01-12-2025, 10:18 PM
(This post was last modified: 01-12-2025, 10:19 PM by frenzied67.)
Ch6
Plant
Plant
"Hey plant! Spy boy! Knock it off!" Corporal Knechten snarled from his horse several yards ahead of Gil. All Gilserand had done was hold his spear up and flick his wrist. The blade had cut through the match stick thick branch with a slight singing of steel, a shing that could not have carried more than ten feet. All along a long front, the cavalry rode through the trees slowly while infantry support followed just a few yards behind them. The whole unit was behind rangers and scouts who were actually spearheading the sweep through Oldbeard Forest. For over a week they had progressed through the hoary old forest searching for an enemy that left no sign, and tempers were fraying from the monotony and lack of success.
My old spear would have just pushed that little branch aside, Gil thought to himself, too tired to glare at the cavalry corporal's back. From the start of this fiasco, joining up with the Fourth Cavalry, Gilserand had been picked on and harassed. These stupid horse jocks actually think I'm a spy sent from the infantry, as if we are the enemy. Every night he had to deal with some sort of hazing. It started when he was told, after a double shift, that he would have to guard the horses at night. Of course Major Liethor had been "upset" on finding out he had gone an entire night without sleep, yet when her people continually failed to relieve him from night shift she failed to do anything about it.
The first night out in Oldbeard Forest, he found his duffel bag had been emptied of all his effects. Branches, rocks, dead leaves, and other scrapings from off the forest floor had replaced those belongings. He had been forced to backtrack a mile behind the camp the next morning, finding his items scattered over several hundred yards. Most recently, last night, he had actually been relieved of guard duty. Looking forward to getting a full eight hours of sleep he found his bed roll and blankets soaked in urine. So in the dark, he had been forced to leave the camp so he could wash his things in a tributary of the Rularic. This had taken several hours. Not only had Liethor refused to allow him to hang his bedding near a fire, she had also failed to seek out the culprits. The nights were still frigid this early in the spring.
Though his brain was fogged from being so tired, almost to the point where he was almost combat ineffective, he still looked up with everyone when a distant horn sounded. That was the signal that the advance screen had made contact with the enemy. Though seemingly distant and muted from mental fatigue and the sound deadening effect of hills and trees, Gilserand did feel adrenaline spike in his body. The eight horsemen were off, spurring their horses to close the distance. The only problem was all the trees and brush. Those poor horses could only move ahead slightly faster than Gil and the other infantry squad he marched with. Unlike the cavalry, the Bolloren sword fighters kept their line integrity, even at a trot.
Scrambling over the first hill in their path, instead of sounds of fighting, they heard one man shouting making the trees ring with his ire. Just a dozen yards behind the horses, Gilserand crested the hill and found a few hundred guard of the expedition trying to disperse while hundreds more were still collecting. The magister Ovellam Gueardan was shouting at the man with the horn, and the officer of his unit, dressing them both down for betraying their position to those they hunted.
"...Colonel, what was it that I told you to tell your soldiers? I TOLD YOU TO NOT SOUND THE HORN UNLESS YOU MET THE DARK BLASTED SAURI! You damned stupid ignorant Burning Spirit loving morons are keeping me from going home to my daughter! This is going into my reports, I don't care what happens to your blasted careers! I've had enough! GET THIS BODY CLEANED UP!"
Stalking off to the south east, the pudgy magister walked up the flank of another hill to his horse, using his artifact level staff as a walking stick. A familiar resin encased rose bud rode the top of that pole, though Gil had not seen it glow once during this expedition. When Ovellam moved he seemed to leave a splash of red coloring behind himself, and at first Gil thought the leader of this expedition had dropped his cloak. That red garment, that matched the color of the rest of his attire, was still upon the magister himself. Doing a double take, Gilserand finally realized that blood was splashed in a localized area, over rocks, bushes, and pooled on the ground; all from a fern concealed dead body wearing black and green. One of the horsemen who was closer to the scene than Gil leaned over his pommel and heaved a small fountain from his guts. Others were averting their gazes and cursing the Burning Spirits for the evils they wrought.
A hand gesture from Major Liethor halted the infantry support and Gil before they made it too far down the hillside. Sergeant Hommel of the Two Hundred Thirty Third Bolloren Swords, who led the infantry support Gilserand was currently marching with, grimaced nearby.
"Looks like one of you Alren lads met his end," the man said to Gil, giving his dueling spear a good long look. Too tired to care, he just grunted to show he had heard; Gilserand was falling into his own pit of lethargic misery, completely uninterested in what was happening a few score yards downhill. The fact that someone had died was just not triggering emotion or interest in him.
Not realizing the funk Gilserand was in, Hommel continued talking. "I hope you don't know that lad down there, that's always the worst I hear. Hey lad, what outfit are you with? I've never seen a spear like yours before. Are you part of an Alren unit?" Sighing from the energy he would have to be using, he turned bleary eyes onto the sergeant.
"No special unit. I don't belong to any outfit yet. I haven't even gone to a specialist school." His answer drew interest from the rest of the sword squad, Sergeant Hommel's soldiers began to condense around their noncom; all eyes on Gil.
"Ain't that a glaive," one man asked. A young woman answered for Gil.
"Nah, a glaive has one curved edge, this has a double straight edge."
"Not a specialist? You're more green than we are," someone else observed.
Starting to feel hemmed in and harried, Gilserand found himself looking around for an escape route.
"What do you call that pole arm you have, lad?" Sergeant Hommel asked, his voice taking on a gentle note as if he knew Gil was suffering.
The entire squad quieted down, focused on his answer. Their interest was friendly, and this made Gilserand want to cry.
"It's a dueling spear. A glaive is great at cutting, but sucks at thrusting. Dueling spears are better at both...." Gilserand was just starting to feel his subject, was just beginning to appreciate his audience for their humanity, but Major Liethor's grating female voice shattered the moment.
"Sergeant Hommel, detail one of your troopers to help Rivenheart bury this body. There was a clearing a mile or so back that will do fine. There are shovels and axes in the baggage train." Witches could learn how to speak using this major's voice as a template, it grated and creaked wildly making hackles rise.
Sympathy radiated from Sergeant Hommel's eyes as he pointed to his burliest soldier.
"Caiden, you help the corporal out. Trina, Gordol do you two know how to lash a travois together? Good, make a sturdy one for these lads to use." Caiden was just under six foot tall, just like Gil was, but his arms were as big around as Gilserand's thighs. The man walked up to Gil and offered a hand, his eyes shied away from the splayed out corpse below. All the other military personnel were drifting away from the kill sight, returning to the rigorous sweep they had been called from. The handshake was gentle, as though Private Caiden was taking pains not to crush Gilserand's digits.
Hatchets began to thunk into some straight saplings not far off, as the rest of the sword squad prepared to filter away.
"I've never seen a dead body before," the private said, his face already seeming set to mourn. Caiden, other than being muscular had shaggy blond hair. His tall narrow nose had a crook in it from having been improperly set after a break. Green eyes should have been placed on a more handsome man, yet they were what Caiden had to work with.
"Looks like this is our lucky day for bad firsts. I didn't know we had any soldiers missing until now." Sergeant Hommel, who had just started marching off after the cavalry overheard Gilserand. He turned back around with his eyes growing with alarm.
"No one has been reported missing, which means this poor sod was one of our scouts."
Cursing the Burning Spirits, the noncom charged off, his squad springing into a jog to keep up. Oh, I guess the officers didn't put that together in their heads. We may be marching blind without scouts right now. I don't want to do this. Caiden fell into step as Gil began to make his way down the incline towards the body, the muscular man uttered a prayer to the Lords of Light and Life as they drew near the corpse. Gilserand winced when he made out the carnage up close. The victim was a young manly looking woman, who had been stout of build. Her face and light blond hair were blood spattered but unmarked by the manner of her death, her eyes had been pale blue. She still screamed at the branches above, but her voice would never grace the living world again.
Her body was staked out so that she was spread eagle, then her clothes had been cut away. Her skin had been incised open and spread out to either side of her body from her neck down to her knees. The muscles from thigh to neck had been partially cut away from the bones and laid out almost artistically upon her skin, like bloody bird feathers spread in flight. Not only had this been torture, it was also supposed to be a warning to the six hundred guards blundering about in this wilderness. Even in his drained state, Gilserand was moved, but Caiden started to moan as if he and his sanity were parting ways.
Putting his hand on the private's arm halted the disconcerting noise, the human contact firming the man's grip with the here and now.
"This girl has friends in the guard, they're going to want to know. We take care of her like she's our family, okay?" Face downfallen, Private Caiden looked at Gil, tears wanting to form, but not quite. He nodded, focusing himself on Gil's empathy. Gilserand dropped his back pack and pulled his soggy bed roll and blankets from their straps. after unrolling those items he turned to the body. Gently he began to take the muscle tissue and place it where it belonged, eventually folding the skin back in place.
Together Caiden and he had blood up too their elbows before they finished reassembling the dead scout. The rags of her uniform were used to bind the wounds closed and provide a modicum of decency for the remains.
"I wish we could wash her up," Caiden commented as they lifted the body onto the blankets. They had just closed the distended mouth and shut the horror rounded eyes, and Gilserand knew the impulse his comrade was feeling. There was an off feeling from not being able to wash the gore from the dead girl's face and hair, like they were doing her a disservice. Even swaddling the cadaver with the blankets then bed roll also felt wrong, as if they were hiding their own bad deed.
Caiden's squad mates had done a good job lashing the travois together, the rope was tied so tight that the wood could not rub or move. Tying down the body was made easy with all the cross supports the sword guards had built onto the platform. They had even had rope tied to the pole ends so that they could sling that over their shoulders and begin pulling. Hauling by the poles themselves would have grated upon their hands or shoulders. "It's awful quiet out here," the sword guard said before they hauled their burden to the top of the hill they had crested on their dash when the horn had sounded.
That statement pulled Gilserand out of his head and made him look around.
"I don't like it. I don't like that it's just us two out here by ourselves. Keep your eyes open, and kick me if I start drifting off." Just the way this statement made his fellow's eyes widen and begin checking the background was both gratifying, and terrifying. The Burning Spirit cursed Sauri killed this girl because she was probing ahead without back up. Now our leaders have left Caiden and myself hauling her body without support too. Gilserand started cursing the haziness of his thoughts, wishing he could trust his red rimmed eyes as he probed the underbrush for enemies. The skidding of the travois seemed to be deafeningly loud as they headed north and a little west following the horse tracks of the cavalry.
To their right a distant whinny reached their ears. The relief that came to Caiden's eyes matched that which Gilserand himself felt. Without needing to discuss the move they both started trudging east, off line from where they knew the clearing was. Soon an oxen bawled a complaint, followed by cursing human voices. The baggage train was very near, closer than the initial horse cry had made it seem. Yet before they put eye to the humans and animals hauling the camp supplies of the expedition, they were challenged by someone behind them.
"Identify yourselves or become pincushions." This was not how the guard confronted one another, yet when they turned they found a man in Alren's dark green and black uniform.
An arrow was knocked in the man's bow, but the weapon was not drawn back or even pointed their way. In deference to Gils rank, Private Caiden allowed him to answer for them. They lowered the travois to the ground, taking the burden off their shoulders.
"Corporal Rivenheart and Private Caiden, we're on burial detail and need tools." A dozen soldiers rose from the brush, each of them with recurve bows held with arrows nocked to the string. Each face frowned with beetled brow, looking at the wrapped form on their conveyance.
"Who was it? What happened?" Gilserand finally made out the bird wing pin on the speaker's lapel, marking the man as a lieutenant.
Dammit, I wish I could think straight! he snarled at himself.
"Sir, we don't know who she is... was. She was a scout that was tortured to death then left for us to find." His admission made every man start to converge on them, that was when Gil realized these soldiers were also scouts. The lieutenant moved to the body and moved the blanket aside to view the deceased woman's face.
"Damned pit bound Sauri!" one of the scouts cursed.
"It's Dulga.... Private Fluegar," the lieutenant declared in a deadpan voice. "You closed her eyes?" Gilserand nodded to the officer.
Trying to be helpful, Caiden blurted out more information.
"We couldn't clean her, you know, but we did put her back together as best we could." Just this hint as to the dead woman's condition made several scout faces harden, not in anger at Gil and his companion, but for the situation. Moving around to face Gilserand and Caiden, the lieutenant looked down upon both of them with an unreadable face. The man had to be six and a half feet tall.
"Who is your officer? Who sent you out here by yourselves where you too were likely to get killed?" There was a lack of warmth in the junior officer's eyes, like the man was pondering ordering their deaths.
There was a part of Gilserand that hoped that order would be given, his week had been too long, too arduous.
"Major Liethor sent us on this task," he stated. A sneer marred the tall lieutenants oval face, the five o'clock shadow seeming to bristle.
"Stupid Horse Hag sent you out without backup? Figures, the woman thinks of her image, not her Burning Spirit damned troopers. Sergeant, send a detail to gather tools and inform the caravan master. We're detaching ourselves to cover Liethor's mistakes again." All the sergeant had to do was point out two men, those scouts took off at a fast lope towards the fading sounds of all the animals and their handlers.
Not finished there, the officer continued. "We appreciate you looking out for one of our own. We're going to help you and watch over you until we get Private Fluegar buried." A response seemed expected, and Gil's mind was so numbed by lack of sleep he did not realize what passed his lips.
"Sir, thank you. I'm sure Major Liethor would've used her influence with the Burning Spirits to punish us for getting killed by the Sauri." Caiden and another man snorted, trying to muffle a laugh at Gil's inappropriate timing. Even the lieutenant blinked, his lips inadvertently twitching into a momentary smile.
"Whose bedding and blankets are these? Fluegar didn't go out with her pack."
Caiden pointed at Gilserand, who only nodded at the question. "I'll make sure you get replacement gear, corporal." When there was nothing else to say, everything grew quiet; except the birds and squirrels in the distance. Caiden fidgeted nearby, picking dirt off his uniform. Gilserand noticed a chunk of shiny fallen bark on the forest floor, he fixed on the spot but was not really seeing anything. He was just brain fog born on legs, vaguely human shaped. When his mind did eventually muster awareness to notice the world outside his pain, Gil found the scouts not only stationary, they were also preternaturally still. They all stared off into different points of the compass, and they did move their heads as they scanned, but those head movements were slow on their statue still bodies.
Only one scout returned from the baggage train, carrying just half the tools necessary for the job ahead. That man ran up to the lieutenant.
"Sir, they brought another body in. Another pair of soldiers just came into the train carting a dead scout or ranger. I'm not sure but I think the army has stopped marching." Gilserand heard the officer pray for a moment, his voice really low.
"Lords of Light and Life, look after us, your foolish children. Our times are thrice challenged and hatreds run deep, your adversaries grips are strong upon us and our enemies, trying to darken our souls." After his prayer, the man broke into action. "I want you all to stay here, stay alert. Corporal Riverheart, would you please accompany me."
Reality seemed to lurch as Gilserand was addressed, though nothing actually changed. His fatigued brain was losing attenuation with the world around it.
"Yes sir. It's Rivenheart, sir." The lieutenant only grunted, but he did give Gil an odd look as they started off. After they had strolled a few score yards from the officer's unit, the lieutenant began to whisper.
"What's wrong with you, corporal?" Feeling the drain on his energy, Gil surfaced from his numbness to answer.
"Sir? Uh- yes sir. I've only been allowed a couple hours of sleep since leaving Alren. The cavalry is working me hard, and not relieving me from guard duty at night."
Just as quiet as his prayer had been, the officer swore under his breath. Sooner than Gilserand thought, they came upon the tail end of the baggage train. Horses, mules, and oxen of all types were strapped down with bundles, crates, and barrels and enough rope and canvas to suspend an entire city. Men and women in civilian work clothing gossiped among the stationary animals. As they moved down the line, the lieutenant craned his head this way and that looking for something or someone. Not knowing what was being searched for, Gil just floated along next to the officer turning when that man turned. Finally, after they rounded a knot of fifteen oxen snuffling the forest floor for edible plants, they found a clutch of officers and noncoms having what looked like a debate with a civilian almost as tall as the nameless lieutenant.
This group of people were very near the front end of the whole train of animals and their handlers. A short woman in the black and green of Alren held up her hand, hailing Gil's lieutenant.
"Oi, lieutenant over here!" Once they were near, Gilserand noticed another blanket shrouded body at everyone's feet. "Digger says you have another body on our back trail, is that true?" the woman asked when they joined the five people and their dead body. She reminded Gilserand of Yanna, but shorter, and her braided hair was just off of being truly straw colored. This woman's uniform was exactly like the scouts, but her rank pin classed her as a captain.
"Yes ma'am, this poor lad and another walked right by the train while carting Dulga Fluergar. They were sent to bury her without an escort, ma'am."
The tall lieutenant made his report while looking at the still figure at their feet, he wanted to know who it was, but was afraid to look.
"Dammit, what's going on up there," the lady captain complained looking where she thought the advance party was. The woman was about to make further comment, or issue orders, but a call came from the front of the train.
"Another pair coming in, Captain. Looks like they are carrying another body." Still checked out, Gilserand followed the lieutenant automatically when the small group fanned out and moved to the fore of the baggage train.
Glancing out through the trees and moss, Gilserand noticed a tall pair of people in uniform making their way from the south west. When he looked up though he saw the captain pointing to the south east, indicating a closer pair struggling with a still blanket wrapped figure. No! This is wrong!
"Over there," he said, pointing out the other burial detail hiking their way. Barely able to think at all, Gilserand found the forest suddenly blurred. It was not until the tears spilled out that he realized he was crying, unable to control the roil of emotions inside.
"Dammit, someone find Colonel Tretham or the Wild Rose. Let them know their army is marching blind!" A very agitated captain ordered.
Somehow there had been a transition in Leachelle's mind, where before she had been thinking of this dance as getting together with her friends. Now the butterflies in her belly were indications that this was really a date. A date with a guy she was yet to meet, but a date none the less. The fact that she had splurged and hired this coach was another indicator. If this had just been a gathering with friends she would have walked or ridden to the officer's club. The idea of smelling like a horse had been a clincher, that and a long walk would have drained her energy. She had to smell good, look good, and think clear.
Through the window, as her narrow two person coached joined the queue of conveyances dropping party goers off at the little club house, Leachelle recognized Mishiel. Her friend was standing with two tall young men, one blond and extremely tall, and the other dark of hair and broader of shoulder. The blond young man wore a gray and green uniform with a patch indicating he was with a cavalry unit. The slightly shorter man had green and black as his uniform's colors, and Leachelle could not identify the rectangular patch indicating unit affiliation. Her wagon's window was not made from the best glass, only familiarity with Bolloren's guards allowed her to identify blondy's shield shaped patch.
The trio was waiting for her outside of the long narrow rectangular building that was the officer's club. Two signs hung over the entrance. One plaque actually said Twenty Third Division Officer's Club, the other was the old sign from before the previous king's educational decree. It showed the various insignia worn by lieutenants all the way up to generals. As the three looked around not knowing the exact conveyance Leachelle was in, she wondered which of the guys was Mishiel's boyfriend and which one would be her date. Echart Dunn was Mishiel's beau, while she was being set up with Buchanin.
Her question was answered just after a couple stepped out of the lead carriage. Passing in front of the trio, the middle aged pair temporarily blocked Leachelle's view; after they passed the tall blond and Mishiel were kissing as though they had just invented the activity. That is Echart then, so then that guy is Buchanin. The hollow in her tummy turned into a pit. People called the sensation butterflies, but she thought chimpanzee's were rough housing in the space. Why does this glass have to have flaws, she complained when she failed to perceive the details she craved to know. All she could see through the rippled glass was that both young men were tall and muscular and one was blond and Buchanin was not. Her carriage lurched forward for a few feet, and the ethereal sound of a distant sitar reached her ears.
Lords of light and life, he has a good build at least, Leachelle thought feeling a burst of adrenaline thrill her nerves; Buchanin looked very physically fit, though his face was still occluded. Is he going to like me? Is he going to think I'm too thin? Is my hair okay? Mishiel turned around in Echart's grip so they both could peer into the carriages as they drew up, with his arms crossing her body they swayed to a beat that did not come from the muted music coming from the bar. Pulling at his collar, Buchanin fidgeted near the couple; obviously uncomfortable to be the third wheel in this game of waiting. I wish the glass in this window wasn't so rippled. Maybe I should get out and walk over? This idea should not have created such a push and pull with Leachelle's emotions, the possibility of romance wreaked havoc with her ideas of decorum.
The next conveyance to unload held a young couple, both Buchanin and Echart craned their heads to watch the slender figure of the woman as she passed; Mishiel missed the boys enjoying the view. Wait a minute, should Echart be doing that? Mishiel is beautiful, why should he want to look at other girls? For years Leachelle had wanted to be that girl, the one whom turned heads, yet watching Mishiel's boyfriend turning an appreciative eye away from her friend hit her as disjointed and wrong. Mishiel, was that girl with those looks that stirred men's attention, and Leachelle was more than a little envious of the girl. Yet it was Mishiel who had told her that she was hot, that she had desirable features and form, making Leachelle believe she had possibility.
In the narrow carriage she leaned over the back facing seat and slid the divider window open.
"Driver, I will get out here and walk. Thank you for driving me." The driver turned around and smiled through the small aperture, his thick white mustache could not hide the twinkle in the aging man's eyes.
"Yes miss, have a great night." Leachelle had to make a short hop to the pavement since she did not know how to operate the folding step. Despite being in heels she landed well. Even with her long hopeful strides she was almost past the conveyance just ahead of the carriage she had just quit before Mishiel spotted her. Buchanin came to attention, his eyes boring into Leachelle; assessing, probing.
Responding to Mishiels joyous waving, she felt her attention glue onto Buchanin as well. As she drew closer she started to make out his features; but the first thing she noticed was the growing grin on his face. A mark of approval that flustered Leachelle even as it pleased her. The inner battles should have ended there, but for some reason she felt even more pressure building; both physical and mental. Buchanin's brown hair was of a slightly longer style than Echart's, yet it was still short; possibly due to military necessity. His eyes were a paler gray than Leachelle's own, they sat in his oval face not being too big or too small. They were beautiful. He had a shortish nose with nostrils that were not too wide or too thin; again very nice and symmetrical.
His lips, thinned out from his smile, did not seem blemished. His chin was strong with a slight dimple. I hope he's smiling because he likes what he sees, not because he's polite. What am I going to say? How am I going to mess this up? Oh please Lords of Light and Life, don't let me mess this up. Before Leachelle reached the curb where the trio awaited her, Mishiel called out to her. Evening was not too far off.
"Hey beautiful, is that a Vethily dress? That has to be a Vethily." By the promise of the scriptures, Buchanin is really really cute! Tearing herself away from Buchanin's compulsive gaze, she answered Mishiel; spinning around to showcase her all purple outfit, the narrower hoops that were the newest fashion allowing the fabric to actually swirl a bit.
"Of course it's a Vethily, who else makes pleated coats like this." Please be impressed, please like what you see, she begged in her mind hoping Buchanin would listen to the silent plea.
Echart was not impressed, his eyes dismissed Leachelle so he could peer out along the carriage lined street. His hair was extremely short along the sides of his head, and one brow was continually higher than the other; a look of supreme confidence seemingly etched on his mien. He had light blue eyes and a long sharp nose, the nostrils looked as if someone had pinched them near closed during his formation. His lips were so very shapely. Overall he was a handsome young man, but there was something Leachelle found off about the guy. He seemed to have too much confidence; too much satisfaction with being himself.
As though by magnetism, Leachelle's eyes returned to Buchanin. That dazzling smile grew again once her attention was returned to him. Torn by convention and whim, she knew it was not polite to stare yet that was what she wanted to do; a primal need to explore with her eyes and enjoy the experience.
"Buchanin, let me introduce you to my new friend, Leachelle Gueardan. Leachelle, this is Buchanin Hansil." Uncertainty marred the tall young man's smile as he stepped up and accepted her hand. Surprisingly he bowed over her digits, letting his lips brush her gloved hand in an old courtly gesture. Somehow, the old fashioned display was very pleasing, organic and sincere.
His voice was masculine, deep enough to be enjoyable without being imposing.
"I am pleased to meet you, magister." Kissing her hand had sent Leachelle's hopes soaring, but when Buchanin addressed her by her title her spirits fell hard. Still she offered an old fashioned curtsy as he still held her hand in his warm strong digits. Why do I find his hands being bigger than mine pleasing? Why is he impressed with my job and not me?
"Lieutenant, the pleasure is mine." What she had really wanted to convey was her wish to hear her name on his lips, but how could she state that without looking weird and demanding? Am I staring? He does have a very nice face, and those eyes....
"Speaking of great clothes, is your dress a Tyche?" she asked of Mishiels ruby red gown while forcing herself to turn from Buchanin. To imply an affirmative Mishiel wiggled into a curtsy, her eyes taking on a lascivious cast. Blinking at the girl's unexpected display, Leachelle tried to analyze seeing this side of her friend, but Echart stole everyone's attention with his ill natured, impatient eye roll and huff.
Leachelle heard every spoiled boy raised in the palace in Echart's tone
"Can we go in now? I would like to have a drink before the sun goes down." But we haven't been introduced yet, she thought, stung. Am I that unimpressive? Is this how Buchanin sees me? Taking Mishiels hand, Echart did not wait for either introductions or consensus. Her friend winced an apologetic look before being tugged away. Stepping up to her side and offering his arm, Buchanin spoke in a low voice.
"Ignore him, he has always been the south side of a north bound horse. I for one am very happy to make your acquaintance, Leachelle." His pale grays had a lodestone's pull on her gaze.
Oh merciful Lords! He said my name! Just like that the chimpanzees frolicked like mad in her middle amid skin tingles. His arm was solid metal under her hand as she draped her arm with his, yet steel never had such delicious warmth. They were at the bar's doors before Leachelle realized she had not once watched her step. She also realized that her grin was almost manically wide. He had not stopped smiling into her gaze through the short little trip; gray eyes appreciating gray eyes. Is this what the bards mean by chemistry? she wondered, feeling slightly overwhelmed by what was happening. Is this feeling just in me? What is Buchanin feeling?
When they drew to a stop he started to disentangle his arm from hers, and her instinct was to hold on; suppressing that urge was not easy.
"May I take your coat?" he asked sketching the slightest of bows. Oh! All her life Leachelle had servants taking her coat for her, this time the activity felt special. After she turned about and opened her swept back arms, he guided her coat off her using gravity to assist his effort; gentle and effortless. There were very few people in the officer's club, two uniformed DOW women gathering abandoned drinks and a man behind the bar with a stack of men's and women's coats on the bar's surface.
The entrance was at the southern end of the clubhouse, which was a narrow rectangle stretching northward seventy or eighty feet. The bar was closed off near a pool table to Leachelles immediate right, the gaming space was very narrow about twenty five feet from western wall to eastern, and twelve feet wide. From there the counter ran almost the entire length of the building with scores of stools spaced for elbow room. Small two chair tables were placed along the western wall, also with plentiful room between tables, a dart board broke up that seating in what seemed the center of that wall; a strip of scuffed white paint in the middle of the carpet midway from the bar to the wall marked where contestants were to make their throws.
A string of carnations circumvented almost the entirety of the clubhouse, while multiple strands of small chromed disks bracketed the flowers above and below; those little disks swayed with the slightest impulse of a breeze. Why is the bar a coat check, and why are there more coats than people? Asking that question was when Leachelle realized the music she had been hearing was filtering in through an open back door. Her gaze discovered that the bar was open in the north a step away from the rear exit. Beyond the outside exit was another door set into the north wall, what the space beyond was she could not tell.
The flower and disk stringers were stretched across that aperture indicating that space beyond was off limits. Bottles lined low shelves behind the bar, hundreds of bottles with no label seeming to be repeated, a few kegs and barrels had nooks staked out for them in the shelving. On all the walls were name plaques. Behind the bar the names were those of fallen heroes who had belonged to the Twenty Third, the names along the north western wall immortalized the champions of dart or pool contests from years past.
"I'll have green apple schnapps," Echart demanded of the man currently taking Mishiel's coat. Buchanin was still shrugging out of his uniform coat, but looking at his blond friend bemused by the young man's discourtesy.
The coat checker held up a finger to Echart, both expression and gesture telling the young man in no uncertain terms that he would have to wait. This man, though older, looked bigger and more imposing than either Buchanin or Echart. He too had short hair and muscular build, but his light blue eyes had a hardness and lack of empathy only a killer could manifest. With care, the checker laid Buchanin and Leachelle's coats atop Mishiel's, making sure they would take no crease while stored.
"Leachelle my bell, would you like a drink?" Mishiel asked. Why is she offering and not either of the boys? she wondered.
"Not right yet. Definitely later, though. Do you think they have champagne at this party?" Mishiel looked surprised at first, but the idea of champagne made the girl's grin grow impish.
Clearing his throat as if requesting permission to impose, Buchanin answered her query.
"They definitely do have champagne. Two types. They have bottles straight from Lansee and a few bottles made here in Bolloren. I'm eager to find out what all the hype is about with this new Lanseean beverage." Delighted at this opportunity to talk to this young man again, Leachelle tilted her head in inquiry.
"How did you learn that information? You must admit that is a very specific knowledge base to have." I love how his smile is growing, his eyes seem to sparkle.
"I've heard that a lot of women like this new drink thing, so I asked around and verified that the Daughters of the Word were supplying it tonight." He shrugged his shoulders as if this was no big thing that he had done, yet he seemed to drink her reaction up.
"You did this for a blind date?" she asked, not quite able to hide the delight this idea stirred.
His grin grew to match hers.
"Well, if it's in my power, I'd like this to be memorable." Lords of Light and Life, I wish I knew what that meant. Does he like me, or is he just being nice, Leachelle asked herself while feeling her heart beat increase a few beats. Like ice water down the back, Echart chimed in; voice snide.
"Ooh it's wine with bubbles. I don't get the appeal. This schnapps will get you messed up quicker," he said as he took a swig.
Finally taking umbrage with her boyfriends attitude, Mishiel turned on him her face stern.
"With schnapps you tend to wake up without memory, tonight is supposed to be memorable, Echart." Her voice was tight with emotion, Leachelle could not see her friend's facial expression but the girl did tilt her head as she used his name like a digging instrument. Over Mishiel's shoulder, Leachelle witnessed the blond man's eyes shift from Mishiel to look directly at her for a moment; his face was stone as he nodded. What do I have to do with this tiff, she wondered, mystified by why Echart had looked at her.
Warm breath placed gentle heat behind her ear, down her neck, and spilled a bit down her clavicle; the air carried a hint of clove.
"If he keeps this up, we might have to get separated from them while dancing," Buchanin whispered from behind her head. Heat built in her face as her mind took off with images of him holding her. Wow, he took the time to chew on a clove for his breath. This guy is covering all his bases. Mercy of the Lords of Light, that breath made my entire neck tingle!
"I've heard of these things happening before, couples getting carried away, literally and figuratively, by the music," she said looking up into his eyes, hoping she had laid some bait. His reaction was immediate.
Instead of the slow growing smile he usually showed, his face seemed to burst with a grin. What does that mean? I know it is a happy face, but I can't tell what he's thinking. Does he like me, or am I just in the friend category? I don't know. I guess I'll have to accept happy. Yet... he did suggest that we go off alone while we dance.... Can he see that I'm blushing? With a head gesture towards the back door as he stepped from behind, Buchanin urged her to go with him to the outdoor dance floor. What floored her yet again was the way he offered her his hand after she nodded her assent. Mishiel caught the end of that exchange and she looked back and forth between Buchanin and Leachelle as the young magister put her hand into his.
A strange wistful expression passed over the lovely girl's face, before she graced Leachelle with a knowing grin. His hand is so big and unyielding, it feels as if he has to work to be gentle, she thought as she shot a half nervous half pleased grin back at her friend. Buchanin started leading her to the back door and the intriguing music beyond, but Mishiel took her other arm as Leachelle started to pass. Together the three of them brushed by Echart. The blond man/boy slammed his drink back and then began to fish in his coin purse, ignoring the three of them. Before she was pulled into the club's back yard, Leachelle glanced back. Echart was whispering to the coat checker/ bar tender, gold pentamarks in his hand. Is he buying another drink?
Though slightly larger than the club house, the back yard was not quite a rectangle. The back fence to the south was twice as wide as the northern section, which called the stages station questionable to Leachelle. The outdoor stage crowded against the back door with a small passage between the building and where the band was situated. The bar's siding and all the fence surfaces were strung with carnations and strands of those small metallic disks; those foil coins glittered with the colored lights reflecting off of them. Over the stage, almost like a canopy, was strand after strand of both carnations and disks.
Suspended a few inches below this impromptu covering were a trio of Gachtler glow rods adorned with sheer colored cloth strips. Instead of the steady white light the rods normally shed, the ribbons tied around them filtered color into the light; yellow, red, green, orange, and blue. Somehow the glow rods rotated over the five piece band below, slow steady revolutions that the small metal disks reflected on to the stage and out into the crowd in dots and circles of alternating hues. A dozen couples danced before the stage, laughter and grins odd under the colored spots playing over them. Twice that number of people in pairs or slightly larger groups conversed along the fence or wall, drinks in hand.
Two percussionists, a violin, a sitar, and a lady flutist bobbed to their own music on the stage; the flute and sitar were conducting a strange call and response composition where each musician repeated then built upon the prior musicians contribution. Meanwhile the drummers performed slow simple rhythms with the violin, creating a structure for the flute and sitar to adhere to. Leachelle's pulse began to alter to match the beat of the music, tingling surges accompanying her pulse. Somehow she was free of Mishiel's arm and leading Buchanin into the midst of all the others who were expressing themselves to the music. Mishiel trailed them, then joined in as they threw themselves into the music.
Compared to Mishiel, Buchanin's movements looked staccato and unrefined, while her friend's true loveliness shone forth in sensual grace. Leachelle knew she could not match Mishiel's steps or form, but unlike the other men dancing who ogled the girl, Buchanin had eyes for her and her alone. He doesn't seem to think I look ridiculous it seems, she thought after that worry passed through her head. Not that it would matter, he doesn't seem to have natural rhythm himself. But that smile.... I wished that smile belonged to me. Abruptly the song ended, as they had come in at the tail end of the performance. The band began to rearrange themselves so that the violinist took the central position on the small stage.
When the slightly plump musician began to play, Leachelle saw strands of energy begin to draw out of the violin's fret board. Those threads and streamers began to weave together as a sweet high note reached for the darkening skies above. The energy transitioned as a melody began to form and a stampede of horses galloped above the audience in ethereal clouds of dust. Oh, how clever! The violinist is a magister creating illusions for the audience to see. The images worked with the music, showing the midland plains and the wildlife most of the audience had only read about. Mishiel touched both of them on their arms as a way to excuse herself, she turned and moved to meet Echart who had just appeared framed in the back door.
Just then the music transitioned from a lone instrument sending haunting notes and natural images, to the whole band flying into high gear. The song was driven by a fast galloping tempo, the flute and sitar structured the rhythm with frantic abandon. Both drummers were working together to provide a beat fast enough for the wild almost shrill violin's thrilling melody. Leaf cutter ants the size of rottweilers now scrambled among the dancers burdened with fresh cut greens. Inside the new illusion, Buchanin was puzzled by this pulsing music at first, then he just started jumping in place while punching the air in time with the percussionists. He definitely is not a dancer, natural or trained, but that isn't stopping him. More for the fun it seemed than the seeming she had craved, Leachelle joined in, throwing her slender arms up as enthusiastically as her date.
Now the dancers found themselves in fast flowing water, red headed hooked beak salmon darting through the flow all around them. Chancing a glance away from Buchanin's joyous smile, Leachelle found Echart once again seeming to look directly at her over Mishiel's head. Mishiel seemed to be ticking off some points with her hand as she talked to her boyfriend. Before she looked away, Echart smiled then bent to kiss his girlfriend; the first happy look she had seen the boy make. The salmon made way for a pair of giant grizzly bears battling over the audience. Buchanin looked like he was trying to jump up and punch the bears bellies in his rendition of dance, she could not even get close to the hovering illusions, but a laugh bubbled out of her as she tried.
Swarms of swallows darted overhead at the song's end, seeming to take to heights beyond the viewer's sight. Taking her hand with an incredibly fast grab, Buchanin pivoted around to face her. Nearby the band rearranged itself again, this time the extremely lanky drummer was presented at the fore.
"I like watching you dance, you're incredibly graceful." His words made her blink, and at the same time she imagined kissing him; this made heat fill her face more than the compliment had. Wow, that seemed genuine. Does he like me, as in like like me? Leachelle wondered.
"There are better dancers out there," she demurred.
Using his hands and fingers, the drummer began to tap out a beat that was at once slinky, and also seemingly martial at the same time. The rest of the band began to join in, with a song that was slow and luxurious. Buchanin shrugged at her words.
"But I don't like watching them dance," he said just before the music swelled into full form. Now her face did go fully red and fiery, the only thing she could think to do was step into Buchanin and nestle her face near his neck so he could fold his arms around her. He swayed rather than stepped in this dance, which was just fine with Leachelle. Lords of Light and Life! The way he said that was perfect, exactly what I wanted and needed to hear.
As always, doubts lived within her. Leachelle had to look up. She had to see if these emotions were really within Buchanin and not just in her; or in her head. As if he had been waiting for her she found his lips descending in a surprise kiss. At first she stiffened in his unyielding arms but an inner voice helped her relax into the contact. Mine! This is my kiss! Her ape sized butterflies were doing barrel rolls and her breasts, belly, and arms tingled where they contacted Buchanin.... Yet.... Yet his lips did not move much in the exchange, and there was a bit much moisture in the process. Wetter than what Leachelle herself liked. Still, this was what she wanted, what she had hoped for since sighting Buchanin.
After several minutes, she realized that they had stopped dancing. They had just been making out in the middle of the dance floor.
"Whoo hoo, look at you guys go!" Mishiel said, leading Echart into the dance by his hand. The blond threw Buchanin a wink when Leachelle and he parted to greet them. "I knew you two would hit it off." Embarrassed, thrilled, and overwhelmed by everything happening, Leachelle just nestled up next to Buchanin; marveling at his warmth even as her shy smile hit Mishiel.
One by one the instruments faded out of the music until just the two drums remained. The power and tempo also began to fade, until only the one lanky guy was left lightly tapping his drum into a slow wistful end. Dots and crescents of light played over the musicians and audience when silence fell, the colored glow rods reflecting off all the reflective disks. Unlike the prior ending of their tunes, the band did not scramble to rearrange themselves. Instead they posed for accolades, which they received. Red lights swayed across Echart's face while Mishiel was brushed by green highlights, Buchanin had yellows seeming to cascade over his form, and she found blue lights beaming into her eyes.
Gliding to the fore, the flutist shook out her long blond tresses before addressing the crowd.
"Don't worry folks, we're just taking a break to catch our breath and have a drink. Consider this a great time to hit the bar yourselves." The flutist herself led an exodus back into the clubhouse, fully fifty percent of the people in the yard getting into line to get in. Mishiel watched all the activity a slight pout on her shapely lips.
"Well that's great, I wanted to dance." Buchanin and Leachelle both spoke at once, she tried to ameliorate Mishiel's misfortune, while he asked her a question.
"Would you like a drink now?" he asked.
"The band will be back," she stated.
This was enough for her to grin and enjoy Buchanin's gray orbs. She nodded but swept an arm to the long line of people queued up to go to the bar. Smiling, Buchanin held up a pentamark. From a cluster of people hanging out along the southern fence, a girl dressed in a DOW server's uniform emerged and approached them. This young woman was short, square faced, and crowned with golden curls; dark blue eyes smiled recognition at Leachelle. Leachelle dropped an immediate curtsy to the short plump blond.
"Lady Shashaw, how nice to see you outside of the palace."
"Magister Gueardan the Second, we missed you in class after you were Gathered. I had heard that you were a volunteer with the Daughters of the Word now?" the young noble woman inquired.
Both the guys stood straighter, even tugging on their uniforms to make sure they were presentable, Mishiel gaped for a few seconds before she shrank away seemingly intimidated.
"I thought I would see why my mother spoke so highly of the DOW, she had been a member for years. Tonight we are not volunteers though, but tomorrow we will return to reviving the old community center on Dunhelm Street." Leachelle had indicated Mishiel while speaking of their volunteer work, which caused Lady Shashaw to beam a smile and incline her head to the young woman.
"Well tonight I am a volunteer, so I must find out what I can do for you beautiful young couples?" The little woman's grin spread as she said this, a sparkle in her eye. Lady Shashaw seemed pleased to be serving people rather than being served.
Clearing his throat shyly, Buchanin held up his coins.
"Uh, your ladyship, could we get three glasses of champagne and an apple schnapps?" Grinning impishly, lady Shashaw dipped a curtsy to the guard.
"Of course. Four drinks and change for your coins. Young man, could I convince you to donate your change to the Daughters of the Word? That money provides a lot of services dedicated to young soldiers such as yourselves." Blinking with uncertainty, Buchanin looked at Leachelle with a silent plea, though she had no idea what he was asking of her at first.
Oh, right. Buchanin is only a lieutenant so he's probably on a budget, she realized.
"Please, Lady Shashaw, bring my date his change. He must continue lavishing me in a manner I could become accustomed to, so I shall make a donation for the lot of us." This time the noble woman inclined her head to Leachelle then waited for her to pull out her coin purse. Echart made a light grunting noise when the magister in training handed over four gold pentamarks. Even Lady Shashaw made an impressed face at the largess shown. After taking the soldier's coins the lady volunteer dipped another curtsy before wading through the slowly moving queue of people.
Leachelle found her friends staring at her after the lady left, they seemed daunted by what had just occurred. "We had the same classes and many of the same tutors together, Lady Shashaw was a year ahead of me," she explained. Echart frowned at this information, turning his head away as he considered Leachelle's connections. Buchanin and Mishiel both pursed their lips and nodded, impressed despite themselves. "What did you think of those illusions the violinist made, that was quite the show?" Back on more certain ground, Buchanin nodded.
"I felt like I was underwater with the salmon swarm. I was surprised that we didn't come out wet," he said, laughing at his impression of the event.
Sharing her smile to affirm she had felt the same way, Mishiel waved her hand at the sky.
"I expected to hear the thudding and growlong while the bears were fighting. So realistic." When Echart swung his face back around, his expression was pointed as if the answer he would hear was very important.
"Can you make illusions like that?" he asked Leachelle.
"Not that good. Illusion isn't one of the manifestations I excel at. The high magister is a great illusionist, he can actually cloak someone in a seeming and have the illusion follow that person's every gesture-" While she had been prepared to speak on good illusion work, she was cut off.
Placing a hand on Echart's chest, Mishiel made the tall blonde look at her.
"Leachelle always has her relic on her, maybe we can get her to show you what she can do later." The way the tall boy squinted at those words made it seem he was reading another meaning from the message than what he was actually hearing. Light help me, but Echart is a bit too much. I don't see anything at all in him to make him worthy of Mishiel. She deserves a lot batter, Leachelle thought. "Maybe we can slip away during the next set and she can put on a private show for us." She found herself frowning. Why would Mishiel do this to me? Why would she volunteer me to do such a thing?
"No I shouldn't. I'm only a trainee right now, I'm not really supposed to have my relic on me outside of classes or work," Leachelle tried to extricate herself from the unmade promise, even though she bent the rules at home.
Laughing, Mishiel turned to her with a challenge.
"You don't hesitate to show cockroaches and spiders your wand, but not for your friends?" Laughing lightly, Leachelle tried to wave the idea away, but Buchanin stepped from her side to add his look to the pressure. A gentle smile, raised eyebrows, expectation... all those minute details on his face made her will collapse. Lords of Light and Life, please don't let me get caught.
"We'll get in a lot of trouble if they catch us. We have to get away from all these people if I'm going to do this." Triumph in her smile, Mishiel turned while catching Echart's hands, she seemed to wink to the blond as she leaned back and let his arms keep her from falling. The way the young guard officer smiled back almost made Leachelle reassess her opinion of the man. Almost.
With casual strength Buchanin drew her to him with a one arm hug, his desirous warmth made her cuddle up against him. I could get used to this... whatever this is. I think he likes me... maybe? I wish he would tell me if he likes me. What if he thinks of me as a passing fancy? What if I'm misreading his signals? But he kissed me...? After watching his girlfriend swing back and forth in his tethering hands for a few moments, Echart looked up.
"If you know who to bribe, we can have a private party in the wine cellar. I just happen to know the right people, but we have to time everything right," he said. "We'll have to wait for the band to start playing again and bring most of the people out of the clubhouse."