Chapter 7 Manifestation

[frenzied67]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What did he do?" someone asked.

"He stopped the Sauri," was the answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clearing his throat discretely, Ovellam stopped Gil from continuing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm soldier now, instead of son?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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