connected to the body he was viewing. A swarm of short hafted javelins pattered around him, three punching through his armor and driving him face first into the loam while he faced the panic stricken horses. No! Seeing his own demise ripped at his psyche, but when he blinked and found himself back behind his own eyes Gilserand knew he had no time to dwell on what he had seen.

Diving to his left, Gilserand rolled in flight, sweeping his dueling spear before himself in his rotation, hoping to knock javelin shafts aside. Something punched the side of his helmet, and an obsidian head sliced the outside of his right thigh as he revolved through the air. But he was still alive as he rolled back to his feet. The space he had vacated was thick with bristling atlatl spears, one horse screamed at the three foot shaft half in its neck. Somewhere to the south east a woman's voice was calling out a shrill warning; that scream cut off with chilling finality. The very forest seemed to erupt, shapes rose from bushes and thousands of figures sprang up from the ground tossing dirt covered canvas from their backs so that the air seemed full of flying leaves and loam; a swarm of long necked shapes all seemed to start charging right for him.

Come on purple world, what do I do next? he begged himself, wishing for a glimpse of foreknowledge; desperation driving his fear of this power away.

"ATTACK! WE ARE BEING ATTACKED!" Maybe seeing himself die once was enough for his strange ability. There was too much death surging his way, spears, axes, and clubs gripped in taloned fists, possibly enough to overwhelm his ability to jog ahead in time. At the fore of the closest wedge of Sauri pelting at him was one specimen who was painted with red squared off spirals on its chest, it carted a strange box of ornately wrought silver, and wore an inverted headdress of black dyed feathers. This creature stopped and began to swing the lid of it's silver box open. Gilserand saw a dun colored light begin to emanate out, the brightness spilling as a glowing fog rather than acting as a true radiating illumination. The tawny fog raced along the forest floor with the Sauri, passing and spreading among the swift figures as it gathered like a low ocean wave.

Too many! There are too many! Frozen in fear he watched the stampede flow around the shaman and it's odd box. A familiar figure now lead the nearest pack. Nearly nine feet tall, still sporting the only loincloth that had an adornment, the Sauri he had faced outside of Alren swept towards Gil with spiked teeth bared. It's massive spear held in a fist as big as Gilserand's head. Not this way! I don't want to die this way! Even though a dozen yards separated him from the monster Sauri, an instinct made Gil thrust out with his dueling spear. Pain flared in his brain so sharp that he cried out, then, even more suddenly, no vestiges of any sensation in his cranium remained as purple lightening cascaded from his shoulders down his arm and hand, along the shaft and head of his spear. Coalescing at the point of the woven steel in the fraction of an instant, that energy focused into a thick beam that lanced out; the trees reflected purple light brighter than all the camp's fires could have when at their fiery peak.

Piercing through the chieftain and his trident painted loincloth, then through a half dozen Sauri behind it, the purple light punched a hole in all those figures as well as two thin trees before it stabbed into Oldbeard's floor about seventy feet away. The wave of pale tawny light winked out, the shaman toppling over with all the other victims of Gil's stabbing light. A cry issued out and was repeated as the entire Sauri army pattered to a halt, the front ranks almost amid the stake line and weapon reach of Gilserand. Inside the camp there was another type of hue and cry, that of the guards scrambling out of their bedrolls.

"ESSHIEL!" It was almost like the forest was exhaling as tens of thousands of Sauri gave voice to that sibilant call. That word seemed to ripple around the entire camp.

Nictating membranes blinked over slit pupil eyes, as the Sauri went silent; every one of those inhuman orbs glued on Gilserand.

"GHAAAA!" A lone Sauri voiced that cry before it lurched for Gil from between the stakes, sweeping a massive macuahuitl up for an overhead strike. As one the entire Sauri army stepped back except for that lone assailant with it's sharp obsidian glass lined club. Once again Gilserand found purple light tinging the world, coloring reality. The macuahuitl slashed downward from his left toward his right hip, but Gil stepped in taking the blow on the haft of his dueling spear. Before he could twist at the hip to empower his weapon's counter swing, the Sauri spun on one foot; it's tail sweeping his legs out from under him. Ah, I should have simply thrust instead, he thought after his inner observer showed him that his point was already lined up for such an attack; there was no need to block the war club as his instincts had insisted.

The real world with its real colors replaced Gilserand's foretelling vision. Unarmored guards with weapons in hand began to reach the horse line, they too skidded to a halt to watch the end of the very short duel. Even as the jagged stones of the club began to sweep down, Gil lunged forward off his back foot, his spear punching into the center of the scaled chest, the Sauri's arms crashing painfully onto his left shoulder as he had closed inside the war club's arc. Better than being hit by the macuahuitl, he observed as the crossbar of his weapon brought his lunge to a halt. The manlike creature smelled of baked plant fiber and dust, an oddly comforting smell. He stepped back yanking the three feet of steel out of his already toppling opponent. More guard filled the spaces between mounts, becoming spectators in the frozen moment.

For several seconds the entire world was still, Human and Sauri eyes blinking in the silence. From behind Gilserand, the tension was palpable from the Human side of the lines. What he read from the Sauri was shock, like some sort of group dream had just came crashing to an end. In a rattle of wood and steel, the lizard like people turned about and began to walk into the benighted forest. Without word or command thousands of beings barely made a sound on the forest loam with backs turned to an enemy they had just sought to destroy. Three of them dropped clubs, then under the eyes of several hundred Humans, stepped through the defensive stakes and moved closer to Gil who remained posed with spear ready. Two of them lifted the body of their comrade and began their retreat. The third spilled the silver box at Gilserand's feet, a fist sized hole angled through the cube with droplets of silver dangling like blunt icicles through the punctures.

When the Sauri's backs were to him at last, Gil began to tremble, the shakes becoming so pronounced that he seemed the victim of an earthquake centered upon him alone. What have I done? Lords of Light and Life, I killed your creations; several of them. I bear the mark of the destroyer, touched by the Burning Spirits and their malice of all life.... His vision blurred and the dueling spear rang off the small silver chest after his hands released the weapon. His knees gave way even as the tears spilled out, as if he were racing the droplets down with his fall. Crashing into a kneeling position, Gilserand thought he heard the patter of his tears hitting the torn moss mingled with the churned forest floor. In reality that sound had to be in his imagination; there were too many shouting people behind him, a horse still screamed in mortal terror at the deadly wound it had taken. A marching band would have been drowned out with all the tumult.

Widow! Where are you! Gilserand called out in his mind, craving solace from the woman who had hugged all his woes away in more innocent days. But could Randera the Widow hug away the sin of murder? No embrace would ever do that, no matter how much Gil wished or prayed that to be possible, and that idea only made him cry harder. A heavy hand took his shoulder as Major Liethor skidded around him on one knee, concern an odd expression to catch on her mien. The forty year old woman was not bad looking, despite the way her voice grated; but as an officer she usually wore a sour expression if she showed any expression at all. She had gray hair amid the straw coloring that still dominated, mostly tucked behind her ears, seeing that hair loose outside of the tight braid she normally wore was also an oddity.

Faded blue eyes looked him up and down, lingering upon the blood on his hands and forearms.

"Are you alright? Are you hurt, Corporal?" she asked, her voice almost enough to make Gilserand cringe. Such an uncomfortable register for a living being. He just looked at her, his devastation stark with tears and dribbling snot. Half expecting derision to form on her mien due to the antagonism they shared, Gil was shocked at how the officer's face fell into commiseration. As if she ached because he hurt. Could this woman help him feel absolved of taking the lives of thinking creatures? "Whatever you did, you seemed to have saved all of our lives. Rivenheart you have to get it together, the colonel and the Wild Rose need to hear your report."

Not even a slap, or being doused in icy water could have sobered him from his misery that fast. Images of that bar of amethyst light coming from within him surfaced like an even older nastier guilt. Every level of his heart and brain screamed one truth, these powers he had would never be understood or tolerated by any thinking creature in this world. Lords of Light and Life, what do I say? If Major Liethor noticed Gilserands sudden shift from blubbering boy to being scared and cagey, she did not react. Run away! Maybe I should run? Half a second after that thought struck him he discarded it. His eyes settled on the silver box his dueling spear was laying next to.

Here was evidence of the result of his powers, that gaping perfectly round hole a sure sign that he would be asked hard questions.... Nobody but the Sauri saw what I did, and they're not talking to us, he realized feeling that his plight was not exactly hopeless. The box was not entirely made of silver. Rather it was a crafting of dark reddish wood with beautifully whorled grain patterns, lacquered and highly polished; the router lines were intricate and pristine, and corner joins so exact that it almost seemed a solid piece, just given away by the wood's natural grain not being seamless. Silver panels had been mounted upon a box that had already been gorgeous, the patterns of these panels were odd, like the layers of ripples on a pond when the rain is coming down hard enough to soak a man in a minutes time.

Both the wood and ornate furniture were refined far beyond anything he had seen on or around the Sauri. How can I explain this hole I made? Who made this box, I've never seen art like this? "Good man, get it together. Don't forget your spear thing," the cavalry officer said when he reached for the box. While his brain was desperately looking for lies and obfuscations, Gilserand was surprised that the first thing passed his lips was a truth.

"I've never killed anyone before." The woman helped him to his feet, her eyes glued to his with worry and wonder working on her features.

"I... I can't imagine how that feels, Corparal Rivenheart. All I can say is you would have been dead if you had not fought them, we all would have. You fought and killed a few of them, too. I saw them carting off three or four bodies, maybe more."

Did anyone else see more? he worried. No one will believe I killed all those Sauri with just my spear. There wasn't enough time for me to work that fast. What do I say? Knowing which expression to allow onto his visage was hard, which one would clue Major Liethor into the fact he was hiding something?
Keeping his face neutral or expressionless would also be a dead giveaway. Yet she guided him into turning around, hovering next to Gilserand as if he were a rehabilitating patient whose legs might give away any moment. When the screaming horse ceased sharing its agony, he looked up to see a cavalry man withdrawing his knife from behind the animal's head; a mercy jab at the juncture of neck and cranium had been delivered. A pair of soldiers held the horse line up to allow Gil and the major to slip under easier. All the other soldiers were abandoning the places they had been when the Sauri seemed about to attack, to form twin lines heading into the interior of the camp.

Grateful hands reached out to touch Gilserand as he passed the rear of the horses, gentle touches on his arms, helmet, and shoulders; as if his being was granting benedictions. Yet it was a pair of soldiers he passed that encapsulated the whole messed up urge affecting everyone.

"What did he do?" someone asked.

"He stopped the Sauri," was the answer.

"How'd he do that?" the first person asked again.

"I don't know, but thank the Light he did."

Another question he heard a lot was people wondering who he was. The thing Gilserand most feared happened sooner than he wanted. Instead of traversing all the way to the central block of tents to meet the commanders, the colonel and the war magister were passing down the same human path of guards towards him. Dammit! What am I going to say? What am I going to say? Colonel Tretham strode confidently forward once he noticed the major and himself, Ovellum Gueardan dawdled a bit behind observing the reverence of the soldiers being directed at a central point.

"Major Liethor, no one has been able to give us a clear picture of what has been happening. Is this the sentry who lived? What did he see?"

Not once did the senior officer look directly at Gilserand, however the Wild Rose had followed the contextual clues of the camp; his eyes followed the soldier's gazes until he found Gil. That stare almost undid Gilserand's nerve, his heart rate kicking up into galloping speeds under the scrutiny.

"Sir, this is Corporal Gilserand Rivenheart. Sir, he not only lived, but he is the one who stopped the attack." Soldiers and teamsters allowed curiosity to draw them, the twin lines devolved into a growing circle of people centered upon Gilserand, the two officers, and the artifact level magister. The colonel looked Gil up and down, the frown on his face seeming to stem from having to acknowledge the existence of a noncom pleb.

Though the colonel's hair was silver his mustache was white and trained to bristle like what the men of the prior century used to wear. The same pale color informed the officer's bushy eyebrows. His eyes were a faded blue and the upper eyelids looked slightly puffy, giving his eyes a permanent sleepy look. A tall nose centered his face and made his narrow chin look symmetrical with the rest of his features. Magister Gueardan no longer sported the close cropped beard Gil had seen a few years back. The man's hair was now peppered with gray paler than his eyes. Though the magister still wore his customary crimson red garb, he was not the thin young man he had been when first seen. A lot had changed for Ovellam in the last three years.

The colonel's voice was gentle when he did address Gil.

"Son, how did you do it? What happened out there?" he asked wrongly pointing vaguely to the east. Swallowing hard to buy time, Gilserand had no idea what he was going to say. Once again his inner observer stepped in to save him from himself. Watch what they do, it urged, repeating pretty much the same message it had given him years ago. Granting the two commanders of this expedition a slow salute, he thought hard.

"Sir, they tried to kill me with atlatl javelins first, but I was able to get mostly out of the way," he said pointing to the ding in his domed helmet, then the graze that had creased his thigh.

Clearing his throat discretely, Ovellam stopped Gil from continuing.

"Corporal, we don't need your full report yet, just tell us how you stopped the Sauri." Gilserand blinked at the magister for a moment, his mind wanting to race off into the fertile fields of the fear in his soul.

"I, uh... I killed their leader. A big Sauri with an upside down trident head painted onto his loin cloth," he answered watching the man who literally had the power of life or death over him. Both older men shared a wide eyed glance with each other, some sort of unspoken exclamation sent and received. These two know who I'm talking about, he realized, unsure of how that knowledge would help him.

Gilserand's admission sent ripples and mutters throughout the circling crowd; It did not quiet down from there. People in back began to ask who he was, those closer to Gil passed his name back; this made him wince. For several moments the two men in charge of the expedition looked at each other, glanced at Gilserand, then out at the audience still muttering "Gilserand" or "Rivenheart". Colonel Tretham's face brightened suddenly as if an idea had tickled him.

"What unit are you with, son? You've won quite a bit of credit for the boys and girls of your battalion." On the brink of confessing that he had no affiliation, Major Liethor butted in.

"Sir, he has no unit. This is the young man that my troops hazed and harrassed."

Just the casual way she dropped that information even made Gilserand turn to look at her. The major stood ramrod straight as if expecting some sort of reprimand then and there. The military commander's eyes grew wide again, the magister just tilted his head as he studied Gil like he was an interesting and new specimen that needed collecting.

"Ah.... Right. Unfortunate," Colonel Treetham mumbled, shifting as if he were suddenly uncomfortable. A moment later the superior officer came to a decision. "Come with us, son, we'll hear your report in private. Major, get this camp back in order, morning is only a few hours away." With that the commanding officer spun about and began to make his way to his pavilion, soldiers had to scramble to create a space for the man. The colonel marched as if he would trample the slower men and women underfoot, though he was not a large specimen of a man himself.

Just as Gilserand lurched to follow, he noticed the magister's eyes fall upon the pierced silver box in his left hand. Those eyes shifted to the dueling spear and grew wide. Amazed gray eyes followed Gil as he passed Ovellam. Of course he knows the provenance of my weapon. For all I know he could have been in on crafting this amazing spear. Gil was very aware of the magister following close behind him, instead of simple travel it began to feel like a gallows march. Two halbadiers at the big tent were statue still as the colonel passed through the flap entrance, but those weapons crossed as the guards came to sudden life before Gilserand.

"You'll have to surrender your dueling spear!" the man on his left barked officiously.

Suddenly hovering at his side, Ovellam stared down the two soldiers presenting his resin globe capped staff; he was a good two inches taller than Gilserand.

"This man will be allowed to pass with his weapon. You will bring him a cleaning kit so that he can make his dueling spear presentable as he gives us his account." The halbadiers blinked for a moment mesmerized by the rose bud relic, before they both pivoted to face east. The westernmost guard pulled the cleaning kit out of the pack of the easternmost man. With another stamp and pivot both men faced outward again, the westernmost one holding the kit forth; his pole arm nestled in the crook of one arm.

"I'll get this back to you as soon as I'm done here," Gil vowed as Ovellam accepted the offering on his behalf. All he received in turn was their eyes flicking to meet his for the briefest of moments.

Even after months on the road, the pavilion still smelled of new canvas and wax. Two desks, north and south, were set along the very edges of the tenting. Two folding chairs were set up next to a glowing brazier near the center pole holding the entire pavilion up; a folding table lay in the grass just east of the southern desk. Another dozen chairs were folded and stacked in the structures northern margin west of the nearest desk, the colonel grabbed one of those and began to drag it to the two seats already at the warming brazier. He even unfolded it and set it up so that Gil would be facing them. Ovellam Gueardan put a hand on Gil's shoulder and guided him gently aside so he could pass through the flap. A lantern hung on the support pole providing the lighting, lanterns on the desks were cold and dark.

When Colonel Tretham noticed the Gilserand was still armed, he put on a very fearsome scowl.

"This is one of the four woven steel weapons I told you about, colonel, and possibly the reason why this man is without a unit. Corporal Rivenheart will be happy to let you inspect his weapon once he's cleaned it," Ovellam said, sweeping by to take the seat to the south of the pole and heater. The heat left the colonel's expression but the scowl remained.

"Really? Why does this pup have one?" Uncertainty became Gilserands existence in the inner domain of the commander's seat of power, he just shuffled from foot to foot still near the entrance flaps.

After reading the magister's shrug, Colonel Tretham's gaze shifted to Gilserand. Annoyance animated the officer's scowl for a moment. "What are you doing all the way over there? Take a seat, son, and tell us what the hell happened out there." As Gilserand reluctantly advanced, the colonel scowled at his weapon one more time. Instead of taking his seat the officer stalked back over and drug another chair over, which he set up for Gil; providing him a work station from which he could start cleaning the dueling spear. Guilt stabbed him as deeply as his weapon could have, but he still had to lie to this accommodating man.

Reaching for the cleaning kit the magister tried to hand off, both men noticed the state of his hands. As Ovellum withdrew the cleaning kit, the colonel lost his frown for the first time. Seeing the man's eyes soften threw Gil. "Oh, son, you've had quite a night haven't you? Any of that mess yours?" All he could do was shake his head, a wave of sorrow and guilt trying to close his throat off. Why doesn't saving lives make the guilt go away? Lords of Light and Life, I wish there had been another way than killing! Why didn't they give me time to think? Standing up, Colonel Tretham gestured for Gilserand to remain where he was, the man then marched out of the tent with the same avalanche determination as he had used tramping for this pavilion.

The minute the tent flap closed, Gilserand realized he was alone with the magister; a mystical being with powers that could catch him up and reveal his big secret.

"How do you like it?" Ovellum suddenly asked. Adrenaline fear charged through Gil's very being. He knows!

"Excuse me, sir?" The war magister smiled when Gil addressed him like an officer, the expression almost making the man human for a second.

"The spear, the spear. How do you like it?" Gilserand looked at the item in question, but all his eyes beheld was the blood of a being that had been as blessed as he used to be.

"Sir, right now I don't like it at all." At first Ovellam seemed confused by his answer, but his next glance at the dueling spear clued the magister in. It was if the man finally realized that blood and mud caked the business end.

Reaching over, the man placed his hand on Gilserand's knee, giving a gentle squeeze; even his eyes turned friendly.

"I don't like killing either. I'm good at it. It's my job, but it cuts me every time," the man said, still holding Gil's leg. "The first time... that was the worst. I felt like I had bound my soul to the Burning Spirits, that the eyes of the Lords of Light and Life had permanently been turned from me. Funny thing is I have never been highly religious, more than some people less than a few others. The thing is, there are always people out there who enjoy the destruction, will willingly inflict violence on others. Opposing people like that is a necessity, no matter how much it hurts you on the inside. It will make more sense when you have a wife, and it really settles in when you have kids of your own. Trust me on that."

At first Gilserand was horrified at the contact, his fear of the Wild Rose of Bolloren making him think the touch would turn into a magical attack. Yet as the man confessed to him, Gil actually started to see Ovellam as a man, a person much like himself. Flawed and determined.

"I... I feel... dirty and wrong," he stammered, reaching for the emotional contact being offered to him. The older man's face fell and twisted for a moment, showing that the man lived with an inner hell scape of misery of his own. A mirror of Gilserand's new existence. Gil was actually glad that Ovellam's features returned to normal a second later, showing that the inner hurt did not rule the man. This gave Gilserand hope, even as he yet mourned.

The magister removed his hand and leaned back, his other appendage sweeping to indicate the dueling spear.

"The officers who gave you this weapon, they did that because they think that you are capable of handling the responsibility while balancing the remorse that comes with the job. I my self never expected to see someone so young handling one of these weapons, they are meant to go into the hands of Bolloren's greatest champions. Your officers did not hand that to you willy-nilly, at least I hope they didn't." What will he think if he finds out the officer's are propping me up, making me a puppet hero with tales of a greatness they are making up? Hey, this might keep them from finding out I'm a magic freak.

For several moments Gilserand thought, wondering if his gambit would work, would distract them from this nights true deeds.

"The officer's are spreading tales of me that are inflated, making my deeds sound more impressive than they are. They want to manufacture a hero, and I'm the... the figurehead of their efforts." Ovellum raised his eyebrows at that, studying him before his eyes went vague while he thought. The man shook his head, a slight smile forming on his thin lips.

"Are you sure that is what they are doing. Didn't you stop a war tonight...? All by yourself?" Gil opened his mouth to protest, he wanted vehemently to deny his heroism, but the wrong words or confessions could get him killed.

For all the man's seeming empathy, Ovellam Gueardan may prove to be Gil's judge, jury, then executioner. Magister's had that power.

"I got lucky. That's all it was, just luck." The magister's slight smile grew a smidgen, as he gave his head a tilt, his one eye quirking with a challenge.

"You remind me of my daughter. When she was twelve, she thought her good grades came because she had the kings favor. She was convinced that all her hard work had nothing to do with why her tutors raved about her. She viewed herself as the object of favoritism. King Uldarnan had to tell her himself that he had no hand with her teachers and tutors, that she was excelling from her own merits. Did you ever think that the military is promoting your reputation for political reasons, and not to form or shape you to their whim?"

Behind Gilserand the tent flap cracked open with a loud smacking sound. To show he had heard part of the dialogue, Colonel Tretham illuminated Gil a bit more as he flowed through the aperture.

"We guard always have a problem. When violence is your calling, people tend to view you in a dark light. When political opinion turns against the guards we suffer; a loss of funding means we have to do without personnel, weapons, and food. Then we get blamed when crime goes up or an enemy gets through our defenses. We have to promote ourselves to the nobles every waking minute, or we lose support when their favor departs. Your officers aren't making up stories about you, they are trying to make people take notice that we have people who are larger than life."

The superior officer deposited a copper bowl of water on the spare chair, along with a folded but stained red towel as he spoke. He gestured at those items as he took his seat, informing Gilserand that he should start cleaning himself and his weapon. "You may be humble, but we officers don't have the luxury to coddle your faulty view of yourself. We have to make the world see your potential to protect them, so that the rest of us receive favor and funding so we can actually keep them safe." the aging man concluded as he plopped into his seat. Lords... that actually makes sense. Bemused by the point of view he had just heard, Gilserand leaned over and placed his hands into the water.

Holding his hands there he watched blood begin to waft off of him becoming inky clouds, swaying to and fro with the motion of the water. Logical or not, the argument did not negate the fact that he was now a killer. This blood is washing away, but the stain, this killer's mark that remains behind will always be with me. The final thrust replayed in his mind, the Sauri's last grimace becoming a fixture in his memory. Rubbing his hands in the water, the sorrow rose up inexorably forcing fresh tears out of his eyes. Again he wished he was home, wished Randera the Widow had the power to erase the source of his pain. I'm too old to be crying about this, he told himself. Crying doesn't solve my problems. Repeating this thought he choked his spiraling regret down.

Gilserand almost had control of himself when he began to lave his forearms of the gore. Almost as if he had given them a cue, the expeditions masters began to query him.

"We heard you call out after one of the other sentries tried to warn us, but there was a bright flash of purple light from your side of the camp. What caused that light?" the colonel asked. Dammit, dammit, dammit, dammit! What do I say? Tension filled Gilserand's neck, as he refused to look up. Then his eyes found the silver encased box he had dropped near his feet, and his brain grasped the item as a scapegoat. Have to say this just right.

"It was this box," he lied kicking the item at his feet towards the two men. Please make this sound plausible. "There was a Sauri carrying this box. It had square spirals painted on it's chest and wore a feathered headdress that looked like a cone style rain hat. When it opened the box a tawny light spilled out like fog, but this fog raced uphill forming a wave-"

Ovellam's exclamation cut Gil off, incredulity trembled in the magister's voice.

"Are you telling me this was a relic?" What do I say? What do I say? his panic filled thoughts railed. He had to tap into the calm space of his inner observer before he lost all control of his emotion. This is like a fight, cut, parry, watch, react.

"I, uh, I wouldn't know, sir. I can only tell you what I saw." Oh, that's good! "I just didn't want that wave to touch me. I guess I'm lucky the box blew up before the wave reached the stakes. That's where the light came from. There was no boom just a flare of light that leveled the shaman and several other Sauri, killing them dead."

Reaching down, the war magister lifted the box. At first he turned the object about studying it's surface, with a few moments spent on the burn holes. Colonel Tretham and Gilserand watched the man, wondering what conclusion Ovellam would come to. His jaw tightening the magister gingerly lifted the lid, facing the opening away from himself just as the shaman had. Of course nothing happened, so Tretham and Gilserand leaned over trying to get a peak inside the object. Inky black crystals seemed to be growing inside the enclosure. This was their natural color and not a product of being burned by Gil's energy beam; the crystal, like the box, was bored cleanly through by that emanation of his.

Reaching over to tap one of the crystals with a forefinger, the colonel grunted.

"What the hell is this? That's not tourmaline, nor is it quartz because we would be able to see through it if it was. Is this natural?" The officer's queries made Ovellam shrug.

"I've never heard of crystals like this, not even in rumor. Maybe someone from the elder races could tell us if there is such a thing in nature. Here, take this for a moment will you?" he asked Gil, stabbing out with the box urging him to grab it. Gilserand had been drying his hands off, so he placed the box on the towel draped over his left hand. The magister grabbed his staff and began to wave his hands over the box like he was unspooling thread from a very large bobbin.

Not being able to see what the magister was actually doing made it seem like the man was practicing mummery, miming activity to fool his audience. Gil neither saw or felt anything happening, yet Ovellam frowned and started to inchworm his fingers over the box. He then spiraled his pinched fingers over the object then pressed his palm down as if flattening the cone he had sketched. The man's scowl only deepened as his his brows bunched with an expression of frustration.

"That is damn odd," Ovellam admitted after a few minutes of probing the crystals. "This thing was never a relic, there are no hints of magic in or on this. A broken relic will register a faint cloud like dweomer for months after it breaks.

"This has nothing. Weirdly these crystals are pushing back against my magic though. Not letting me delve into their structure. I can't see if these are natural growths or manufactured. I've never felt any sort of resistance like this before." Leaning his artifact level relic against the pavilion's support the magister picked up the box again turning it over and around.

"You say the box exploded or burst with light that killed its carrier and several other Sauri?" the colonel asked Gil, his face just as mystified as Ovellam's.

Wary on the inside, Gilserand nodded. Are they going to buy my story?

"Sir, it's just as I said. It sent out a wave along the ground that raced up hill, then it just burst with that odd colored flare and the ground wave vanished. All the Sauri around the box toppled over dead. I feel glad that that wave of ground light never reached me." Gilserand had to exhale a careful breath to calm the race of his heart. The officer's next question negated his efforts.

"Did you fight the big chief before or after this event?" Not only did Gil's heart hammer against his ribs, but his memory jumbled of the actual events he had been part of.

Dammit, dammit, damn...! I have to thread this needle without pricking myself! How? He knew he had to buy himself time to concoct his lies.

"Sir, why don't I tell you everything as it happened?" It was hard to keep the extra plea out of his voice, difficult to keep his tone even. His trembling hands took up his dueling spear. Gil needed to occupy his shaking digits and evasive eyes so they would not betray him to the two men glued to his tale.

"Yes of course, corporal.... Gilserand isn't it?" The mundane inquiry went a long way in settling his nerves.

This was a question easily answered, while buying him more time to think and plan.

"Yes sir, Gilserand Rivenheart." At first the colonels scowl deepened at his name, then a smile peeped out.

"Rivenheart? That's an unusual name," Colonel Tretham looked amused with that question. "Are you hiding in the guard? That is not a real name." Chancing a peek at his audience, he could see the officer's raised eyebrow. Ovellam kept his attention on the strange box, as if there was not any other considerations in the world.

"Sir, I'm fatherless. My birth mother died and no one else came to claim me. I took that name to get into the guards."

At an earlier age that admission would have rode a wave of shame, now Gil was grateful for the accident of his birth.

"It is a name with poetic imagery attached to it. This taken name tells me that Gilserand isn't common or bland. Nice and imaginative," the magister drawled still seemingly fixated on the box. Colonel Tretham grunted noncommittally, he waved impatiently dismissing the topic of names completely. The brass bowl of water was now stained crimson, even the droplets looked like blood that ran rather than crawled.

Not worried about the water on the dueling spear, the woven steel did not etch or take rust like other metals, Gilserand rubbed the blade over the bowl letting handfuls of water clean the majority of the crusting blood off.

"Sirs, I had just made my turn to the north on my rounds when the horses spooked and I heard several rattling sounds among the branches. From the corner of my eye I saw an atlatl javelin deflected by a branch, so I dove out of the way. I would have been a pin cushion if I hadn't. I did get grazed and took a hit to my helmet, but I wasn't skewered," he started, voice even though he lied.

Shock filled him when he realized that his weapon was ready for the use of a cleaning kit. The idea of having to look up scared Gilserand like coming face to face with the malice of a Burning Spirit would have. Startled when he saw Gil reaching out, Ovellam remembered he had the latched box cleaning kit stored on his lap. The hand off was quick, and the only eye contact came when they nodded an acknowledgment at each other. Opening the kit, he froze when the Colonel began to speak; his first thought was that the man had seen through his last lie.

"That's one difference between you and the other sentries. All of them died in the volley, except one young woman sort of. She was able to call out before succumbing to her wounds. What happened next, soldier?"

I'm soldier now, instead of son?

"Sir, as I was rolling to my feet the forest floor seemed to erupt. They jumped up throwing dirt covered canvas off of themselves and began charging-"

"Canvas?" the colonel asked. Even Ovellam looked up from the crystal lined box. Gilserand's hands froze on the spears haft as his heart hammered against the thin barrier of his ribs.

"Yes sir, my guess was that they had spent most of the night crawling into position. The canvas was covered with dirt, moss, leaves, and twigs to disguise their forms."

"Damn!" The old soldier grunted his eyes incredulous. Shaking his head the magister sounded impressed.

"That is damn clever. The Sauri always throw something new at you when they take up arms."

Still moving his head back and forth and grinning his admiration, Ovellam slowly turned his attention back to the box. He was fingering the silver that had dripped over the hole Gilserand had burned through the contraption. Finding no amusement in the information, the colonel cocked an eye at the magister until the man was engrossed again. He then turned to Gil and gestured for him to continue. Imitating the Wild Rose of Bolloren, he turned his attention back to detailing the dueling spear; taking a deep breath to calm abraded nerves.

"They raced up the slope silently, that is when I called out. One of the fastest was the painted Sauri, in my mind I called it the shaman cause no one else was dressed and painted like it was."

Pausing to swallow he wondered when he should start embellishing. He was quickly coming up on the moment he could never speak about, and he still had no idea how his story would tie together when leaving out the true events. "Midway up the slope that guy stopped and started to open the lid of that box thing. Even before that... that tawny light spilled out, other Sauri were streaming around him, it, whatever. That is when the big chief took point. I- he was big, sir. It's arms were bigger than my thighs and I was scared. The light passing it's feet didn't make it seem any smaller...."

Oh no, what do I say now? Come on, think Gil, think! His mind replayed the event, the hordes of swarming Sauri pelting his way. The way he thrust the spear and shot energy out. That bright energy! His freakish nature revealed in burning purple light. He swallowed hard, then the hesitation in his mind cleared. "That is when the box flared up with that bright purple light. The chief was at the stakes, but it stopped and turned around. I know it's not chivalrous, but I stabbed him in the back." That's perfect. That is the sort of detail that they would never expect to hear! he thought feeling proud for a moment.

Soon however, the fact that he was lying to and misleading these men wrought a new sense of shame to lay atop all the other deeds that would ban his name from the Lords of Light's favor forever. To Gilserand's amazement the colonel began to smile and nod. The man actually looked impressed.

"Oh yes! The dumb lizard took his eyes off you! Good man, you never fight 'em head on unless you have to!" As the officer's approbation shocked Gil, he also witnessed Ovellam look up with a big grin and nod approvingly at Gilserand. What in the Burning Spirit's foul names...? He had made that story up to make himself look less than heroic, painting himself in a poor light for verisimilitude. They were eating it up like he had confessed to the most glorious deed imaginable.

Gilserand's confusion must have shown, because the magister leaned over and put a hand on his knee for a third time. The gesture was supposed to show compassion but it filled Gil with dread, making him want to squirm away.

"Fighting fair should never be your goal, Corporal Rivenheart. You saved the lives of a lot of soldiers tonight because you didn't seek false glory. Remember, they threw those javelins at your back because they knew that was their best bet to win this battle." After that fatherly wisdom, the magister leaned back and Colonel Tretham stepped in.

"If kicking a guy in the nut sack wins you the fight, you kick the sucker as hard as you can. That's more intimidating than acting all noble like all those jerks in the old stories."

Lords of Light and Life, is all of your creation this insane and contradictory? I wanted them to buy my story, which they did, but I didn't expect this. I was hoping that I could shed this hero label everyone wants to slap on me. Both the older men began to chuckle at his expression. He tried to turn his attention back to his spear to ignore their approbation, that was when he realized he was almost done with that cleaning chore. All those speed drills in weapon cleaning had kicked in while he had been on automatic pilot. All he had left was to oil the spears almost three foot long blade. "Wasn't that the point when all the Sauri stopped attacking?"

The senior officer's question stabbed through Gilserand's sense of propriety and decorum. Even if he had killed the chieftain with his bizarre powers rather than stabbing him in the back, the deed was no less underhanded. Unfair. Yet the colonel is right, it did stop the battle from happening.

"Yes sir, it did," he admitted reluctantly. The senior soldier's levity left his face with the suddenness of an attacking mongoose, with serious eyes Colonel Tretham leaned towards Gil.

"The thing is this, Rivenheart. You were scared as hell, certain you were about to die, I bet. You might have even thought of wetting your pants at that moment, which a lot of soldiers would have.

"But you didn't run, and when the opportunity presented itself you ended this stupid little war. All those old stories of heroes standing fast in the face of the enemy is a bunch of stuff that drops out of the backside of a horse. Courage is continuing to act despite your fear, and you did that in a mighty fashion, son. But it was your ruthlessness that turned the tide."

Spreading oil across the business end of his weapon, Gilserand refused to look up. He could hear the truth the leaders of this expedition were laying out, but the manifestation of his powers stole away any valor they wanted him to feel.

"This is my third time facing off against the Sauri," the war magister drawled. "The first time I killed the enemy leader. Were you attacked by one last Sauri warrior after the chief fell?" Gil spun the dueling spear over and began to rub a thin sheen of oil onto the other side of the long blade.

"Sir, yes. When all our soldiers stopped at the horse line, and all the Sauri cried out some hissy word and halted, there was one guy with an obsidian lined club who came at me. My instinct was to block it's slash, but my training made me attack instead."

Frowning as if he was being excluded from something, the colonel queried the magister.

"Why would they do that, send only one?" Looking frustrated, Ovellam dropped the open box to the side of his seat before answering. His investigation obviously not progressing as he would like.

"When a Sauri chieftain is killed, the warrior who avenges the chief gets to direct a peaceful transition of power in their clan; they choose the new chief. But only the closest champion is allowed to strike for their clan, that's how they manage their losses. In this case the champion was laid low, so that clan of Sauri will have to fight it out in a miniature civil war situation. This coalition of Sauri will break up and disperse since it was the personal power of the dead chief that had brought them all together in the first place. They believe the Lords of Light and Life direct their leader's triumphs and losses. A lot of leaders from the smaller tribes and clans will have to answer for involving their people in this failed campaign, they hooked up with a loser."

The colonel's brow smoothed out as he issued a neutral sounding grunt, as if he understood the reasoning of the Sauri. The woven steel of the dueling spear was pristine, as if it were ready to be displayed behind a glass case. This caused Gilserand's heart to speed back into the uncomfortable pace it had lurched into every few minutes. Oh no, I'll have to interact with these men! I don't think I can control what my face will tell them! Gil's last bastion of avoidance was putting the cleaning kit back in order. While closing the hasps on the kit, Colonel Tretham suddenly sat up clapping his hands together with such a large sound that Gilserand jumped.

Alarm made him look at the senior officer, his eyes wide with all the layers of fear he was living with.

"Good cleaning job, Rivenheart, but I noticed you didn't touch your edges up," Colonel Tretham stated. Though his voice was officious, the older man had a look of anticipation on his face. Gilserand lifted the oiling rag up instead of answering with words. Unfurling the cloth he showed the officer a half score nicks the cloth had taken, then he laid the spear blade up on his lap and dropped the used bit of rag. This caused the war magister to start chuckling as the two halves of the rag settled to the grass and moss.

Carefully he raised the point of the weapon then offered the colonel the spear.

"Sir, I have yet to find a use for this weapon that will effect the edge it has. I've never been given cause to set a sharpening stone to this dueling spear." Whistling a cat call, the colonel gingerly accepted the haft into his hands. The man was very conscious where he moved the long sword end of the weapon as he handled it. "Sir, I shaved the cleaning towel you gave me to test her edge after I... after I killed those Sauri people." Oh Lords of Light, I just gave voice to my sin. I've killed! I have killed those who carry the sacred light of intelligence in their souls, the Gift of the Lords!

While Colonel Tretham gave his patented grunt, Ovellam actually paid attention to Gilserand's expression twisting at the sudden stab of sorrow. Once again the man leaned in and gripped his knee, providing timely Human contact.

"I don't know how religious you are, corporal, but you might consider stopping at the first shrine to the Lords of Light and Life and burn some candles. Burn some for any friends you lost, and for all the souls bestowing this guilt on you. I've found it helps." For some reason the magister's look of concern reminded him of The Widow's expressions all those times she had soothed his fears or salved his hurts. Seeing the man's concern for him helped him manage the tumultuous ups and downs his emotions had been taking.

He said he has a daughter. This man is a better person than I have been making him out to be in my imagination. He cares for people. Even the colonel is a better man than I had assumed he would be. I hope they never find out how I lied to them. I like how they've been treating me.... I wish I was worthy of it.

"I'm less religious than some people, but more religious than many others," he hazarded. Having his own words somewhat reflected back at him made Ovellam Gueardan smile, he clapped Gil on his knee then leaned back with what looked like approval showing.

"Colonel, unless you have reservations I will be contacting Bolloren in the morning. I'm going to tell them that this campaign has come to a conclusive end. I will be so glad to be going back home."

Grunting again, a vocal that sounded like assent, Colonel Tretham leaned forward and offered the dueling spear back. He sounded hollow when he spoke.

"I'm not looking forward to all the fanfare that's coming, but as this is my last ride, I'll at least be retiring on a high note in my career." Suddenly smiling at Ovellam then at Gil, the officer concluded with false animation. "My wife has been looking forward to ordering me around full time for a long time now. It's about time she got her wish." When the colonel had mentioned his wife, the magister's face twisted with a fast shock. Not wishing to comment on the momentary down turn of the magister's lips, Gilserand focused his attention on the colonel. Why did the Wild Rose of Bolloren look lost and hurt all of a sudden?

"Sir, you're retiring? I didn't know that."

At first the colonel looked surprised that Gilserand would even care, but he did not know how important it had been for the noncom to see the Human side of his commander; the little that was shared this night had a larger impact than a casual meeting would have imparted.

"If old goats like me don't move aside, then young bucks like you won't move up the ranks," Colonel Tretham stated with a chuckle, even offering his hand for a shake. After a firm handshake the officer stood up. "I'm going to see if I can get a few more hours of sleep before we have to break camp. Corporal, you'll stay here tonight, there's wood for the brazier over by Ovellam's desk... the one to the west. I'll have your bedding brought to you. Ovellam, I suggest you get a few more winks yourself, heading home won't make the long march any easier if you're exhausted."

The older soldier stood up and stretched, then began to move away, the magister ruminated for a moment then began to nod at Tretham''s wisdom. "Oh, by the way. This business with Major Liethor and her platoon. What sort of punishment would you recommend, Rivenheart?" the colonel asked from near the tent flap. Caught unaware yet again, Gilserand pivoted in the folding chair to look over his shoulder.

"Sir, I'm not an officer. It's not in my power to punish someone set above me." He heard Ovellam shift in his seat, but the magister did not say or do anything further. However there was the hint of a warning growl in the officer's voice.

"I know that, I just want to know your opinion. If this was in your power, what judgment would you lay down."

Some of the vengeance fantasies Gilserand had dwelled on over the weeks reared up, replaying like tempting gifts offered by the Burning Spirits. As he thought, Gil felt the weight of both men's attention upon him.

"Sir, tonight when I was in crisis she was the first to show me concern. I've seen a lot of the good side of my officer's and leaders tonight.... Sir, the major and some in her platoon deserve some form of reprimand, just not a reprimand that ends their careers. Nor should it become a scandal that paints the guard." For a moment there seemed to be a small smile playing about the old soldier's lips, then the man's patented noncommittal grunt issued forth. The pavilion's flap closed on the officer and Gilserand still had no clue on how the colonel himself felt about the situation.

As if receiving a cue, Ovellam Gueardan rose from his seat.

"I too shall try to get some sleep. I recommend you bed down next to this brazier. Fold these chairs up and put them away, then fuel the brazier up. You will sleep more comfortably here than you have been with the other soldiers." The man started to move for the exit, then he stopped. Without turning around, he spoke one last time. "I know these words won't feel right for a while, but thank you. Because of you I get to go home and see my daughter. She's about your age, which means it won't be long before she is out of my life. I would rather spend what time we have left with her than be chasing Bolloren's enemies through these thickets."

[Xura]

I'm still playing catch-up with this series, but just wanted to say I like the opening paragraph of this chapter. Sets the ambience very nicely. I can see and feel the flicker of the firelight, and hear the sounds of the camp.


Gilserand felt as though he was set between two worlds. Behind him fires flickered and guards laughed and played games with dice and cards, the living sounds of Humanity. Before him, as he stalked between the line of horses and the sharpened stakes angled at the night, tree frogs and crickets sang among strange trees wearing robes of moss. A world with the continuous whir of night music that could drown out all other sounds if he let it. After a month in the field he had learned that it payed dividends to pay attention to the horses, they could detect unusual things in the night that he could not see or hear himself. Even under these moss laden trees, tied to the picket line by their halters, they were better sentries than he could ever be.