Chapter 4 Missing

[frenzied67]

Ch4
Missing

Winter's chill hit Pernandi the second he stepped out of the old tavern. Even though the sign above his head had been needing fresh paint for many years, he could still see the feminine legs on the tilted mug, kicking up in dance while brew sloshed out of the container's top. Why am I always stationed in these northern cities? I belong in the south with Human's who make sense, he groused in his thoughts, trying to nestle his chin deeper into the knitted scarf around his neck. With a last frown at all the snow piled up between the roads and walkways, he began to gingerly step off the taverns porch onto the walk. Though he did not slip, he still walked more gingerly than the natives of Lakehill.

I should move on to Javiero. Winter always slows down the rumors and information in these little towns and villages. The big cities never stop generating provender for the information exchange. Despite his observations, Pernandi did not head for the stable where his horses were stored. His steps continued away from Lakehill's sorry excuse for a gate into the little town's interior. He had a job and a duty. Sure his job was to collect rumors and intelligence, but he also had to continue his almost two decade search for the inheritor of the movement he belonged to. A local woman in a fur lined cloak came out of a shop ahead of Pernandi, the middle age woman carried a crate almost wider than the walkway; a strap around her neck helped her carry the open top box.

Her pale blue eyes studied Pernandi curiously, a few strands of red hair fluttered across her cheek. Like most of the people in Lakehill, she had never seen a man with brown skin and even darker brown eyes before. He was as rare as a giant in the lowlands, and thus an instant curiosity to these folk. Though if his skin tone had been paler he would have fit in as just another man with a strong jaw and soulful eyes. Pernandi himself had dealt with every race in Tanbril, even a few giant tribes in their mountainous homes. Except for the few contacts Pernandi had in this town who were used to him, his unique skin tone always drew eyes his way. Shying away from the unknown, the woman did manage to allow him space to pass by her fish and ice filled crate. Is everyone in Lakehill a fishmonger, he wondered after glimpsing her piscine wares.

Though fishing was a big industry in Lakehill, lumber and the tin mines actually brought in the most commerce. Yet everywhere Pernandi looked there were people carrying boxes filled with ice and fish. Coming to the second corner along the unnamed street he had been walking, he recognized the three A-frame houses and the one four story high peaked house that sat at each corner. He turned east heading for the second of four taverns he would have to visit while in this small municipality. Javiero, and all the towns and villages making up that city state's territory, had high peaked roofs on their buildings. The eastern midland climes always had poor winter weather with blizzards and ice storms. The roofs had to have a cant to them that would shed or disperse the weight of ice and snow. The homes and businesses also had small windows, recessed to take thick shutters; the only way to keep heat on the inside in the four to five months of winter these lands suffered.

Ahead, the Meadowlark Tavern's rickety sign came into view, dangling from the building's overhang over the walk. The caricature bird was winking at the viewer, it's wing held mug extended out for a toast; this sign too, needed fresh paint. Though Pernandi always feared ice on the walk, he did pick up his pace, not having slipped once through his entire walk was making him bold. Looking forward to the heated interior of the tavern, the southern man still had the peripheral vision to notice three men in front of a nearby inn's stable. The Human in the trio raised a hand to point across the road at Pernandi to his shorter and slighter companions. Those two began to cross the street in an obvious attempt to intercept him.

His quick eyes noticed both their gait and the very large blades strapped across their backs; he noted matching birds were inscribed on the pommels when they drew nearer. These are Faelora soldiers, they come from the far north, from the lands with all the lakes. He had heard tales of some Faelora city states that spent half a year in perpetual day, and the other half in constant night. Were these two from that far away? The first blush of Pernandi's curiosity fell away when he asked himself another question. Why would any Faelora wish to speak with me? Curiosity gave way to alarm, was selling fenced goods about to catch up with him? A brown hand fondled a diamond that had been shaped into a faceted eight pointed star within his pocket, his will pulled unseen ribbons of power from the relic. Pernandi wrapped himself about with those fluttering bands, holding them ready to strike out with or cower behind.

He also altered his course to meet them in the middle of the street, mostly to see how they would react. Though the Faelora men had fixated upon Pernandi, they had also been glancing about; now that he was moving toward them, their eyes never left him. Locking on to him like a hunting lioness spotting a limping gazelle. One had ruby gemstone eyes his bark like skin had an off green color, the second one had eyes like the rare pink sapphires found in the far islands of the southern sea; his skin was a pale gray flaky bark like texture. They had determination, yet he was not reading either malice or tension in either soldier.

"Human, are you the information peddler Pernandi of Deshnandu?" Pernandi hated that term, yet his cover required it.

"I am Pernandi, a business man," he declared, emphasizing a title that felt better; though it too was something of a lie.

Nearer the eastern side of the street than to the inn, the three of them came to a halt. They assessed him as much as he considered them.

"Ah yes, a business man," the Faelora on the right stated, emphasizing the title as Pernandi had. "We would like to purchase information from you then." Like all city dwelling Faelora, the two men wore neutral expressions that rarely changed as they spoke, neither mannerism nor expression betrayed mockery; yet Pernandi felt he was the target of some subtle ridicule. As he always did in this situation, he ignored the unsubstantiated derision yet doubled his scrutiny hoping he could catch concrete proof.

"And what is it that you think I can sell you?" he asked raising an eyebrow.

A momentary perfunctory smile twitched on both Faelora lips, again an expression that felt like mockery to the southern man. The silent one began to look around, his long head moving nonchalantly like a man bored with the conversation, yet he gave off an air of vigilance.

"We seek one of our own, a Faelora male with a lordly air. He will be around four hundred years old, so youngish to your eyes...."

"He will be traveling with a Human woman, one who will look older than her companion," the other Faelora broke in, his eyes still tracking every person on Lakehill's cold streets. Though the first speaker grimaced slightly, Pernandi was given the impression that the interruption was not the cause behind the wincing expression.

As an experiment, Pernandi trampled over the speaker just as the man was about to resume his dialogue. He really wanted to catch either of these Faelora in deriding him, any excuse to send these overly haughty tree puppets packing. Though he did not know why he particularly disliked these two, he knew that by selling them information he would not be helping himself or his chosen people.

"What are their names, what do they look like? Good information begets good results." This time the speaker's smile did not seem mocking, he even inclined his head to acknowledge the truth Pernandi had spoken.

"They act as fugitives, so we do not know the names they will be using." After imparting that unhelpful tidbit, the speaker reached inside his beaver lined coat. In his soul, Pernandi wanted to curse. So far these Faelora were not granting him an excuse to break off this burgeoning arrangement.

I am going to charge them a very high price. I'm going to gouge them so much that they will go to The Burning Spirits still in debt to me. Keeping his uncharitable thoughts off his mien, he watched the speaker produce a package of folded papers and a smallish blue suede pouch that bulged. "We have their likenesses drawn for you, the female's picture was taken when she was younger. I am sure you can extrapolate what she would look like almost twenty years later. This should be simple for you, she is one of your species," the pink eyed speaker stated unfolding the two drawn pictures, which he then handed over. Whoever the artist had been, their attention to detail impressed Pernandi. He swore that the only thing preventing the two people from stepping off those pages and becoming real was the lack of coloration.

Both marks looked like teens, beautiful in their youth. For a moment he wondered what crime had brought these two Faelora out to hunt these young people, then another hunch struck the southerner.

"I have never seen these two before. Does any of this have to do with the war between Estanabril and Anetheri?" Pernandi only asked that to see how the stranger's would react. He almost smiled when he shook Red Eyes up enough that he stopped looking about. Both Faelora fixed on him with narrowed eyes, betraying that he had struck his mark with that random arrow.

"What if it does?" Red Eyes asked after a drawn out moment; Pink Eyes glanced at his partner as if wondering what his companion's gambit was.

Smiling disarmingly, Pernandi shook his head as if dismissing his earlier guess.

"True, that should have no bearing on the arrangement we are making. I have to admit, looking for runaways is not cheap, especially using old pictures of these fugitives. I do have a network of snoops and bounty hunters who are highly specialized in their fields, they will not work for coppers...," he raised his eyebrow expectantly, ready to dismiss their first offer. Instead of listing a price, Pink Eye held up the small suede pouch. When Pernandi did not reach for that disappointingly small bag, the Faelora, with snake like speed, grabbed his free hand and placed the object in his palm. Taken aback, Pernandi squeezed the bag slightly and discovered it did not hold coins at all. The two Faelora smiled slightly as he loosened the drawstrings to peer inside the container.

A score of faceted rubies sparkled when revealed. A prince's ransom in value. When he gaped at the two, Pink Eye's smile held a superior quality.

"Of course we require your utmost attention to detail, and nothing less than full discretion from you and your network," he stated, knowing he had more than paid for such services and then some. "You will receive ten times that sum when you can deliver our- uh, fugitives to us." Ten times more? Pernandi was already holding more wealth than he had ever beheld in one place before. His voice shook when he spoke again.

"H- how do I con- contact you?" Looking pleased with themselves, Red Eye pulled out a dagger with a deer antler hilt. Power radiated so intently that Pernandi feared even mundane people could see the red energies; he looked about checking to see who was watching.

Hesitantly, he pulled out his oddly carved diamond and touched it to the dagger's hilt. Both he and Red Eyes drew power out of their relics tying a magical knot around both items with mystic ribbons. Now they would be able to communicate with each other no matter where in Tanbril they each were. "How did you know I was a magister," he whispered feeling uncertain. Pink Eyes answered for the duo, still seeming pleased with himself.

"We too have a network of discrete... uh... professionals. We know many things." Happy with themselves, the two Faelora turned about and walked away heading in the direction Pernandi had come. They knew there was no need for a handshake or a contract, they had more than paid for the deal now existing between them.

Long after the two men had turned into the street that held Lakehill's rusty portcullis, Pernandi cast glances between the pictures he yet held, and the path the stranger's had taken. Becoming aware of the chill nibbling at his bones pulled the southerner out of his bemused state after several minutes had passed. This is a lot more than a simple search for two people. They paid too much money. Politics stinks. Pernandi found his limbs almost uncooperative when he did start moving, his feet and hands had become numb from winter's greedy hold. Ah crap! I'm going to get that pins and needles feeling when I start to warm up. He did need the heat, but the pain of having sensation return to his extremities was not something to look forward too. He had just fumbled the pictures back into their folded up state and into an inner pocket when he entered the Meadowlark Tavern.

Brown skin or not, three patrons and the bar tender gave him stink eye until the door was closed. Warmth from two fireplaces almost made him sigh in delight, but he still understood why no one had been pleased for the few seconds the outside had scrambled in to steal most of that heat away. Victouer the proprietor was working behind the bar this day, the lack of a crowd excuse enough to not bring in his regular trained staff. That man's eyes began to shift about when he recognized Pernandi. Victouer may have a lot of access to information, but a spy he was not. The seven four person tables and the bar itself were all well made and well maintained, all hardwoods of some sort that Victouer made sure were coated and sealed against moisture.

Several pictures of Lakehill's countryside were posted on the east, north, and west walls, the bar itself taking up the south wall next to the only entrance. Behind that bar were stacks of barrels that held several types of beer or ale, a back room was reserved for the ten varieties of wine they had, as well as the six hard liquors they were legally allowed to sell. Victouer's office and living quarters could be accessed by a steep set of stairs in the south eastern corner. One man was seated at the bar which had seven stools before it. The other two patrons were set as far as possible from each other among the spread of tables on the main floor.
Licking his lips and failing to act casual, Victouer shifted uneasily behind his station.

"What can I get for ya, Pernandi?" Smiling Pernandi gave his usual answer, an old joke that always seemed to calm the proprietor.

"I'll have a willing southern woman. If you don't have one of those for me, then you can get me a rum." Smiling broadly Victouer relaxed, the northerner's rejoinder was unexpected.

"If there was a willing woman in this town, none of us would be here." Ambushed by the humor, a chuckle burbled out of Pernandi, and just like an earthquake ramping up its shakes, that chuckle built itself into an outright laugh. Pleased with himself, the tavern's owner reached down behind the bar and came up with a bottle with brown liquid inside, he plopped that bottle on the counter then turned it so the label faced Pernandi.

Surprised and delighted once again Pernandi offered wide eyes to Victouer.

"Kalinama Rum! You have Kalinama Spiced Rum? How did you ever get the city council to allow this into Lakehill?" Beaming as if he were responsible for distilling the rum himself, the tavern keeper offered his tale.

"Three of our council men and women traveled south to Trutore for some diplomatic crap. They each sampled it while down there. Guess what? They pushed to amend the law when they got back. Takes half a year to get a crate here, but it's catching on," he said as he poured a three fingered shot for Pernandi. Victouer did not insist on being paid before letting the southerner enjoy a taste reminiscent of his home, he knew Pernandi would be lavishing him with coin for both drink, questionable goods, and information soon.

The beverage burned his throat on the way down, alcohol fumes flooding his nasal passages, but the explosion of warmth in his stomach seemed to mitigate the returning sensation in Pernandi's hands and feet. The sweet after the burn made him close his eyes in sure delight. That flavor, oh that flavor! When his eyes fluttered open, he found the owner now had a serious expression. Victouer leaned in to whisper trying and failing to be surreptitious.

"I have to wait for Ulga to get back before we can head upstairs. I hope you don't mind." Pulling out three pentamarks, he laid the big silver coins directly in the northerner's hands; six times the price of the crate of rum. Sweeping up the bottle, he replied.

"I need a few minutes of privacy to get my thoughts together. Can that be arranged?"

Instead of an answer, Victouer set a second shot glass on the counter next to Pernandi's, he then tilted his head to indicate the stairs up. he had to balance the two shot glasses and the rum when he reached the door to the office, but he managed to get the door open with fingers that were only partially recovered. Two chairs sat upon opposite sides of the desk, they had concave shell like backs built upon round stool seats. Stuffed red fleece cushioned the seat and the interior of the back, allowing those seated to recline if they chose. Two one foot by one foot pictures were on the wall. Victouer, his late wife, and the young versions of his two children sat on the east wall. The man's mother, father, and older sister posed with five year old Victouer in front of a flower bedecked gazebo in the other; the paintings were almost as good as the two pictures the Faelora soldiers had given him.

More nails than necessary seemed to be holding the legs on the desk, and this was just the side facing the door. Wooden posts had replaced the desk's legs on the far side of the abused furnishing. This was the one item in the Meadowlark Tavern that had not been lavished with care, yet it was good enough to hold the rum and glasses. A door in the north east portion of the office was a portal leading to two other rooms, the owner's living space. All three partitions shared the same reduced head space caused by the ceiling's steep slope. Pernandi ignored the furnishings, running passed a bank of three filing cabinets along the west wall, none of which matched in color or dimensions. The hall leading to the back rooms was clear of people as was the far side of the desk when he checked there, Victouer's side of the furnishing.

After making sure he had complete privacy, Pernandi produced his shaped diamond relic. Using his will, he pulled forth three different colored ribbons of power from the relic. He wove those slender bands about each other, the result looked like the hard candies made in Landee. These he whorled together until he had a bowl of energy tipped and directed to the west. Excess ribbon was then run through the center of the bowl and back into the many pointed diamond star. Far away, almost halfway across the continent, Penandi's relic touched the relic of an old friend.

"Pernandi? Is that you? Your report is a bit early, ain't it?" Blexi the Gachtler queried. Knowing he did not have much time, Pernandi did not waste it on pleasantries.

"Is Istilirial with you? I was just approached by Faelora military agents who gave me a puzzle."

"All right. He's here, I'll tie him in." Blexi's mental image came into being in Pernandi's mind's eye, wavering like a mirage at first, but firming up as their long range connection solidified.

Istilirial also started off as a voice before his image did its heat shimmer appearance; all that was revealed were the faces and torsos of the speakers, none of the environment or background could bee seen. The Gachtler's amber eyes always looked hooded, as though indifference was Blexi's constant mode of operation. He had ivory white fur with brownish orange tiger stripes radiating around his body from his spine. His overly large battle ax, as always, was on his back. Pernandi could see the crenelated style war hammer counter balancing the broad angled ax head. Istilirial, the co-leader of Trillam Trumage's movement was a Faelora. His tourmaline orange eyes had a sad cast to them; not that he had anything to mourn, he just had that seeming. His skin tone was smooth and reddish, like freshly peeled madrone, and unlike the two Faelora Pernandi had dealt with earlier, Istilirial was honest with the emotions he expressed.

"You say you got a puzzle, Pernandi?" Blexi lead off, informing his Faelora counterpart of the spy's words.

Pernandi began to pull out the pictures he had hidden in his coat.

"I was just paid a fortune to search for a lordly Faelora youth and a Human woman in her mid to late thirties. I was given twenty cut and polished rubies that are around two hundred gold pentamarks each. The soldiers who paid me had a flying fork tail swallow marked on their claymore's pommels. I don't know what this is about, but I thought it would be important enough to pass on to you two at once." Annoyance passed over Blexi's features, his ears twitching back as his fangs made a brief appearance. That expression vanished when Istilirial pierced some of the mystery.

The Faelora leader folded his hands and rested his chin upon them, his slow exhalation was his version of a troubled sigh.

"The swallow is the symbol of the old Faelora Empire. Only Estanabril still flies that banner, which means those agents were sent by King Lorinlil. Close to two thousand years ago, before the empire's fall, Prince Lorinlil watched Humans slaughter his mother before his very young eyes. That deed, like no other, has skewed the point of view of all Faelora against Humans; the outrage was universal to my people. My guess, the quarry they are after have committed the crime of loving each other. Faelora pride would rebel most violently from a co-mingling of blood." Blexi and Istilirial's eyes met, both men calculating trying to see how this would help their Trumage followers.

Mouth twisted unconsciously in thought, Blexi floated an idea out, his voice sounding like he even knew the idea had not been fully thought out.

"If we had these two under our banner, their relationship could be used to reinforce Trillams teachings." The Gachtler even looked to Pernandi to see how receptive he was, but Pernandi was not in a leadership position within the movement. He was just a spy and information peddler. Istilirial pursed his thin lips, then slowly started nodding.

"'Only through the unity of the races will we ensure our survival in the age to come.' Yes, having these lovers could be a huge symbol for our movement. Not as big as having the bride take over running this show, when she's found, but impactful."

All smiles now, Blexi took up where his Faelora friend had left off.

"Do you have a description of our lovebirds?" he asked Pernandi. Nodding, he opened the folded papers and spread them out on Victouer's rickety desk.

"Better than that, I have pictures," he said studying the drawings. Pretty soon the images he saw appeared to the unlikely pair at the other end of the magical connection. Blexi had an eidetic memory, which is one of the reasons Trillam Trumage, when he had lived, had raised the Gachtler to be one of his captains, yet both men studied the renderings to commit them to memory.

"Okay, we will inform our other networks. Pernandi, convert as many of those gems as you need into coin. If you can, send some of that money our way. We can always use it...." Both leaders saw Pernandi's expression shift and freeze, his head tilted to listen. He had heard the bar's stairs creaking which meant the spy would have company soon. Delivering an apologetic smile to his true bosses, the southerner broke the relic's magical connection and hastily began to refold the pictures. He was withdrawing his hand from his inner coat pockets, where he had stashed his magic diamond and the papers, when the office door swung open. The tavern keeper's eyes snapped to the rum immediately and Victouer rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

"I thought I heard you talking to yourself up here," Victouer observed while maneuvering into his seat across the desk. An easy smile came to Pernandi's lips.

"Just complaining about how long you were taking. Been a long time since I've tasted good spiced rum." His prevarication was not challenged, Victouer had naked avarice on his face as Pernandi poured their shots. The northerner was looking forward to both the drink and the coins he would be earning soon; ill gotten goods would be exchanged as well.


Relentless, dangerous winter still had a tight grip on the early spring weather. Rain that must have dripped directly off an ice sheet bombarded Gilserand as he ran up the steps to the wooden curtain wall. His pebbled flesh was telling him that heavy hail was breaking his skin, bruising his flesh, but that was just the sting of cold fooling numbed nerves. Though the snows had stopped, the warmth of the season felt far far away. Burning Spirits take him, Lords of Light and Life turn thy eyes away from this son of a bitch! There were no wrinkles on my damn uniform! he fumed in his thoughts. Stripped down to an undershirt, and a pair of black and dark green shorts that were meant for warmer seasons, Gil was doing twenty laps. First he had to run up the steep steps of the first wooden tower north of the barbican, through the first and second towers, then down the steps of the third platform until he turned south on the street.

All through boot camp, Gil had been ostracized from his unit through constant punishments and scoldings no other soldier seemed to face. This treatment followed him into basic weapons training through the winter. Even though he had passed his tests, both physical and from his training manuals, Lieutenant Guerlach had held him back from advancement. Only his promise to Captain Kinnert kept Gil from quitting, though days like this tempted him mightily. The trumped up charges and punishments just kept coming. I should be in my assessment period, where the officer's figure out which branch of the guard I belong to. The planks of the parapet walk seemed to vibrate with the stomp of his waterlogged boots.

One thing the captain had said had come true, Gilserand was in excellent physical shape. He had gained almost twelve pounds over the winter, all of it sculpted muscle. If he had even a quarter of this definition when he had been a kid, he would never have had to deal with a single bully. Still, Gil's body had limits. Going down the stairs next to the third tower, he slowed way down. He had missed a step last winter, and the steepness of those stairs had not been forgiving. The only peace he had been given in the guards had been his two week stint in the infirmary with bone bruising on his arms, legs and ribs; never mind his concussion.

Running south along the road paralleling the wall, the same street he had grown up on, he came up on the rearmost wagon of a pair heading for the barbican gate. The stench informed Gil of who he was sharing the road with. Gilserand had to cover his mouth and nose as he ran, increasing the pressure on his lungs to get oxygen to his body. Human and animal waste combined with rotten produce and other less identifiable smells to make a miasma he gagged on. Local farmers paid dearly for the compost from the city's midden heap. The cold weather may be dampening the stench, but Gil's stomach tried to heave as he passed by both trundling vehicles. After he cleared the wagons, he gulped air as if he had already ran all twenty climbing laps.

Dammit, I'm going to have to pass these guys again the next time I go around! he thought as he drew nearer his starting point. Two soldiers were talking in front of the steps Gil would have to run up. These men wore armor and had halberds in hand, obviously having a bull session after coming off shift.

"Make way!" he called out, alerting the two to his presence. Though they did clear his path, they also taunted him as he ran by.

"Runner, runner, runner!" they repeated over and over, until Gilserand reached the wall's wooden parapet. Every guard knew when a fellow soldier was being punished, and were happy to heap on some ridicule to make a lesson stick. Their calls reached the watcher atop the wood tower's top platform; that guard's chant took up just as the voices below stopped, the woman leaning her dome helmeted head through plank crenelations to continue the mockery.

The officers had always claimed that shame was a great educator, that it made good soldiers better. Or it broke them. I will not break! I will not give up! I will be a soldier! he vowed, entering the pass through built into the second tower. Four steps in the tower then he hit the outside parapet feeling grateful that some thoughtful souls had lanterns burning in each tower, at least the towers he had to move through. The taunting voice from the tower platform above called out jovially when Gilserand emerged.

"Runner, runner, runner!" Great, now I'm going to be mocked at all three towers now, he thought, certain that those cries had been heard far and wide. At least on the street he would have peace.

Looking at the tower top ahead Gilserand tried to see the guard stationed there, expecting to see a helmeted head ready to shout 'runner' at him. Instead of a figure leaning through gaps in the wood, he saw them dash from the front of the tower and begin ringing the warning bell at the back of the platform. That guard looked directly at Gilserand, eyes round with emotion.

"Smoke from the farms! Raiders in the fields!"

Braking to a halt, he looked back where the guard's free finger was pointing. Sure enough a black plume of smoke lifted like an ugly banner to smear the horizon. Gilserand could not make out the farmstead itself, the smoke was too far from the wall and too close to the brooding forest. Dozens of blue tinged smoke trails lifted up from all of the farms scattered through the west, but those farmers had learned to throw green wood and oiled branches onto their fires when they spotted dangerous creatures. The black smoke was a faster signal than sending a runner. Just that quick a second distant signal fire began to rise against the afternoon sun.

Adrenaline thrilled Gilserand's blood, the feel of fear tingled his extremities. The tower guard continued to ring his bell, still pointing towards the forest, and begging Gil to do something with his eyes. He stepped over the edge of the parapet, catching the planks making up that walk. Gil dangled for a moment then dropped the dozen or so feet down to the outward swell of the stone foundation for the wall, which he raced down until he hit the street.

"Raiders in the west, smoke from the farms!" he began to call, pelting south towards the barbican and barracks. Bells from the other towers began to sound, sending the warning faster than Gilserand ever could; but those bells could not speak, could not declare what the danger was or where.

The farmers on their crap wagons were almost to the barbican, the lead wagon beginning to take a wide turn to enter the tunnel. The same tunnel the soldiers would have to sortie out of. "Stop!" Racing by the rear wagon, Gilserand ignored the sullied air in order to cut the lead wagon off. "Stop!" he called again darting in front of the horses, making them shy back from his sudden advent. Wide brim hat dripping rain, the white haired farmer gaped at Gil. "Raiders in the west! You can't use the barbican! Get your wagons out of the way or you'll get your neighbors killed!" he shouted pointing towards the keep deep inside Alren.

Guards were already piling out of the barracks, either onto the deck, the soaked street, or along the covered balconies; most of them were not preparing for trouble, just gawking. Lieutenant Guerlach had already been running in Gilserand's direction, an extended looking glass in his hand, he must have been monitoring Gil's run. "Smoke from the farms, Sir! We can't have these wagons blocking our way out!" Though the junior officer did not like Gil, he did not hesitate in supporting Gilserand's decision in the face of this alarm.

"You heard the man, get these wagons back into the city, away from these walls!" Pointing out the route he would like the farmers to take, the lieutenant began to direct traffic, but before Gilserand could take off Guerlach stopped him.

Shoving his telescope and a set of keys into Gil's hands, Lieutenant Guerlach gave him a look that seemed to be begging him for something. "Get your unit together, make sure everyone is armored and ready to go. You are responsible for issuing them their arms. Now go!"

"Yes Sir!" Adrenaline made his feet just need the barest contact with the street's stones to propel him rapidly towards all the inactive guards, only a few were treating the alarms like a drill. "Raiders in the fields, this is not a drill! We have smoke from the farms! Again, this is not a drill!" Lieutenant Tigraff who could have been Sergeant Dilburd's blond twin, leader of the West Barbican Seventeenth Platoon, had started out to question Gil, but he heard the shouts. That officer spun in place and began squaring up his unit of soldiers. Gil found himself at the tail end of young troopers trying to pile back into the southern most barracks building, a scene in common with the northern structure.

Already in his tan quilted gambeson, Private Laffe looked lost standing on the porch all by himself; his hands held his chain shirt and black and green tabard. Though Laffe often looked like the act of thinking was a chore, he was still in Gilserand's squad. "Help me get the squad together, we have raiders to the west!" Gil begged. Laffe's first expression was skeptical, then he realized from everyone else shouting and running too and fro that Gil was not pulling his leg.

"Dammit, Ritter and a few other boys are on their way to the... ah, the market." Gilserand heard Laffe's voice shift from steady to evasive and hesitant, which meant that the men in question were actually seeking the services of prostitutes.

Grimacing from not knowing what to do, Gilserand was on the verge of cursing. Just like that his mind cleared of his momentary indecision.

"Can you head them off? Do you know where they are going? We have to get rounded up as fast as possible or Guerlach is going to skin us." His soft blue eyes widened as the possibility dawned on his slow mind, private Laffe began to nod with innocent enthusiasm.

"I can do it, they didn't leave that long ago." Still carting his armor and tabard, the big soldier lumbered for the northern corner of the building. Gilserand entered the barracks, dodging around all the other soldiers now running in every direction. He continued to shout the message as he breasted the Human tide. Eighth Squad, Gil's unit, had their quarters/gathering area on the second story, south side.

By the time he had reached the Eighth's door, dozens of other guards were relaying his words through the whole building, squad to squad. He found someone almost in the door trying to shrug their chain shirt over their padded gambeson by themselves. Beyond them four other men were in various stages of dress, all chatting and laughing like boys when the school bell had not been rung yet.

"I got you," Gil said, grabbing the hem of the mail. The man stopped hopping about and allowed Gilserand to tug the rattling links down his torso until arms and a head were revealed. Private Hougeman looked surprised when he found out who had helped him, his round brown eyes and button nose making him look especially boyish at the moment.

Gil did not wait for Hougeman's comment or thanks. "This is not a drill! Get yourselves dressed and armored! Gather your field kits because we're probably going outside the wall!" Gilserand's shout had the right effect on the five other soldiers. They stopped chattering and tossing clothing about and began to dress in earnest, their speed impressive. Setting the spy glass on the desk to the right of the door, he then dashed to the left where his trunk was stationed. Soldiers who lived in the barracks had their trunks at the foot of their bunks, men who had homes, like Gilserand, had their equipment stored in trunks against the squad room's back wall on the east side. He stripped as he ran, tossing his wet garments into a hamper before wrenching the big trunk open.

By the time he was lacing his still soaked boots back up, Gil was approached by Hougeman and Machen; another private with soft boyish features but darker hair than Hougeman. Machen grabbed Gilseran's gambeson and held the garment open, wordlessly offering to assist Gil.

"Some of the boys are off to the flesh market...," Hougeman began, but checked himself when Gilserand shook his head. Both men held the quilted cloth open so that Gil could climb into the padding.

"I sent Laffe after them," he said as the two men jerked the gambeson down his frame. All five men were surrounding him when his head popped through the encumbering clothing.

"Where's the lieutenant?" someone complained.

"What's happening out there?" Hougeman asked.

"You better not mess this up, Gil." Private Tulauten snarled, making Gilserand feel defensive. "You always mess up."

Sneering before offering his rejoinder, Gil was cut off before his scathing remark ever issued.

"When was the last time that Gilserand ever mucked anything up?" Machen countered, looking at his fellow guards. "The lieutenant picks on him. Guerlach makes things up 'cause he hates Gil. We've all seen it." Alright! I'm not the only one who has noticed this! Seeing a majority of those present exchanging nods stole the heat away from Gil's defensiveness. Helping hands were also holding Gilserand's armor for him to climb into.

"It doesn't matter that Guerlach hates me. Do you guys have your field kits? He's going to be here any minute." Many hands helped pull the chain mail shirt over Gil's body, for once the heavy armor felt comforting and not burdensome. Inside the rattling chain voices were hard to make out, yet he heard one statement through the rest of the confused clamor.

"We need our weapons. We're all in for it if we're still standing around waiting at the weapon's locker."

Two figures were making their way to the squad rooms back area, but the rest turned with him when four other people clattered in. Laffe had returned with the missing men, he was still holding his armor and tabard. Gilserand quickly added his tabard to his own attire, possibly the easiest item of clothing to don. Feeling hopeful for the first time after climbing the barrack's stairs, Gil held up the keys the lieutenant had handed him.

"Help those guys armor up, I'll get the locker open after I pack my gear." He set off for the back room as he stuffed his head into his domed open faced helmet. Tulauten followed him to the back while the others jumped to assist the late comers. Hougeman was busy stuffing ration boxes into one of the back packs, while Machen was adding first aid packages to another; three backpacks sat at their feet ready for someone to snag them up and add the third component of their kit. A coordinated but incomplete chain gang.

Tulauten tossed a bag back at Gil even as he hooked his meaty hands through the straps of a second. On the north wall, opposite the locker's holding rations and medical kits, was where the equipment maintenance satchels were stored. Sharpening stones, cleaning rags, oil for armor and weapons, and half a dozen other sundries were in each canvas bag. Gil grabbed the entire stack and handed them back to Tulauten, he snagged the top most satchel for himself. "Help them, it will speed us up if you do," he cajoled. The tall sandy haired soldier sneered at him over the burden in his arms.

"Ain't we the wanna be general, barking orders!" While the squad had been given no opportunity to bond with him, Gil had deliberately been placed on the outside, he still knew how to deal with an attempt at bullying.

Taking the gamble, he smirked at his fellow private soldier, then winked. That was enough for Tulauten, his challenge met with toughness and humor, the man cheerfully turned about and began to finish loading the Eighth Squad's packs. At the back of the room was the weapon lockers, a bank of shallow closets holding the broad bladed spears his unit was to be armed with. A slender locked chain was strung through the locker's handles effectively holding them closed. Lieutenant Guerlach's keys popped that lock open, and with a few tugs, Gil removed the chain. Just in time, a line of six men moved into the back room, taking packs in hand and shuffling into a line before him. Tulauten, Machen, and Hougeman lifted their packs and lined up behind the others.

Each spear had a six foot shaft that was topped by a three foot long tapered spear head. Those razor sharp blades allowed their wielders to duel an enemy with the benefit of reach. Unlike the long spears used to drive off cavalry units, these weapons were meant specifically to reap infantry. No one in this unit would cower behind a shield and poke at an enemy. Gilserand rapidly handed each man their spear after they stepped up. The last man in line turned out to be Lieutenant Guerlach, who must have recently arrived. Accepting his weapon and keys, the officer spoke in a loud authoritarian voice.

"Good job Corporal Gilserand! Your actions at the barbican were decisive and will result in lives saved! Now everyone assemble in the square, they are NOT going to use us to man the walls even though we were off shift when the alarm sounded. Go!"

Blinking in confusion, Gil almost started off without grabbing his own spear. I just got promoted? I just got promoted! The reality of the moment just did not want to sink in, but as Guerlach peeled off to rally the other squads he commanded Gilserand realized he would have to get the eighth Squad lined up. Orderly lines of armored guards pounded down the stairs now, Gil's squad quickly joining the stampeding queue. Outside, many units were already formed and marching towards the barbican. Eleventh Squad was just forming up, Seargeant Garr stalking back and forth like an impatient beast. The burly gnarl faced soldier did not comment when Gil joined him on the southern side, standing before their respective squads. As the rest of the Eighth Platoon formed up Corporal Tangier and Sergeant Goenz, of the Ninth and Tenth squads, joined them in facing the enlisted men. Gilserand could find no fault with how his fellows were lined up and at attention.

Sweeping to the fore, Lieutenant Guerlach barked.

"Form up in lines, four abreast! Eighth Squad to the fore!" Gil walked backward, using his spear tip to indicate where he wanted his squad to align themselves. No one messed up, no one got confused or tangled up, even Private Laffe. After the other three squads formed behind Gil's men, Guerlach gave another shouted command. "Equipment check!" Those in back began to rifle through the packs of the guard in front of them, making sure there was food, blankets, first aid kits, and maintenance gear inside each. Seargent Garr Checked Gil's pack, before everyone about faced, then Gil checked the sergeant's gear. The rain began to let up completely at this point, it had started to taper off before Gil had entered the barracks.

Not one voice was raised to declare someone was missing any item of gear. Lifting his spear arm as he drifted to the new front of his command, Lieutenant Guerlach was about to issue their marching orders. However, hooves clattering on the squared off stone road interrupted him. A dozen cavalry soldiers trotted from around the southern most barrack building, heading directly for the barbican. As usual the horsemen did not consult the infantry, they just assumed the next position in the line; crowding the rearmost squad of foot bound

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soldiers. Though the lieutenant seemed like he had never had a nice day, his mood visibly soured on seeing the horsemen. His arm swept down giving the order for the Eighth Platoon to march. Gilserand had to perform an about face, then he raised his own spear and began to stomp forward; the sound of forty five booted feet matched the cadence of his step.

After ten paces, he shouldered his weapon and stared at the open maw of the barbican and the rearmost portcullis that would be lowered after the last soldier had sortied out. In the dark, made worse by the miserable weather, Gil felt his marching step come down on something soft and yielding. A second later the barnyard smell reached his nostrils. The cavalry mounts were leaving deposits in their wake, crap that Gilserand and his fellows had to step in and track. Yup, this is the glamorous life I signed up for, he thought, before he broke into a delighted grin. I'm a corporal now! Even stomping in fecal matter was not going to steal this achievement away from him, though a corporal was the most transitory rank in the military. A soldier could be made corporal one day, then the rank taken and given to another for little or no excuse. Still, it meant that officers would now take him seriously, observe him for more possible advancements.

After clearing the barbican, the road turned north for near a hundred yards, before it turned west again to cross the stout little bridge. Two platoons were in the lead, blocking the impatient cavalry from racing ahead. Gilserand thought for sure that the horse troops were contemplating trying to ford Rularic creek near his fishing spot, their unruly formation barely retaining the stone roads surface as the animals pranced from one side to the other. Behind him whispers began to circulate, for the first time since the alarm bells had began to clatter Gilserand's mates could see four black plumes smeared across the north west horizon. This reminder of danger did steal away with Gil's sense of accomplishment.

I'm supposed to be in charge of nine other men, and my first day on the job we might see combat. How is that fair? Even though the concept of fairness had been beaten out of Gilserand when he was six, the idea resurfaced as stress and doubt began to build in his mind. After nearly one hundred infantry men cleared the bridge, the cavalry darted off the mud road and into the fields. They headed directly for the smoke plumes rather than following the arrow straight west bound roadway. When the Eighth Platoon hit the bridge, Gil could feel the whole construction drum, the vibrating wood thrumming through the soles of his boots into his feet. Footfalls so precise that a general would weep with pride.

Leaving the bridge was a different experience. Though the ground was still mostly frozen there was a glaze of slick mud that broke up the platoon's steps. The deep ruts from farmer's wagons made slipping impossible to avoid. Lieutenant Guerlach strode up to Gilserand's position at the fore, his perpetual sour demeanor showing extra spice. He watched the soldiers ahead struggling through the slick muck, then back at his own men who were also falling and sullying their uniforms.

"Sir, permission to lead the men off the road where the footing is better?" The officer looked surprised, his blue eyes digging at Gil as though searching for mockery or sabotage. After a few seconds, he responded in the same low tones as Gilserand's request.

"Show us the way, Rivenheart."

Bringing the spear off his shoulder, Gilserand raised it high with one hand, then swept it down and to the right. This showed the Eighth Platoon the correction to their course and they followed him to the verge of the road on the right. Though the grass had been beaten down by winter it was not muddy, they immediately started gaining on the units ahead of them because of their surer footing. Soon, all the other platoons before them and behind began to imitate the Eighth's maneuver. The nearly three hundred guards that had sortied out of Alren were now moving at a respectable clip, almost as fast as if they were still on the planed stones of a road. Before they reached the first turn off leading to a farm south of the mud road, the clopping of a trotting horse came up on the other side of the marchers.

On a brown horse with a long white patch running from it's forehead nearly to it's nostrils, Captain Kinnert came astride of Lieutenant Guerlach and himself. With a nod of his battered features, the captain pulled Guerlach out of formation. They were whispering to each other before Gil lost sight of them. I guess we are about to find out what we are supposed to do out here, he thought, fresh nervousness roiling in his gut. Before too many minutes had passed, the captain rode by, trotting up to the Second Platoon ahead.

"Goenz, Garr, Tangier, Rivenheart!" Lieutenant Guerlach ordered, summoning his noncoms. Gilserand's voice joined three others issuing the necessary command.

"Keep marching!"

All he saw as he dropped out of line was a batch of masks, young men and women trying to keep fear off their faces, but unable to obfuscate that it was also in their eyes. To Gil, Lieutenant Guerlach's lack of sourness or disdain was very odd. When they were all huddled the officer's eyes flicked to his troops marching passed.

"Just got the word. Our magisters are not coming. They don't want to risk themselves. There is supposed to be reinforcements or something coming from Bolloren," The way the bulbous nosed man let his mouth tighten up spoke of withheld emotion.

"What are we supposed to do? We can't go in those woods and not have the means to get out," Sergeant Goenz muttered, his eyes also flicking to those marching.

Built like a Gachtler, shortish and thick with muscle, Sergeant Garr kept his eyes on the lieutenant. His voice rumbled like distant thunder.

"Our boys and girls aren't trained yet. We don't have any of 'em that are specialists, none of them have stage three training." Grimacing at both sergeant's too quick observations, Lieutenant Guerlach held his hand up and gestured for them to stop. Rather than just speaking softly, their superior dropped into a whisper as though they were crafting a conspiracy

"We're not going to engage. The forest is off limits, for now. Our orders are for us to set up along Oldbeard's edges and get a count of the enemy. Whoever they are."

Both the sergeants studied their commanding officer for a moment, but just as they began nodding an acceptance or appreciation of the orders, Corporal Tangiers blurted.

"This feels like bad politics. Who will protect the farmers if we don't?" Garr wore disdain like a shield while the lieutenant shot the corporal a nasty look. Gil felt it necessary to correct his peer before the older men snapped at him.

"Have you ever walked into a strange alley without backup? Not pretty. Until we know who we're up against, the best service we can do the farmers is keep ourselves alive. We need a good plan, one where whoever-they-are do most of the dying; not us."

Gilserand had to do a double take. Lieutenant Guerlach was grinning at him, something like pride on his face. No it was vindication. The two sergeants grinned like Gil had told a joke.

"Since when did you learn history and war theory?" Sergeant Goenz asked looking at Gil like he was a child mimicking grown up talk. Unsettled by his nearby nemesis' happy mien, it took Gil a few seconds before the perfect rejoinder came to him.

"Hey, I liked history. My teacher was hot." No one saw the humor coming. All four of his companions snorted in surprise, then broke into chortles or guffaws; drawing more than one eye from the soldiers still on the move. In that moment, even as he was drawn into the laughter, he saw something that would stick with him for the rest of his life. The private soldiers went from dour and scared, to confident while watching the five of them chuckling and snorting with mirth. Fighting men and women drew a lot of their reaction cues from how their commissioned and non commissioned officers acted.

Moving back to the front of the Eighth required a bit of trotting for Gilserand, but the exertion felt minimal due to his sense of self satisfaction. Not only had he observed and learned his important lesson, but he had also seen a human side to the two sergeants and in the lieutenant he had been certain was seeking his personal destruction. They don't want us to fight whoever is raiding the farms. That feels good. I might get a chance to figure this noncom thing out before there's any real stress. Once installed in his position at the front of the platoon, his elation began to fade in the face of the long trudge before them. Lieutenant Guerlach would come up and march beside him every once in a while, but the man did not converse at those times; he just marched for a bit, then fell back to be with another noncom and their squad.

I wish they would invent a clock that could be carried, Gil thought after what felt like hours. The monotony of the grasslands and passing farms was not relieved by the great forest looming before them and the sun that seemed to race for the horizon. We won't have a lot of daylight left when we get there. That observation brought about reservations. Would the guard have to march back to Alren in the dark? Were they supposed to set up a hasty camp and hope there was no night attack? There was no one willing to share a plan with him, so his imagination, as usual, tried to fill the blank places with ideas that fed his uncertainties.

After his dark daydreams started to repeat themselves he began to make out horse soldiers riding parallel to the hoary forest cantering south. In the waning light, Gilserand could also see great fringes of pale moss dangling off bare branches stirring in the evening breeze. The trees seemed like an army of old robed men, giant in stature. Even the forbidding nature of the forest was beginning to influence Gil's imagination, then a lone cavalry officer rode back from the west and broke his mental games. The individual spent a few moments conferring with Lieutenant Tigraff and Captian Abelaird, the officers in charge of the Seventeenth Platoon. Second Platoon was passing by that trio when they finished, the woman cavalry officer called the Second's officers to her to consult with them.

Lieutenant Guerlach trotted by, moving up to the meeting of officers ahead. Something was going on. I wish I could hear what was being said. I don't like this not knowing, it is like the torments the Burning Spirits deliver on people who disobey. The Seventeenth pivoted to the north making an angle for the black smoke plumes, those emergency beacons were beginning to fade as the sun sank lower and lower. It would be fully dark in another hour, hour and a half. The officers of the Second Platoon began issuing orders to change their direction south, beginning to cross the road before Gils commanding officer parted with the cavalry major. That woman spurred her horse to ride back on the column, evidently directing the infantry into the positions they were supposed to take.

Marching backwards before Gilserand, Lieutenant Guerlach called out loud enough for the whole platoon to hear.

"Corporal Rivenheart, keep them heading on our present course!" Those sharp blue eyes watched Gil bring his spear off his shoulder, adjust to a mid shaft grip, raise the weapon to an attention catching height, then sweep the razor tipped weapon straight ahead. One of those irritating procedures that was meant to keep confusion at bay. I could have kept marching and have had the same effect on the platoon. I wonder if anyone will explain the meaning of this too me, there's got to be a reason for it. Evidently his performance was acceptable, the lieutenant drifted back, spreading his stern looks on every soldier under his command. This was an action that made Gilserand's nervousness return.

The sun's angle made the forest's shadow seem to reach for the Eighth at the mud road's end, as if the trees were eager to block off their light. Every one of the platoons that had marched out of the west barbican seemed to be marching for a different position before Oldbeard, making Gilserand wonder if they would even have support if an enemy did appear from the wilderness. The worlds most massive choir of crickets and frogs sang from hidden pews within the tangled limbs of the trees, and as promised, the sun was completely barricaded off. When they were close to a hundred yards from the outermost formation of trees, Guerlach called a halt. That forest seemed to watch them, expecting the guard to put on a street performer act.

The lieutenant moved to the fore to join Gilserand. Gil never noticed a summons from the officer, but the other three noncoms peeled off from their squads and moved up also. making a gesture that was quite obvious, Lieutenant Guerlach made the whole platoon huddle up around them.

"Alright, we are setting up camp here. No palisade, no ditch, just a couple of big bonfires set up on both flanks," the officer said, looking around to see if he had everyone's attention. "Our tents and cots are coming, so don't fret about that. Our first job is to glean wood from Oldbeard. I want Eighth and Tenth squad in the trees gathering all the dry wood you can find. Ninth and Eleventh, you stay just this side of the trees giving them cover. We are being observed by the Sauri so keep your eyes peeled. Those of you looking for wood, never let the odd squads out of your sights, and if the Sauri come at you fall back immediately."

When their officer mentioned they were being watched, universally every eye tried to pierce the forest's dim lighting. "Goenz, Garr, I want you to detail two men each to lay a bed of rocks or green wood, we need platforms for our two fires," the lieutenant continued. Let's get this done before the sun goes all the way down. Dismissed." Out of ingrained habit, Gilserand cut to the left, the position the Eighth Squad always assumed.

"Eighth Squad form up on me!" he shouted, holding his spear up to be seen, just as his new noncom peers did with their soldiers. Camping had only been briefly covered in boot camp, the lore only slightly built upon during both his stints in weapon's training.

As his guard unit formed around him, Gilserand reviewed what little he had learned as he led them towards the brooding trees. "Ritter, Heidel, I want you two to start lopping off some stout green branches. We're going to need a dry bed to put our wood on, make a platform about ten foot by ten foot. When you two are done with that join the rest of us gathering fire wood. All of you, don't worry about cutting the wood up to size in there, we can do that back at camp. When your arms are full get out and drop your loads off as fast as you can. And always, keep your eyes open in there, we might have lizards as company. Never let the Ninth out your sights, we search north to south never further west. " Lords of Light and Life, help me give the right orders to these guards, they are your children and they are in need. I must keep them alive. Please.

Still praying silently, Gilserand jumped when Jaffe asked a question.

"Why don't we just chop one of these oak trees down. There's enough wood in one of them for both fires." At first Gil wanted to agree with the tall lanky private, but he began to remember facts about green wood not liking to burn when Private Tulauten spoke up.

"Green wood in winter won't catch on fire. That's why we pick up dead fall and chop up trees that have been down for a year or more. They're seasoned and ready to burn." Though he had never received that detailed information in the guards, it made sense to Gil. He turned around and pointed at the often disagreeable soldier while tapping his temple with his other hand. That let the squad know that he agreed with Tulauten, which surprised that soldier to no end. They had clashed more than meshed these last few weeks.

Passing through the outer rank of trees transformed his men immediately. Their movements became slow as if they were fugitives sneaking by searching wardens. Watchful eyes darted to each movement, be it a bird taking flight or a branch being influenced by wind. They spread out in a line with seven or eight feet between each other, picking up branches laying between the twisted moss robed trees; their tightly clutched spears not cooperating with their efforts. Gil realized that despite all the cord wood he had carted growing up, he was still just a city boy outside the walls for the first time. None of the wood he found and cradled were uniform pieces, which made his efforts awkward with each stout chunk he found. Jaffe found a fallen maple laying in his path, he and Hougeman began to shag the prize out immediately. That stout log would feed a big fire for many hours just by itself.

Grinning at the initiative his squad was showing Gilserand froze at a slight movement two dozen yards in front of him. In the dim light his eyes picked out an anomalous dark shape among the shadows. A manlike figure was crouched atop a tall stump observing the Eighth Squad, a long stone tipped spear in one hand. The arm attached to that spear bulged with muscle, the equally muscular neck was too long to Gil's eye. Yellow slit eyes were locked onto him set in a monitor lizard face. The uneven scaled lips had overlapping spikes of teeth protruding either up or down in no logical pattern. Green body scales had uneven striations of brown paint on them helping the figure more easily blend with its surroundings.

The Sauri wore a loin cloth with several sheathed knives positioned around it's waist. An arm band of bronze encased one burly bicep, and ankle bracelets adorned both legs; black bird like talons formed hooks coming out of each toe. The long tail looked like that of an alligator he had once seen in a traveling menagerie when younger.

"Rivenheart!" Though Private Machen had whispered his name, there was still enough alarm to make the voice carry. Awkwardly clutching an almost full armload of branches, Machen was pointing at an area north of the Sauri Gil had discovered. He found another set of yellow eyes from a head that towered over the bushes before it. His men froze in place, as still as the Sauri observing them. Everywhere he looked Gilserand began to make out more and more of the lizard like men watching them.

Being discovered did not instigate any display from the primitive Sauri, the still figures seemed content to observe. That in itself was unnerving. Gilserand felt his eyes narrow as he made certain they were not being advanced upon. He could feel his own people looking at him too, waiting for him to tell them what to do. On a whim, he freed an arm and waved at the figure on the stump. Yellow eyes blinked, but again the Sauri just sat watching. Gil thought about praying yet again as he had no orders on how to cover this strange eventuality.

"Okay, we keep working, but we don't move closer to these Sauri. Head south. Machen, you have a nice load. Let Sergeant Goenz know we have contact in here on your way to drop your haul off," he ordered, glancing back and finding reassurance in the eight human figures just outside the tree line.

After Gil's squad shifted course, still gleaning branches, the Sauri began to move parallel to them. The Ninth Squad moved as well. Triple lines of people in the worlds most bizarre tableau. The number of Sauri that he could see tripled when they began to move in concert with him, nearly a hundred of them, there had been a lot of the savage race that had been extremely well hidden until they stood up. Only the figure on the stump made a sound, a hiss that seemed to come from a titanic set of bellows. Is that supposed to be speech? Gilserand wondered, creeped out by what was transpiring. When it stood up he could see some sort of trident like symbol painted or stained onto the loincloth; the creature joined its fellows in tracking the armored Humans, it towered over all of its reptilian kin.

When Gilserand picked up a nice wrist thick branch to add to his other pickings he realized he had enough of an armful to justify leaving the woods to make a delivery. That idea just did not sit well with him. What am I doing? I ordered these guys to continue gathering wood after we saw these Sauri. I can't leave them now! After a few moments of struggle he thought of just handing his load off onto someone who was just coming back from a delivery. Just as he started casting about for a courier, Schuegler called out.

"Rivenheart.., uh, corporal!" The enlistee was pointing to a hefty log next to himself. A sense of relief filled Gil when he saw that oak log, it was big, much larger than the tree Hougeman and Jaffe had carried out. He did not have to call out to the Eighth to have them gather around, everyone drifted over, even Tulauten who was just returning from a delivery.

Deeper in the hoary trees the Sauri settled down, watching with yellow eyes that blinked sideways when they even blinked at all. Schuegler's tree specimen was much larger closer up, and at first Gilserand had doubts that all ten of them could drag such a log.

"Damn, that 's too big," someone said. Gil looked back at the Sauri, those lizard like faces showed him nothing at all; the eyes displayed no emotion, no matter which lizard man he viewed.

"We are going to try. If we haul this baby out, we might not have to come back in here," he said. That concept was enough to sway the entire squad without him having to argue or debate.

A lot of the boys dropped the loads they had been carrying, but a few seconds later they watched their new noncom settle his armful of wood in the dead oaks branches. The idea of not coming back to face the Sauri was popular enough that everyone picked up their previously gleaned wood and imitated Gil. All the while yellow orbs seemed to glow in the dim light; a lot of eyes. When Gilserand faced backwards into Oldwood, he set himself to grip a branch near the main trunk; a lot of his troop followed suit, showing the Sauri a watchful front as they would be backing out of the trees. Almost every man prepared to back out of the woodlands. Expecting they would have to walk the tree out with many starts and stops, they were surprised when the ten of them together easily lifted the whole log. Only the top branches dragged the ground as they worked their way to the forest's edge.

Sergeant Goenz settled next to Gilserand, his round face steeped with the general issue sourness all sergeants were programmed to display.

"What were you doing in there, kid? Weren't you supposed to bug out if you met the lizards?" the older man whispered with venom. Half of the Ninth Squad folded in with his soldiers, grabbing onto a branch and applying their backs to the work. Five others fanned out as a rearguard, their spears aimed at the trees as if there was a score they wanted to settle with the oaks and maples.

"Our orders were to retreat if the Sauri attacked. They didn't attack." Gil's answer made the training sergeant grunt noncommittally.

Staunze, one of Goenz soldiers made her own contribution to the whisper session.

"The Tenth ran out of the trees like they had met a dragon," she said, grinning as though the event had been funny. The next private to speak was behind Gil, so he could not identify the speaker. They did not whisper.

"They refused to go back into the woods. Lieutenant Guerlach didn't argue with 'em about it. Do you think we might have to go back in there?" Even outside of the forest, the light had become quite dim. Evening had taken hold of the land while they had been in Oldbeard. Please don't order us back into that forest, Gil begged in his mind.

Again Sergeant Goenz grunted, but a few moments later he verbalized Gilserand's feelings.

"Better hope not. Those lizard freaks can see in the dark, we can't." Again it was as though someone was in his brain giving voice to his questions as he thought them.

"They can see in the dark, Sarge? How do you know that?" Tulauten inquired in his terse manner. No one took exception to the private's tone; it had not been that confrontational of a delivery.

"Fought 'em before. They like to sneak attack at night because the dark gives 'em an advantage," the Sergeant admitted, his face still hard and disapproving. "The big ones are really strong, but even the small ones are tough as hell. Watch out for their damn tails. They'll try to sweep your legs out from under you or knock your stupid heads off with 'em. When you block their tails, they'll poke or chop you with their weapons, or vice versa. They're fast and mean, and they have no concept of mercy."

A lot of private's and one corporal turned their eyes back to the forest after that information. They all thought long and hard about what was out there. For the second time in one day Lieutenant Guerlach had a smile on his face.

"Lords of Light and Life be praised! That is a beautiful haul!" the officer proclaimed at the fore of the rest of the platoon streaming out to meet them. "That looks like it will feed both our fires tonight, don't you think, Private Tangiers?" Gilserand did not listen to the quavering reply Tangiers offered Lieutenant Guerlach. What struck him was how tenuous the rank of corporal was. Even a sergeant could bust one back to enlisted status. He glanced over at Sergeant Goenz and wondered how much his fate rested with that man's opinion, the sergeant was in charge of both the Eighth and the Ninth squads.

Gil was just Goenz's assistant who minded the Eighth Squad for the senior noncom. "I want the Tenth and Eleventh to break these trees apart and get the fire started. Eighth and Ninth, you guys take a break, get some rations in you. Our tents are on the way, we will all have to pitch in to get them and the cots up. So get at it." Amid all the groans that issued from the squads sentenced to labor, Gilserand caught a lot of smiles from Eighth and Ninth Squad members that were aimed his way. Even Goenz clapped him on his shoulder. Spreading out around where the southern bonfire would be laid, Sergeant Goenz's two squads began to dig rations from their back packs.

Though the ground was not muddy, it was still saturated with moisture. Like everyone else Gilserand turned his helmet into a seat, sitting on the dome even while the cheek and neck guards sank into the winter trammeled grass. After digging one wooden ration box from his pack, Gil was about to discover what smoked or jerked meat there would be, what shriveled vegetables, and which mystery fruit he had been given when he heard his voice called.

"Rivenheart, front and center!" Lieutenant Guerlach demanded. The officer was in between where both fires would be laid, his eyes on the laboring squads nearby.

"Sir," he announced after running up. His meal, pack, and helmet had been left behind, but Gil still clutched his spear. He was given a quick glance by the officer, a gesture that made Guerlach seem evasive for some reason.

There was a pause before the Eighth Platoon's leader started speaking.

"You did good today, Corporal Rivenheart. Not only back at the barbican, but here in the woods. You kept your nerve and brought us all the wood we would ever need...." Here Lieutenant Guerlach paused, after another guilt laden look Gil's way.

"Sir, it was Private Schuegler who found the last fallen tree," he said, thinking it was right for him to give credit where it was due. Now the lieutenant looked fully at Gil, and for a third time an out of place smile played about the older man's lips.

"Why didn't you retreat when you discovered the Sauri in there?" Gilserand blinked, but gave his honest answer.

"Sir, they were just watching us. They kept their distance and I had my orders to gather wood. You told us to retreat if the Sauri came for us-"

"There! There it is!" Guerlach interrupted poking the air in front of Gil's chest to drive an invisible point home.

The man had self satisfied eyes as he seemed to drink in Gil's features, as proud as a fabricator who had just crafted the next revolutionary machine. "You kept the mission paramount and took the time to see the situation for what it really was. A lot of people told me you had it in you. You'll be happy to know I have sent word of your promotion back to head quarters. With luck we can put your pips on your uniform when the wagon gets here." Suddenly the proprietorial smile vanished and the lieutenants eyes shied off of Gil's. "I want to apologize to you for the treatment I gave you. I was under orders." That last was whispered, hushed and conspiratorial.

"Wh- what? Uh, Sir?"

Instead of an answer, the officer gave him another puzzle.

"Never mind. One day, all this that was done to you will be explained. I hope that on that day, you will find the mercy of The Lords of Light and Life in your soul and you forgive me. Dismissed Corporal." Lieutenant Guerlach donned his usual expression, with his hard unforgiving eyes. Here was a man expecting more fecal matter to be heaped upon his already crappy day. The man's transition did nothing to alleviate Gilserands troubled mind. He was under orders? Orders to do what? Has all this Burning Spirits torment he's given me been on purpose? Forgiveness? No. No way. Gil knew his conclusions had to be wrong, he had not been given enough detail to know what Lieutenant Guerlach had been blathering on about. Is his promoting me what he's talking about? What orders could he have been given to move me up? Why am I supposed to forgive him for that?

Back at his hard metal seat, he cracked the wax around the ration box's rim with his dagger. Gilserand's thoughts still bothered him as he plucked out one of three large chunks of some jerked meat; the large withered carrot and jaw breaking dried banana chips rounded out his meal. Gnawing was the only way to break a piece of the stiff leather like meat off. Flavor leached onto his tongue as he chewed, a very decent savory taste, but his jaw muscles felt the strain after that one bite. He's singled me out every day, and he wants me to forgive him? Though Gil was still mystified from his talk with his leader, a bitterness wanted to step in.

"Hey Corporal," Machen blurted as he and several other soldiers came over. All of them carried a ration box, but seemed in no hurry to eat. "Ritter and Heidel don't believe me when I tell them you waved at the Sauri." The two doubters were in the knot of onlookers, as well as Sergeant Goenz.

Gil shrugged at Private Machen's expectancy, not really wanting to be distracted from puzzling out the lieutenant's words.

"I wanted them to know we saw them. They might have thought they were cleverly hidden. These savage races don't think like we do."

"Ha! See!" Machen stomped his foot while waving a finger at everyone who had doubted him. Ritter looked shocked

"That's mad. The Burning Spirits took your wits- ur, uh, Corporal." Even Private Machen stopped celebrating his I-told-you-so moment when Sergeant Goenz spoke up.

"What else did you notice about 'em?" At that point Gil had crunched off a bite of his large but wizened carrot, he held his finger up as he quickly chewed the tasteless vegetable.

With a mouth dryer after the carrot than before, he began to catalog what he remembered about the Sauri.

"They use paint to camouflage themselves. They have a mix of stone and metal weapons. All of them carried a lot of knives. The ones we saw at first wanted us to see them, two thirds of their whole lot stayed hidden until we moved. We would have gotten a nasty surprise if we had attacked. I think this whole situation today, the attack on the farms, the meeting us guard's in the forest, that was all a set up. I think the Sauri are testing us, testing our reactions, seeing our weapons and our numbers. They are sizing us up to see what they are up against." As he was laying out his observations, he saw the expressions of the enlisted men begin to fall, but the sergeant nodded at each point as if he was affirming each point Gil made.

Another idea struck the new minted corporal after a few initial chomps failed to break meat away from the jerky. "Oh yea, I think there were a lot more of them hidden in the woods that didn't want to be seen. They outnumber our six platoons." This last statement almost made Heidel challenge him, but the sergeant straightened the guard in training out with his confirmation.

"You can bank on that. They have to have large numbers when facing any of the races who can use relics. No matter which way you turn, there's always going to be a batch of 'em trying to flank you." After killing their jovial mood, the knot of guards moved away from Gilserand; leaving him alone with his troubled thoughts.

After two pieces of meat and the carrot, Gil drizzled water from his canteen on the banana chips. Eating the last bit of jerky almost wore his jaw out, but it had taken a lot of time. The water had taken the fruit from a rock like state to something that was almost malleable. He was able to chew the chips without chipping his own pearly whites. Other bonfires also flared up to the left and right of the Eighth Platoon's camp, and even behind them. Gilserand was able to figure out that each platoon was staggered out in chessboard fashion, staged to confront the forest and support each other. After studying the set up, Gilserand began to see the wisdom behind the encampments which eased some of his fears.

Eighth and Ninth Squads were deployed in guard positions when the Tenth and Eleventh were given leave to eat. All Gil and his men had to do was fan out around the fire with their eyes set to watch the woods. A half an hour into this time killing watch someone noticed a number of lights on the road coming from Alren.

"Hey, is that our replacements? Are we going to get to go home?" Jaffe asked, the longing in his voice tugging at Gil's own sentiments. Mutters began to circulate, Gilserand could even hear the other squads making the same assumptions Jaffe had.

"Silence!" Sergeant Garr's deep voice resounded, quieting everyone. Universally, the guards in training acted like rebuked children, refusing to meet each other's eyes, and brooding on their hurt feelings.

"That is most likely our tents and extra supplies. No one ever said anything about relief being sent to us," Gil observed out loud, but not too loud.

The truth he had observed sank in. One trainee after another lost the sulkiness they had been nursing as they began to remember what Lieutenant Guerlach had actually said earlier. Soon discussions began to resume whether the soldiers were chewing food tougher than shoe leather, or watching the black forest edge. Above the clouds began to relent, a few stars began to peep from drifting tatters between shadowed sheets. The nail clipping of a moon was already directly overhead, and the evening was still so young. Gilserand broke from his watch position and drifted to the eastern side of their fire. Though the lanterns were still distant Gil was glad to see more light defying the chill darkness. He did not linger in looking though, he had to return to his post and be an example to the others.


"No! We not search for Tricky Trillam savior woman!" The Gobesh chieftain announced, sweeping his hand through the air to show his unwillingness to continue with this line of negotiation. Chief Juktashuk crossed his greenish brown arms over his amazing display of bead and metal necklaces, his broad mouth set in a titanic frown. Little wisps of gray hair adorned the Gobesh leaders chin, which was thicker than the hairs remaining on his large pumpkin gourd shaped head. Blexi wondered how Chief Juktashuk's large pointed ears would be laying if they were as articulated as his own. Trying not to show his fangs in frustration Blexi attempted to argue.

"We are not asking you to search for this woman, we are just asking if you have seen anyone matching her description in the last twelve or so years. Did she travel through your territories or trade with your people?"

Obstinately the little Gobesh leader let his pendulous lower lip pout out.

"You not tricky like your mad magic man. We Sandulhu not look for savior woman for you. Not our religion, Lords of Light and Life true religion. Not grasp-at-wind falseness of mad magic man, Tricky Trillam religion. We talk of trade or not talk at all." Of course Blexi felt he had to correct the Gobesh's mislabeling of the Trillam Trumage movement.

"We are not a religious movement. We are a movement of unity and peace for all peoples...." Blexi the Gachtler knew his words were useless when the tribe leader turned his head away like a child determined to ignore the person they did not like. His ears wilted in defeat as Blexi abandoned his line of dialogue. "Okay, we will trade with you. My partner, Istilirial has picked out a very nice gift for you, we hope you will let us pass through your lands in peace. Let us have an hour and my people will display the wares we have to show your mighty and just people."

Instantly Chief Juktashuk was all delighted grin and friendly handshakes.

"Yes, we trade. Sandulhu have good tasty food, and nice cloak made for big folk, bigger folk, and biggest folk. We will have peace as you travel, Sandulhu like mad magic man followers." Yea, sure you like us. You just don't like us enough to answer our questions, Blexi complained in his thoughts, careful again not to let his ears lay back or expose his fangs. The Gachtler envoy rolled to his knees so he could crawl out of the chieftain's tent, his eyes locking onto the quilted cloth that made up the A-frame style construction. The outer layers were completely weather proofed somehow, and the inner layer easily trapped heat in the winter and breathed in cool air in the hotter months. His Gachtler instincts made him want to know how this tribe of Gobesh crafted their simple looking tents, the efficiency of the material was just too astounding.

Outside, Gobesh women and children offered Blexi their broad grins as they set out wares. Gobesh pottery and textiles were affixed to sapling wood pack frames. Woven river grass and pottery containers were being filled with smoked meats, grain and berry cakes, as well as round bread, and other food stuff. The few Gobesh men Blexi saw were busy crafting wares that would replace those that would be traded off over the next couple of days, especially baskets and pottery objects. He gave the nearest Sandulhu tribes people a return grin and bow, his action was accepted with delighted smiles and an increased buoyancy in the way they labored. They are a very polite people in their own odd way, most people only know their savage reputation because they don't show the Gobesh respect.

Scores of the little A-frame tents were scattered about, nested in brush and set under all the oak trees. Natural dyed coloring formed splotches and striations on the shelter's fabric so that they blended with their surroundings. If one did not know what to look for, a person could walk through and never realize a camp was there. Now, little brownish green bodies entered and exited those tents producing the trade goods that would be exchanged in a little bit of time. All the Gobesh, men and women, wore loin clothes of treated hide. Only the children did not have bronze or gold arm bands around their left and right arms, and every one wore necklaces; lots of eclectic styles of necklaces. The women all had their black hair pulled back and bound by copper hair bands, the men wore theirs in tight top knots held by leather string; the tassels strung with silver and ceramic beads.

The trail back to Blexi's camp was nothing more than a deer path that meandered through the Ahurinidan Forest. Technically this was territory claimed by the city state Ilegulan, a Faelora nation, however the savage races were actually this land's true residents. The citizens of Ilegulan, and the towns and villages huddled around her, only came out into the wilderness in armed bands for very brief amounts of time. City dwellers had the habit of claiming the territory and showing disrespect to the peoples who actually lived on those lands. If the savage races had the ability to use relics, there would be no pretense of who actually controlled the wilderness.

After a time of walking the trail alone, wood smoke and the scents of a thousand different meals cooking rode the wind down into the trees, bringing a sense of relief to the Gachtler man. In no time the distant sound of metal on metal clanging also permeated the oak and alder forest; the voices of over twenty five thousand diverse people soon joined the industrious racket. A Sauri warrior and fell featured Faelora archer stepped out of the brush next to a fork in the game trail Blexi was on. The lizard man cocked his head as if he were listening for distant sounds, the archer just studied Blexi's back trail seemingly disappointed that a mob of angry Gobesh were not in hot pursuit.

"There will be trade," he announced.

A smile transformed Unanian's sharp features, actually making him seem a decent person; his arrow came off the string and went back into the quiver at his hip, the bow was then slung over his slender shoulders where it blended with his oak bark colored skin.

"Hhow abhout passsage?" Though Aspith the Sauri warrior spoke with labored seeming breaths and hisses, the sounds he produced were very clear for one of his species. He was instrumental in communicating his peoples wants and needs with all of the other races who had embraced the Trumage philosophy.

Blexi had to reach up to clap the Sauri on his shoulder, his broad smile delivering the answer.

"The treaty still holds, but they want two days to fleece us this time. It seems the last few months have been good to the Sandulhu Gobesh and they're eager to trade," Blexi reported.

"Iss coohd. Isstirial waitss you." Aspith swept his head towards the camp, as a human would have used their chin to point. The Sauri peeled its lips back to show more spike like teeth, a practice he had picked up when he began dealing with other races. Most humanoid races had the capacity to smile, and Aspith tried so very hard to bridge the physical and cultural differences between his people and the rest of the sentient world. Blexi had grown accustomed to Aspith's attempts at smiling, though the learned mannerism made him look unhinged and threatening.

Nodding to the odd duo, Blexi broke away and began to climb the path up to the glade above. This narrow path had been used for many generations, yet grass persisted in trying to grow there; a sign of seasonal use rather than constant traffic. The trees and bushes gave way halfway up the forty five degree incline, as if the forest did not have the oomph to make it all the way up. Despite all the noises of civilization the Gachtler did not see anything until he was near the top, where the grassy edge gave up it's secrets. Tents and wagons by the thousands were pitched on the open area in the forest. No one tent seeming to be related to another, and many wagon designs did not match those that were parked nearby. Tepees were erected next to dome tents, next to pavilions, A-frame carts, miniature cottages on wheels, and many other shelters.

A full grown four foot tall Toji chased some Gobesh and Human children, whose squeals and laughter declared delight in the game. The walking stick looking Toji clicked it's mandibles in false animosity, making sudden but slow lunges at the kids. Beyond them was a riot of color in both tenting and clothing, the Trumage camp seemed to be all carnival chaos. Yet the even wide rows between the clusters of living areas showed there was design, even purpose in what all these differing peoples were doing. As Blexi made his way towards the center of the encampment he was hailed or saluted; Gachtler, Gobesh, Sauri, Toji, Human, Faelora, Orag, and even a small group of giants hailed him as he passed.

Every one of those people believed in the dream of one man. Trillam Trumage, a Human man who had traveled the entire continent of Chutarack, warning of a future cataclysm that could only be faced by a united front of all sentient beings. Blexi, himself, had heard this strange Human speak. Many had challenged Trillam, but he had a charisma about him and an intellect that had informed his debate style. Trillam knew that the city states were too weak by themselves, that no one race could stand up to the dangers the future held. His promise of peace caught me and held me from the first, though I fought his allure in the beginning. Unfortunately Faelora, Gachtler and Human leaders had united for the wrong purpose, they had came at Trillam's gathering of people to make war on them.

While the races who did not have warlocks were receptive of Trillam's message, the supposedly civilized races had banded together in declaring the man a freak and heretic. It was the wrong sort of unification. For the first time since the second Osserjuka devastation, huge armies had stalked the continent. For three years the movement maneuvered to avoid these armies, yet battles and skirmishes had happened. Trillam had tried to sue for peace each time, but when these combined armies proved intransigent, he beat them. We trashed five armies and each time our movement grew. Then on the week before his marriage with Anandeeta, the warlock woman, King Lorinlil met us with a combined force and killed Trillam.

Killing the "mutant" seemed to be what the three great races had been after. They left the movement mostly alone after that, ignoring the fact that a core of Trillam's movement did not disband and drift away. Though the Trumage movement was still proscribed in the city states, even to this day, not one nation closed their gates to a few followers who came in to teach and buy goods. Recruitment drives were allowed as long as only a trickle of citizens joined up, recruiters who were too good at spreading the Trumage philosophy were hunted, caught, then hanged. I think the reason why we are tolerated is the black market trade, Blexi thought. The city states needed an escape valve from the tariffs, trade restrictions, and monopolies they created between themselves, and the Trumage movement brought the goods and resources that would have been impossible to find otherwise.

Trillam's death almost ended all that, our group started disintegrating almost immediately, Blexi pondered as he wove around a cooper carrying two kinds of hoops on a pole; wagon wheels on one end and a large number of barrel bands on the other as a counterbalance. Our traveling city was disbanding before our eyes. If Istilirial hadn't of made that speech telling everybody that Anandeeta was Trillam's heir, there would be no movement at all. That had been a magic moment, not the type of magic trapped in a relic, but potent none the less. The remaining Trumage followers stopped asking Why Anandeeta had run away days from her wedding, and began to search for her; a quest that continued to this day.

At the center of the camp was Trillam's old pavillion, which was now Blexi and Istilirial's living quarters. No, it is still the center of the Trumage movement. Everyone brings their reports and complaints here, we spread Trillam's word here, and we even dispense justice here based off his teachings. This is the center of the better world we are trying to build, even if we have to move it every few weeks. The old tourney pavilion had broad red and white perpendicular stripes, the red fading after a decade and a half, while the white picked up dirt and dust like a magnet picked up iron filings. The door flap was flanked by a burly looking Gobesh and a skinny Human male; those two seemed entirely intent on their conversation using hand signals.

Hogram and Thulern were not as engaged as they had seemed, when Blexi drew near, the Gobesh guard and Thulern both blocked Blexi off from the entrance.

"Istilirial meeting people?" he asked. Though Thulern nodded, it took Hogram to give a verbal answer. The tall human's tongue had been cut out by his former Faelora masters.

"Word from Faelora world to the east. Not from our seekers, but theirs." Hogram's voice was so deep that it was incongruous coming out of his short green and brown body. Most Gobesh had higher voices than Hogram, yet there were enough Gobesh who did not sound like children that the high pitched voice was not a stereotype.

"They should almost be done in there," Thulern said using his fingers to speak, using the Toji sign language that Trillam had insisted all his captains learn.

Sign language was used by most Trumage followers now, especially in this mobile city and some of the others. With such a wide variety of peoples, and all the outrageous dialects to be found, sign language had proven itself to be a great communication bridge. Many of the older Trumage followers now spoke the Human tongue with a large dose of sign language thrown in.

"I heard he wanted to see me?" Both men nodded, but Thulern seemed distracted by the act. His fingers began to flash almost faster than Blexi could read.

"Does our treaty still hold with the Sandhulu?" Every camp of Trumage followers seemed to follow the diplomatic relations they had with the indigenous peoples. It was almost as if every individual found successful relationships as an affirmation of their cause. Hogram turned his head to hide a sneer; he came from a different tribe.

Blexi broadened his smile, he almost did not have to say anything after that.

"The Sandhulu wanted two days of trading this time. They have started making cloaks to fit many different sizes of people." That even made Hogram set aside his tribal rivalry, his voice sounded like multiple people were gently finger tapping a big bass drum in a continuous roll.

"I could use one of those. Old cloak is ugly with patches. Drinks rain instead of shedding it." Blexi was about to comment on the amount of food the Sandhulu Gobesh seemed to have, but the tent flap was suddenly flung open from the inside. A haughty Faelora woman with beach bark colored skin hesitated in stepping out after finding the guards and Blexi in the way. Octagon shaped irises of blue flicked from figure to figure but locked on the Gachtler leader.

Most Faelora were hard to read, but it seemed the woman's eyes narrowed slightly on seeing Blexi; the eye contact lasted for the entire time it took Thulern and Hogram to move out of her way. Though there were no facial ticks other than the momentarily narrowed eyes, the contempt the woman exuded for having to rub elbows with lesser beings was a false seeming. She either hated Blexi personally, or just all Gachtler for the sin of existing. I bet this one is a double agent, Blexi reasoned. A lot of the movement's contacts who brought them information also spied upon the Trumage followers for governments or criminal leaders with agendas that might be at cross purposes with their own. "Unity is feared by those who think division and animosity grants them power. They refuse to believe that harmony is a sea that raises all boats."

That was one of Blexi's favorite quotes from Trillam Trumage, he thought of it when he had to quell his own negative responses to less than friendly people. That could be the reason it is indelibly etched into my brain, I have to dredge it up as my most used mantra. After the Faelora woman swept by, Blexi began moving into the pavilion.

"They have a lot of food to trade, guys," he said to the guards, ignoring the spy making her way to the north east end of the camp. He might as well have not spoken at all, Hogram and Thulern watched the swaying walk of the Faelora woman for a few moments before sharing troubled looks with one another. They seemed to have sensed the same thing off the stranger that Blexi had. That in itself was revelatory.

The pavilion had been altered slightly after Trillam's death. To the left and right of the main entrance a pair of large cabin tents had been grafted onto the large shelter; Istilirial and Blexi's respective sleeping quarters. The pavillion itself had five folding desks set up in a semi circle before the entrance flaps. Fifteen of the forty folding chairs were aligned about those desks, the remainder were folded up against the back of the big tent along with a lectern, the parts for a dais, curtain racks, and enough random furnishings to make the space seem half functional and half storage. Istilirial was set up at a rear desk on the right side, the side closest to his personal tent. A feather quill waved too and fro in his grip, dancing to the words being written.

Those orange eyes never left the page at Blexi's entry, the Faelora man didn't do or say anything at all as the Gachtler moved into his own tent. Just inside his sleeping quarters, Blexi reached around and grabbed his war ax and it's harness. The return of the ax to his person brought him a huge sense of relief, Blexi, as with most Gachtler men, never felt comfortable without their weapon near or on their person.

"How did things go with the Sandhulu?" Istilirial's question came the second he turned back into the pavilion holding the ax's harness. After nearly twenty years together, they both knew each others idiosyncrasies and preferences like they were a married couple.

The quill was now still hovering over the page, and the Faelora's mournful face was turned Blexi's way. Feeling his ears shift to face Istilirial, he bared his fangs in a happy smile to presage his news. The quill was dipped in the ink well before returning to scribble even as Blexi started to talk.

"We have passage, but their chief insisted that we set aside two days for trading. They have a large amount of food and goods for trading, which is great timing for this camp. I think this is another tribe that looks forward to our visits, just as Trillam predicted." Though seeming to be engrossed with his work, Istilirial still took the time to nod. Blexi noted the cynicism, as he moved towards his desk near Istilirial's.

"It only took twenty years and our movement to grow into a full five roving bands." Blexi found himself smiling at the incongruity, his friend might be the only impatient Faelora in the world.

Two decades was a small time span for someone who lived fifteen hundred to two thousand years. Even though Gachtler's only lived a quarter of that time, it was still a short span for Blexi's people too.

"I hope you don't mind the extra day of trade. I also promised Chief Juktashuk that we had a gift for him," he reported. Istilirial's grunt was confirmation enough for both points. "What did you find out from that shady person you talked to?" For several moments his partner continued to write. Faelora had a differing sense of time, so these pauses were almost guaranteed to happen.

"I have two nice gifts for our Sandhulu trade negotiator, I'll have them ready to present by tonight. I just received confirmation that King Lorinlil and his supposedly rebel son, Onanonwe, are looking for King Athelian's missing son. Evidently Iriel did not die during Onanonwe's claiming of the city, like everyone had been told. That is the young Faelora from Pernandi's picture this last winter."

Blexi felt the shock of those words as he slowly lowered himself into his chair. Subconsciously Blexi's hand sought the haft of his ax; this was for comfort.

"King Lorinlil has taken Anatheri? That is going to be war.... A big damn war." Though he had wanted to shout that last sentence, he reined himself in.

"Not for a while yet. Estanabrill and Anatheri's animosity for each other is a fake, but both cities are burning farms and settlements to sell their war to the other nations. They even hold funerals for the "war dead". Some of the priests have noticed actors playing dress up as they mourn their supposedly lost loved ones, the same people in different costumes each week."

Shaking his head, the Gachtler pondered Istilirial's news and not liking where his mind wanted to go.

"That charade won't last long. Not long enough for you Faelora. This seems to be sloppy thinking on King Lorinlil's part. His plans usually play out over centuries, not mere years."

Blexi's idea must have mirrored his partner's thoughts, the Faelora stopped writing to meet his eye and nod.

" I would lay wagers that they are hoping this sham war will last long enough for them to figure out a better story."

This fake war up in the north east has choked our markets in that region, legal and not so legal. How much worse would it get if other nations banded together to fight Estanabrill and Anatheri? What would happen if the city states started honoring their treaties with one another and a lot of them got involved? That idea made Blexi shudder. That was before he realized that Istilirial was still watching him, his feather pen still poised over the letter.

"You got more?" he asked.

Istilirial's eyes turned inward as he nodded, indicating that this news could possibly be more important than the imitation Faelora war; or more upsetting. If Istilirial had been a Human, then the time he took plotting out his words would have been a suspicious act.

"Poenche's band sent news right after you left to meet the Sandhulu," the Faelora man said, letting his eyes drift back to Blexi's face. "They have a new Toji recruit who described a relic his tribe is hiding. The description of this item matches Kilinuna, Anandeeta's artifact." A thrill shot through Blexi at those words, just before he deflated his own hopes. Too many times a lead to finding the heir had come along only to be proven as old information or a perpetrated lie.

"Where is Poenche's band currently? South isn't it?"

A sympathetic smile met his question, his Faelora friend had the same hopes and fears regarding Anandeeta's location as he did, they had weathered every dashed hope since Trillam's death. Istilirial's inner voice would also be whispering for caution.

"Well within Human territory. The Toji down there are notorious for their continuous migrations. Poenche asked us for help locating this tribe again, they set themselves to that task immediately. They are having problems down there, many tribal peoples are agitated right now and movement through the wilderness has been curtailed in too many regions." Two thoughts struck the Gachtler one after the other; the second idea was the most upsetting.

Ears wilting from what was on his mind, Blexi grimaced at Istilirial.

"I have people that I can mobilize down south, but most of them are city dwellers. I've always relied on Poenche or Grader to intercede with the indigenous peoples for me. Sending Pernandi down there might be our best bet, he's been asking to be reassigned south. He thinks the arrest warrants have expired on him." Sensing that more was on Blexi's mind, the Faelora man frowned with concern.

"And...?" Istilirial coaxed. Just voicing this thought might make it come true, and it is a dark thought. A torment from the Burning Spirits.
"If this item really is Anandeeta's relic, that means she is without her magical protections." Fear in Istilirial's eyes reflected what Blexi himself felt. A warlock woman in the wilderness, without her relic, had little chance to survive on her own.


Winter's spell had been broken, and spring had rushed in feverish with heat and bursting buds. Summer was many months away though, yet this early spring felt more like the tail end of that season. The trees and animals were trying to catch up with how the season felt, new growth in pale greens and insects by the billions were everywhere. Only four days had passed since Gilserand had been shivering outside Oldbeard Forest, fearful of Sauri assaults that had never manifested. They had spent three days out in the field before being relieved by three hundred other soldiers. From the walls of Alren, they could see those soldiers crafting new staging areas where they could keep watch on the farms while a bit further away from the forest.

Three days in the field, three days behind the walls. No leave time as everyone does double shifts, Gil thought, repeating the new orders as a mantra as he circled Lieutenant Guerlach with his practice spear held at the ready. Guerlach's new form of madness had manifested as a full day of weapon's drills followed by a full shift at guard duty. The extra guard duty Gil understood, not the intensity of this shift, their training period. Half of Alren's guards were beyond the wall, probably as paranoid and twitchy as he had been; yet now he would eagerly trade places with one of them out there. During the heat of this day, they had been drilling or dueling for three hours without a break, in full armor and laden packs. Everyone was suffering, even big goofy Private Jaffe was breaking down under the Burning Spirit conceived madness of their weapon's practice. Gilserand could see the big man crying in the street trying to alleviate cramps in his legs, the rest of the squad cutting and thrusting in full armor nearby.

A sudden thrust from the lieutenant sped at Gil's midriff. While his instinct was to step back, Gil forced himself to parry then lunge in with a counter attack. Their boots thudded and scraped on the wooden parapet of the wall overlooking the platoon below. He of course

[frenzied67]

overextended with his thrust. His spear point was batted away, and the business end of Guerlach's weapon crashed into the chain links across Gil's back. Down he went, belly first onto the deck; sweat from his face spattering the scuffed brown paint of the wooden planks. Heat and exhaustion gave his muscles a tremble as he immediately pushed himself up, almost whispering a promise to fail him soon. He climbed to his knees just in time to thwart another slash from Lieutenant Guerlach's spear, Gilserand faced a brief onslaught while only halfway upright. His one handed defense as he regained his feet earned Gil a pleased lip twitch from the officer.

Clack clack clackity click clack shiiing! Guerlack had continued the pressure, an untiring force of nature, but Gil had noticed an opening. Though the lieutenant had to jump back to avoid the corporal's slash, the tip of the practice spear had sang across chain links. Not a killing blow, but a type of victory in itself. The officer stepped back, coming to attention with the spear grounded at his side.

"Good, you made contact. That has earned everyone a break," Guerlach stated before leaning over the parapet to call down to the squad. "Everyone, you get ten minutes! Don't drink too much water when you re-hydrate!"

Gil pulled his helmet off as he perched between wooden crenelations. All he could do for a long while was pant and feel miserable, his hand trembled when he did muster some energy to take up his canteen.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, not caring anymore if he failed and was driven from the guards. I finally touch him after forever, and he calls a long needed break? This son of a Burning Spirit is sick! Gilserand knew it was a game, a mentally twisted game that he didn't want to play anymore. Though sweat streamed down the officer's face, he stood tall as he sipped water.

Pointing his potato shaped nose at Gil, Guerlach studied the younger man for a moment.

"What do you think I am doing?" Brain and body did not want to function, but Gilserand forced himself to share his observation.

"You're punishing the squad for me not being able to fight as good as you, Sir." Gil knew his words were inelegant, but he was now beyond finding a more diplomatic way of confronting his superior. Lieutenant Guerlach nodded, his eyes hooded as he watched for Gil's reaction. Who in their right mind would admit to the crime being perpetrated!

Using his canteen to indicate Gilserand, the officer began to reveal his sadism.

"I can see you're brave, Corporal, you are quick on your feet and quick with your thinking. You compete to win but you have too much compassion for your opponents. That compassion prevents you from reaching your full potential as a fighter. You need to have a killer instinct. Without that you are going to get yourself and others killed. Those men down there are going to suffer continuous work until you start winning our fights." Still maintaining eye contact Lieutenant Guerlach moved over to perch in the crenelations next to Gil's seat.

"But compassion is necessary to bring an end to fighting, Sir." he complained.

Gilserand still found Guerlach's smiles incongruous, he was thrown off yet again by the expression.

"Compassion has it's place at the end of the fighting, not during. If you fight with compassion, you end up losing and having to hope compassion is shown to you. To win, you have to shut compassion off. You have to embrace the monster inside you, let the monster rein and kill as many as you can as efficiently as you can. Only when the enemy is on his knees begging for mercy should you even consider such a thing. Those men down there are going to have to drill and drill until you figure this lesson out, Rivenheart. I wonder if any of them will die from heat stroke or a heart attack," the man sneered every time he had said 'compassion'.

All he could do was gape at the officer and the lack of humanity he found there. Looking out over Alren, Lieutenant Guerlach ignored Gil after that exchange. Dammit, why am I still being singled out? Why am I up here instead of down there? Gilserand did not receive any answers, not even when he prayed before having to pick up his practice spear yet again. Reverting to his childish nature from before learning to tap into his inner observer, Gil rushed in shouting and slashing madly. After getting up for the fourth time from that failed tactic, the struggling corporal calmed down and tried to think. Down below someone called out in obvious pain.

"Lords of Light, this is killing us! Please stop!"

Those tormented soldiers thought it was the noncoms being monstrous to them, but Gilserand knew the sergeants had to be acting under orders. He was the reason they were hurting. This sadistic piece of filth before him had made it his fault. Gil's focus narrowed as he threw off attack after attack, discovering an economy of movement he could have been using while blocking with the blunt half of his weapon. My moment will come..., he thought, finding that blunting Guerlach's attacks was now far easier. Desperation was leaving him. There! As the lieutenant threw a nasty slash at Gils left ear, Gilserand greatly deepened his stance effectively ducking the swinging weapon. The officers stomach and chest were wide open. Driving with his legs and a mighty thrust of his arms, Gil lifted the officer off his feet and drove him at literal spear point a full body length back.

This focus Gil had came with a caveat, a fury almost took him when his spear point made contact. He saw himself as he drove forward following the lieutenant in an arch through the air, he saw himself driving the training stick all the way through the officer's arching flight and deep into the planks below him when the man crashed onto his back. For a second he was witness to the deed, then a wave of purple swallowed that world away only to reveal he was only half way through driving forward, just a fraction of a second after his blunted point had started driving armored links into the suits wearer. The officer did slam into the walls walk, but Gil had not followed with the life ending madness he could have sworn he had just lived through.

Fear was in Lieutenant Guerlach's eyes when Gil threatened to pin him with the practice weapon. The man wheezed three times before air sucked back into his lungs and he could actually call a halt to practice. Watching the officer closely, Gilserand drifted back away, bringing his practice stick to a ready position. Inside he felt that cold focus fall over himself again, ready for the officer to come at him.

"Everyone, take an hour lunch. When you come back to the wall you are to be dressed in shirt and shorts. The rest of the day will be instruction with demonstration, no more drills." Nearly half of the Eighth Platoon dropped on the spot, so thoroughly spent that watching their own sweat and tears fall to the concrete encased stones was all they wanted to do.

Narrowing his eyes at the junior officer, he found the man watching him just as closely all the while climbing to his feet. Gil took another step back before he began to turn and head for the nearest tower stairway. "Not you Corporal Rivenheart." His focus jumbled as trepidation struck. This sadistic bastard is still playing games with me! That idea almost drove him to attack the man. Lieutenant Guerlach smiled at what he saw passing through Gil's eyes, a challenge broadcasting from his own blue orbs. "You just touched that part in yourself that you need to survive. Now I want to see if you can hold onto that feeling, that killer instinct. You see, Corporal, we are going to repeat the lessons of today tomorrow, but I will not allow the platoon to have a break until you have hit me twice while we duel," the man said, almost seeming to be bragging about his perverse need to destroy his soldiers.

Enough! This ends now, I am going to kill him this time! Something of his intent must have leaked through as he started for the lieutenant, the man brought his weapon up but also a gesture to ward him away. "You can stop this from ever happening though. All you have to do is duel Garr, Goenz, and myself all at once. I need to see if you can maintain your inner monster." This was like the scripture books, where one of the malicious Burning Spirits offered a saint a deadly bargain. Damn this game! Damn this man! Gilserand started for Guerlach again, this time shouting.

"I don't want to do this! I don't want to become anything like you!" Most of the Eighth Platoon turned around or rolled over as Gilserands voice echoed from the wall, the long awaited confrontation seemed to be happening at last.

A small smile played about the officer's thickish lips, his eyes calculating.

"It's all up to you Corporal Rivenheart, all these boys and girls will be worked twice as hard tomorrow as they have been today. If you show me what I want to see now, then they can have the day off. Beat the three of us. You hit each one of us at least once before we get a total of three hits against you," Lieutenant Guerlach's voice carried as far as Gil's had, informing more than the platoon what was at stake. "I'll even give you three tries to pull it off." This time the older man's challenge seemed to hold a smirk. Soldiers that had been dragging slowly back to the barracks returned, their eyes on the pair up on the wall. Those who had been lying on the road trying to muster something akin to energy, climbed to their feet watching the challenge unfolding above them.

This is sheer cruelty! Why is Guerlach openly admitting that their fate is tied to my decision? Why should I put up with this farce! Gil Thought, his eyes flickering to the edge of the walk as he considered throwing his practice spear away and walking home to The Widow. In a much quieter voice, one that only carried between himself and Gil, the officer countered what was percolating through the younger man's mind. "Don't do it, you will be throwing away a great career. I'm doing this to make you a better soldier, not because I like it." Gilserand was not mollified at all, he hissed back at the officer, unconsciously matching his voices volume to Guerlach's.

"How does making me choose their fate make me a better soldier, a better man, a better anything?" he challenged.

The lieutenant did not answer at first, instead he paced for the edge of the parapet. Just before he stepped off the edge, braking his fall with a brief one handed grip to swing to the wall's outward swell, Guerlach answered.

"The decision each soldier makes effects his mates, the higher your rank, the greater the impact of those choices on those under you." Below the officer joined his noncom's. The three of them spread out while watching Gilserand, readying themselves for a fight. Frustration was bringing tears to Gil's eyes, his muscles still trembled from the hours of continuous skirmishing he had done. Gilserand swallowed all that away, all except the furl in his brow as he rolled his neck. He took the stairs down, finding the whole platoon forming a semi circle around the combat area when he hit the street.

On entering the human crafted crescent, he found Sergeant Goenz and Sergeant Garr maneuvering to get behind him. No matter which way Gil turned, he would always have one of his foes sitting in his blind spot.

"Tulauten, call a start!" Goenz ordered, forcing Gilserand to drop into his combat stance despite his inner debate. How am I supposed to pull this off? he wondered. I can still quit.

"On three," Private Tulauten called, for once the man's face was not locked in disdain or contempt. He looked at Gil with troubled eyes. "One... two... three!" Gilserand reached for that cold watchful feeling inside, and nothing was there to grasp.

A scuff of a boot from behind started it off. As Gilserand spun to parry, Garr came at him from his right, but a staff point hit his left shoulder. The force was great, and Gil felt himself taking to the air. Another thrusting point changed his trajectory, while a slash prevented him from getting his legs back under himself. In less than a second he had been struck three times. A massive grumble issued from thirty nine throats as Gil crashed to the hard stones. Muscles that were still sore and bruised protested as Gilserand struggled to his feet, a fresh slick of sweat breaking out under his chain shirt. When Tulauten counted down the start of the next bout, he seemed to lack hope; he just did a quick count and folded his arms.

This time Gilserand remembered his newly acquired fighting technique. His parries flowed into his footwork as he pirouetted while swatting aside attack after attack. Against three people, Gil's opportunities to counter attack never manifested. Trying to force the issue only made him flail harmlessly at Lieutenant Guerlach, which opened him up for a touch from Garr's spear. Thrown off balance, he was quickly whacked in the back just before Goenz's weapon crashed into Gilserand's nose. Stars exploded, sparkles that raced away into an all encompassing dark. The first thing he tasted was blood when pouring water hit his face, shocking him from an oblivion he had welcomed.

"Come on, Rivenheart. You can do this," a smear of a face among other blurry flesh colored ovals seemed to say with Jaffe's voice.

Not one person's features sharpened above him, the small crowd of supporters a faceless mass. Gilserand rolled over and pushed himself slowly upright as spots danced in his vision. Blood from his nose trickled slowly out, just another hot bead of moisture on his upper lip. The world tilted back and forth like a carnival ride, until Private Machen handed Gil his practice weapon. The appeal in Machen's boyish eyes became a focal point, an anchor that drove away the dizziness in his head and firmed the earth under his feet. A slight smile from the young man felt like a benediction handed down from the Lords of Light and Life. Gamely he walked back into the circling threesome, his limbs trembling, but his mission clear. Win. I must win. Once again the surly soldier counted down the start for this last skirmish, his voice growling from the anticipated disappointment he was facing.

All three of his opponents lunged at him at the same time. Gilserand danced out from between spear shafts, using his weapon to deflect the one blunted point he had not dodged. Both Lieutenant Guerlach and Sergeant Goenz applied pressure, their practice weapons jabbing and slashing with great speed. Sergeant Garr circled to get back behind Gil. Wait a minute, if I can keep one of them between myself and the other two I might stand a chance. Squirting from between the trio, Gilserand moved so that he only faced Goenz; Garr was too far away for the moment, and Guerlach was behind the sergeant. For a second he was the attacker, his flickering weapon forcing Goenz to stumble back into the mass of his friends. The lieutenant and other noncom tried to encircle Gil again, but when he tried to shift through a gap, Guerlach's point drove into Gilserand's abdomen.

Though he shifted so that the full brunt of the attack did not drive through his body, Gil was still staggered a bit. This time, he was out of reach of the other two tormentors and they could not count another quick coup against him. Coldness folded over Gilserand, his ultra sharp focus coming onto him once more. Unfortunately spots also began to infringe upon his eyesight, hot purple sparks. Still he sensed Goenz coming in on him from the left flank, Guerlach was circling around the sergeant, and Garr was speeding in from the right. He pivoted as he jumped to the right, his spear slashing across Garrs neck. As soon as he landed he gathered himself again, he lunged at the other noncom; a heart shot, then he spun as he dropped under the lieutenant's thrust. The blunt end of his spear cracking up between the officer's legs.

A purple wave swept across Gilserand's vision and he found himself once again back in time. Goenz was coming in with a swing from his left, Guerlach breaking to pivot around the sergeant, as Garr came in from the right. This time he did not stop himself from repeating the moment he had just lived through. Spots grew and danced in his vision even as he felt a series of contact shocks in his stave, his steps and arms working despite the fading of Gil's vision. Slash, leaping lunge, upper cut. Dark oblivion reached for Gilserand before the upper cut. Did I make it, did I hit all three of them? he wondered before he could wonder no more.... Shouts! A lot of people were shouting! An emergency! Someone was hurt. He had to get up and help.... He had.... He....

Gilserand realized he was on his back, his body aching all over, especially his head. Oh no, they got me. Dammit, no! Groaning at the unfairness he pulled himself a little further towards a wakeful state. A familiar voice shocked his eyes wide open from their fluttering state.

"No Corporal Rivenheart, you got them, they didn't get you," Captain Kinnert said. Above him was the familiar white tiles and Gachtler glow rods of the infirmary, beside him the captain was perched on a short legged stool the doctors or nurses used when having to interact with a patient. "All you got out of it is a fractured nose, but you hurt Garr badly, and Guerlach isn't going to be walking around for a while," Gil was informed.

His neck muscles protested as he turned his head to the officer. Kinnert was presenting him one of his cauliflower ears, puffed and scarred from years of battery. The Captain was staring at a blank portion of the wall his mind seemingly miles away.

"Wha- what happened?" Gilserand's voice rasped from a chemical dryness, the faint after taste of some medication beginning to register.

Turning to look at the corporal, Captain Kinnert smiled; the man's lips said one thing but some tragedy reflected out of his eyes.

"Lieutenant Guerlach unlocked the champion in you, but at a cost to himself and your sergeant." Gilserand's confounded look actually wrought a change in the officer's smile, making the expression more genuine, more friendly. "The lieutenant is going to be passing blood each time he pisses for the next few days. Sergeant Goenz is undergoing surgery right now for a crushed larynx. Two magisters are holding his throat open while the doctors are trying to reconstruct his adam's apple."

Belly and back muscles screamed and protested as Gil tried to sit up, a thrill of horror shooting through his being. He flopped back onto his pillow, pain radiating from his core.

"No! Dammit no!" Once again a multiplicity of emotions played through Captain Kinnert's blue orbs, pain, worry, pride, reluctance, misery.

"When Sergeant Dilburd and Corporal Graeseed brought you to our attention, we started to observe you. We watched you at school, we watched you with your friends, and we found something rare," the captain stated his voice low but compelling. "We took a chance and did not gather you two years ago. My bosses wanted to test you, to see if you would live up to the potential we thought you had."

Kinnert shifted on the stool, suddenly boring into Gilserand with the focus of his look. "We took a big gamble not taking you in then, you could have chosen a different path in life. But you did choose us, Mister Rivenheart, which meant we could start molding you for the future you will have in the guard. We kept you separate from the men, we picked on you, we punished you, we made you strive-" Gil lifted his head snarling in his superiors face.

"You tortured me, and when that wasn't good enough, you tortured the people in my unit! Making me hurt people...." Instead of pulling away, Kinnert leaned in as if basking in the heat of Gilserand's anger.

If Gilserand could have pushed himself through the bed and pillow, he would have, just to escape the madness he was hearing.

"Our methods are not supposed to be humane, Gilserand, they are supposed to bring out the protector hiding in every person. The best protectors are those who won't hesitate to kill if it's necessary. Our best officers also have to have the capacity to know when to let off from their inner killer, to win with grace and pave the way to lasting peace. An officer and a champion is the rarest of us guard's, and that is what you are going to be. The shame of it is that you are still so young, and this style of training is so brutal."

The battered features of the officer pulled away, and Gil felt himself being studied. Here he was, being offered a position of power, the type of chance he had longed for just a day ago, and all Gil could do was probe the insanity of what he had endured.

"Champion?" he asked, the medications making his throat feel as if it was sticking to itself when he swallowed. Reaching passed Gil, Captain Kinnert came back with a pitcher of ice water and a glass. He began to fill the glass.

"The old king wanted the guard to have a select few soldiers who are great fighters, martial artists who are unmatched in battle. His son thinks these warriors should also be advisors to the martially adept magisters who often work with us."

Helping Gilserand sit up, the officer held him so that the water could be drank. "Your training will see you become a bodyguard for our top notch war magisters, and you'll eventually learn how to lead our armies and deploy those magisters to their best effect in war. From bodyguard, to advisor, to master... if you live long enough." After being eased back into his pillow, all Gil wanted to do was close his eyes and wake back up into a world where there was innocence and purity. He shifted his eyes away from Captain Kinnert and watched the tiles above do nothing, dismissing the officer without words.

However, his superior had more to say. Will this son of a Burning Spirit just go away, take his life hating perversion with him? "The Wild Rose of Bolloren rode in from the north while you were in training. After these Sauri have been dealt with you will be entered in officer training school and advanced weapon training. That means you will be spending some time in the capitol." Gilserand was tempted to drive the officer away with profanity and rage, but he just did not have the energy. He wanted to quit the guard, he wanted to walk away... but there was a point of curiosity that nagged at him.

"Pay?" The captain took to his feet, finally sensing he was no longer wanted. He did offer a wan smile as he looked down on the younger man.

"In three years time you will be able to buy your step mother a new house in the inner city, and a storefront if she wants one."

That promise of wealth tugged at Gil who had spent his fifteen years of life poor. He fell asleep still at war with his conviction and his need for the money offered. The hush of night pervaded the hospital when Gilserand woke up. Though his head still ached, the rest of his physicality was much improved. For a time he lay in the bed trying to will himself back to sleep, but his body rebelled with inner energy. Silently he rose and found his uniform and boots in the nightstand that held more ice water. Obtaining directions from a night nurse, Gil worked his way deeper into the barracks infirmary. He found Lieutenant Guearlach surprisingly awake, looking miserable in his bed.

Other than a narrowing of his eyes and a watchfulness one applied to an enemy, the officer did not greet Gil. They stared at each other for several long awkward moments. Gilserand was the first to break.

"May the Lords of Light and Life hear me, I forgive you, Lieutenant Guerlach. I owe you penance for what I did to you and Sergeant Goenz." His voice came out flatter than he had wanted, but much of his passion had been spent in hate this day. The older man's face crumpled, becoming childish as tears filled his eyes.

"I hated my orders, I hated what I did to you, Rivenheart. I would have broken a long time ago if our roles had been reversed."

A hand came out from under the bed covers and reached for Gil. The officer looked so lost as he reached for some sort of human contact. Despite all the reservations he held towards this man, he took that hand and leaned in closer wishing he had the power to erase the pain he found reflected back at himself.

"You did break me, Lieutenant. But I think I can put myself back together somewhat. I hope." A gentle squeeze answered Gil's words.

"Goenz pulled through, his surgery was successful. I think I can honestly speak for him and myself in telling you that you owe us no penance. The Lords of Light and Life bear witness, we drove you to that violence. We earned our wounds. Corporal Gilserand, Sergeant Garr is in charge, he is going to need your help running the Eighth until I get out of this bed. Can I count on you?"

What in the outer worlds is this? He cares for the platoon? Yet again Gilserand was blind sided by an aspect he had not thought the lieutenant was capable of. It was at that moment that he realized the pickle a training officer had to deal with in his or her life. They had the weight and responsibility of a younger generation in their hands, and then they had to break those individuals down and remake them in the image society required of them. Guerlach lived a contradictory existence, but he was good at it.

"Yes sir, the Eighth is a good unit already. We'll take care of each other until you come back." That promise meant the world to Lieutenant Guerlach.