A cool breeze blows...
Technically a duchess in exile, "Dutch" was born Matsuki Haidoko, the only child of Duke Luec Thoang Haidoko. Many of the duke's subjects were outraged when he took an elven wife, but he and the current emperor were childhood friends, and nobody else had the authority to stop him.
Dutch was a gregarious child, who loved to play hide and seek in the massive palace. She never liked the dresses her parents gave her to wear though which restricted her movement and would frequently tear as she crawled in and out of hiding places. She developed a habit of wriggling out of them and walking naked around the palace grounds. Because she was so good at sneaking about, this would sometimes go on for hours, her abandoned dress often being discovered before she was. This tendency was cute (if more than a little embarrassing to her parents) when she was small, but with puberty just around the corner, the behavior was rapidly approaching scandalous. Her parents tried harder to break the habit, but she just got better at sneaking around.
When she was eleven, there was a regime change, and while the new emperor didn't take any direct action against Dutch's parents, it was clear that they were not under his protection. The counts and barons under her father's rule incited a riot that ended in the murder of Dutch's parents being murdered. The eastern wing of the palace was burned, and when the remains of Dutch's dress was found in the wreckage, she was presumed dead as well. The emperor did nothing to punish those involved, but he could not, grant the seat to any of the counts or barons, who were not as subtle as they thought they were being in their plot to overthrow the Dutch's parents. The seat sits empty to this day.
As was often the case, Dutch was not wearing her dress when the palace burned. She snuck off, moving unseen through the streets. She found some ill-fitting boys clothes hanging from a clothes line, and she took them, more to hide her identity than her body. She swiped a small knife, which she used to cut off her long, inky-black hair so she could pose as a boy, then she stowed away on a ship headed for Tradebay City.
She lived on the streets for a few years before being lured into the home of a minor nobleman who turned out to be a necromancer. His original intention was to kill her for an experiment, but her quick tongue and skill at sneaking around made him reconsider, and she became his servant, tasked with running errands (only some of which involved stealing bodyparts) until a group of low-level adventurers discovered and killed him. Again, Dutch escaped, and this time she managed to grab a small rapier on her way out.
She was back to living on the streets. Older and bolder now, she joined a gang of local teens and quickly became their leader. She was known as "The Swordgirl", and under her leadership, the group of young pickpockets, thugs, and con artists upped their game, and Dutch amassed a small fortune. During this time, she liked to stand on a roof across the street from a third floor fencing instructor's studio, where she would watch and listen, and practice with her own sword while balancing on the apex of the tiled roof.
Eventually, an older boy in the group named Dommy got jealous of her position, and told the local constables that the group of teens plaguing the city was led by a half-breed girl named Dutch, and where she could be found. The constables raided the abandoned building that the group used as a hideout. Dommy came along to make sure she was there, then the constables kicked in the door. Dutch managed to sneak out the back, grabbing her sword and a bag of the group's savings, but Dommy was there waiting for her. As soon as she saw his face, she knew. She tried to get past him, but he attacked. She tried to thrust her sword out as she had practiced to scare him off, but he had already begun charging, and she had never fought an actual opponent before. She misjudged the distance, and the sword went right through Dommy's throat.
Again, Dutch decided it was time to leave. This time she had coin enough to pay for a cabin on a ship headed for Rydwyrna. She was more wary now. She got along pulling a series of cons and burglaries, but she began to long for a larger score. She would frequently look up at the tower that rose up from the arcane academy. What riches must be inside? She decided to find out.
She came up with a plan. During her time in the Byrthelm Republic, she had developed a cover identity. She was Ellena Winnifred Morghulish, assistant to an ambassador from the highland realm. She was also his niece. She had even used the scam on a silversmith to get him to produce a "replacement" for a "lost" signet ring, which she could use to substantiate her claims. She used this false identity to enter the arcane academy, saying that the new ambassador wished to visit for a tour of the archives, and that she was tasked with doing security checks ahead of his arrival. She was allowed to survey the archives, but a clerk was assigned to escort her. He was helpful and answered all her questions, but wouldn't let her out of his sight. Dutch began to worry that the young man would remember too many details about her, or would look too closely and notice a flaw in her disguise (he seemed to be rapidly developing a crush).
She looked over a large, ornate book written in a language she had never seen. It had an elaborate cover made of calf skin with audacious silver accents. There were jewels inset in it, as well as some sort of huge, pointed tooth. The clerk, whose name she wished she had paid attention to, was trying to impress her with some boring story about the wizard the book had belonged to, but she was distracted by trying to think of a way to create a diversion, when the word "treasure" snapped her back into attention. What had he said about treasure? Some thing about this book...
She looked back at the book as they moved on, noting its location and counting her steps so that she could map the room later. Could she get back in here under cover of night? She had noted runes on the frames of all the doors and windows she had seen, presumably part of some magical alarm system, or worse.
The clerk moved on to another stack of dusty books. Bodderick! that was his name! Or was it Borrick? Boring? No, that was just a word that described him. She had decided that seducing him would work, but didn't relish the thought. There must be some other way!
It was then that they heard the explosion. Heard and felt it. The ground shook, and a few of the more hastily-shelved books fell from the higher shelves. It kicked up so much dust that for a moment, she lost site of the man. She wouldn't get another chance like this. She ducked to the ground and made break for the book, counting down the steps to where she had left it. She hastily wrapped it in her cloak as she made her way out, escaping in the confusion.
He would look for her, she knew, but her disappearance would be ascribed to panic, and with all the dust and fallen books, by the time they were sure this one was gone, they would be unable to be sure that its disappearance had coincided with her visit.
That's what she hoped, anyway.
Talbert is the third son of a Haryson Macklutz, a moderately wealthy merchant who sells high-end furniture to Rydwyrna's elite. Haryson's two older brothers joined the family business, and he originally hoped that Talbert would do the same. When Talbert became a teenager, Haryson became less enamored with the idea.
Most teenagers go through an awkward phase as their bodies begin to change, but Talbert was more awkward than most. He grew tall and skinny, and had a tendency to trip over his own feet. By the time he turned 20, he had stopped growing, but the awkwardness remained.
Falling every once in a while is one thing, but Talbert's accidents tended to be... expensive. He would spill ink on the intricately-embroidered upholstery of the most expensive chair in the shop, or forget to latch the back of a cart delivering hundreds of GP worth of fine Tindari rugs, resulting in the whole shipment breaking loose and rolling across the marketplace. He once fell in the warehouse, and his flailing arms knocked over a newly-finished ironwood bookcase, intricately engraved with images of fey creatures. It fell, and took the other four in the set down with it, falling like dominoes. Each let out a horrible cracking sound as it snapped in two.
Haryson had to hide his relief when Talbert worked up the courage to tell him that he wanted to join the academy. Talbert didn't just want to sell expensive trade goods like his father and brothers. He wanted to train as an alchemist. He was fascinated with magical devices, and wanted to learn to craft his own. He had dozens of sketches for things like a portable doorway, or a contraption to redirect arrows back toward their shooter. Most were not actually possible to build, but he was enthusiastic nonetheless. Haryson couldn't wait to get his youngest son out of the house, and he immediately took him out to purchase goggles and a heavy, protective leather coat suitable for use in an alchemy lab.
The arcane academy was expensive, but it was a small price to pay compared to what it was costing to have Talbert around Haryson's wares.
So, Talbert joined the academy. Luckily, they don't just give new students access to the reagents. He had to take two years of classes before they would even let him into the alchemy lab. Talbert took enthusiastically to the book work, soaking up as much information as he could get his hands on. With access only to the common texts, there was only so much damage he could do.
After two years, he passed his basic exams, and was accepted to the alchemy program. Even then, it was another few months of lectures and demonstrations before the students were permitted to use any reagents themselves.
Finally, it was time. One day he entered the lab, and there was a standard reagent kit waiting. He went through some basic formulas. He learned to make ink, antitoxin, even a healing potion. When he started looking for more interesting formulas to try, he found that these kits were assembled specifically so that no combination of their reagents could produce anything more dangerous than a dizzying smoke.
The next semester, students were finally permitted to check out materials to work on their own formulas under supervision.
One day, he stayed after class, attempting to finish a formula that he was finding particularly tricky. The instructor had to leave for an appointment, but Talbert begged to stay a few more minutes to finish. The instructor looked at what he was working on. It was a relatively safe formula, so he conceded, and told Talbert to lock up when he was done.
Talbert finally finished his formula, then realized that he had been left alone with access to all of the reagents in the lab. He cautiously set up a fire suppression hood, then pulled out some of the reagents that he had been dying to experiment with, and pulled one of the advanced formula books off the shelf. He completed two advanced formulas with relative ease, then began to set up for a third.
He was distracted, wondering why these were considered advanced formulas, when he bumped one of the vials with his elbow, spilling it over the lab table. He cursed and reached for a rag to clean up the mess, and another vial fell over. The table's surface began to smoke, and then a hole started to open up as the potent mixture burned through it.
He had accidentally created a powerful acid, one ate through even the chemical-resistant tables in the alchemy lab. He was panicked, and trying to remember whether the fire suppressant in the suppression hood could neutralize an acid while the hole got bigger. The hole continued to expand until the rack of reagents he had laid out fell through it. Glass broke, and half a dozen advanced reagents mixed together. Only now did it occur to Talbert that that the reason these reagents were considered advanced wasn't because they were more difficult to use, but because they were so dangerous if used incorrectly.
Talbert was momentarily blinded by a bright, silver-colored flame from below the table. This was a disaster, but at least he knew what to do about fire. He flailed about for a moment before his hand found the chain hanging from the suppression hood. He gave it a firm tug, and the suppression agent flowed out over the flame. If he was actually in the advanced class, he would have known what would happen next.
The suppression agent was a special mixture that could put out any type of flame, but for particularly aggressive flames like the silver one before him, this could only be done by allowing one of the components of the mixture to explode, rapidly removing all fuel from the area. If this had been a small spill, it might only have destroyed the surrounding tables. This was not a small spill.
The explosion shook the ground and brought down a large portion of the roof. Talbert was thrown backward and out through the darkened window of the lab. It would have been lethal if not for the advanced healing potion he made, the fumes of which had been mixed with the air he was breathing by the heat of the fire.
He blacked out for a moment, but when he came to, he saw the destruction, and he ran.
He was headed for the gates, planning to flee the academy and never return. He turned briefly to glance behind him, and he ran into something. The next thing he knew, he was again sprawled on the ground, but this time he wasn't alone. He turned to see what he had hit, and saw a beautiful elven girl with strawberry-colored hair ending just above her shoulders. No, the ears were too short, she must be a half-elf.
Then he looked down and saw the book splayed out between them. He recognized the script there. It was a dead language that he had studied, but he'd never seen a text like this one. He instantly forgot his situation as he began to read part of the passage aloud.
The girl sat up and looked back at him in surprise, then down at the book. The snatched it up and wrapped it back up in her cloak. She got quickly to her feet and poised herself to run, when she turned back to Talbert. He had been reading from the book. She couldn't make any sense of it herself, and would need help deciphering its secrets.
She wrapped her long, slender fingers around Talbert's bony wrist. Her touch was cool against his skin. He looked up, and her pale green eyes met his dark blue ones. No words were spoken, but he knew he had to come with her. He had to know what was in that book.
He stood, nearly pulling her slender frame back to the ground on top of him. They ran out of the gates and down the street.
She pull him around a corner, into a narrow alleyway. She approached the back door of a closed shop and did... something to the lock. The door clicked open, and she grabbed him by the collar and pulled him inside. She left him there and went to check the other door to the shops's sparse back room. Daylight poured in from the street through the big window in the shop's front, but she didn't seem to see anyone inside. She clicked the lock shut all the same, and whispered across the small room to him, Keep a lookout.
Talbert pushed the door mostly closed, leaving only a crack to peek out. He wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for, but imagined he would know it if he saw it.
It was quiet, and as he looked out, focussed on the street, after a moment it occurred to him that she might have slipped out of the room another way, leaving him behind. He turned to look, only to get an eyeful of bare flesh. She had turned her back to him and stripped off the green and gold courtier's outfit she had been wearing. She was just now shrugging on a dark, form-fitting tunic.
His eyes snapped back to the street. He hoped she hadn't noticed him looking, but the blood rushing to his face was sure to give him away. Only a moment later, she was again fully dressed, looking like a different person as she released the knot of long, black hair that had replaced the red, and let it cascade like water down her back.
She shoved the book into his hands and told him to hide it under his coat. She then reversed her cloak, turning it from a velvety forest green to a drab black, and draped it over his shoulders. She slipped a narrow tricorn hat from a hook by the door where it had been left, and pulled it low over his face.
She stepped back and looked him up and down disapprovingly, then stepped close again and pulled the hat even lower, nearly blocking his vision. It will have to do, come on. She led him hurriedly back out the door and onto the street, then slowed her pace by half, blending into the crowd.
They walked briefly back in the direction they had come before turning away onto a larger thoroughfare. She shoved him ahead, and glared daggers at him when he tried to look behind them. Eyes forward! she whispered. They took a turn into a crowded market, and she pulled him to a stop in front of a fruit vendor. She lifted a large green apple and made a show of inspecting it. She put it back and picked up another, sneaking a look back the way they had come. She tossed a coin to the man in the straw hat behind the table, then took the apple and continued on.
She led him through a few more turns, and up the back stairs into a seedy inn. Pulling him into one of the rooms, she peeked through a moth-eaten hole in the curtain, down to the alley they had just passed though. After a moment, she seemed satisfied that they had not been followed. You can call me Dutch. What's your name? she asked, as she tossed the apple to him.
He fumbled with it for a moment before dropping it to the floor. As he reached down to pick it up, he felt the mass of the book under his coat, and had to bend awkwardly to reach it. When he finally spoke, his reply came out sounding more like a question than an answer.
Talbert?
Over the next several weeks, Talbert never left that room. He spent every waking hour studying the book, and when he wasn't awake, its strange symbols danced in his dreams. He couldn't make any sense of most of it, but he was astonished to find that, interspersed with the scribblings in the strange dead language, the book was full of arcane writing. They were spells! Dozens, maybe hundreds of them!
The method used to write them was truly ancient (the book must have been at least a thousand years old), and most were far beyond his comprehension. As the weeks went by, however, the notes began to fill the margins, often overflowing onto additional sheets of parchment tucked between the pages, and some of the writings began to make sense.
As he read the arcane writings, he could feel the book burn with arcane power. The jewels and crystals embedded in the cover must make the book itself act as an arcane focus!
During this time, Dutch was climbing the walls, sometimes literally. Sometimes she would leave, returning minutes later (or were they hours, or days? Talbert was so engrossed that he couldn't always be sure) with bread and stew, or a leg of mutton from below. Sometimes there was fruit from the market. Other times she would fetch supplies so that Talbert's research could continue. Her demeanor dripped with impatience, but Talbert remained oblivious. He could never figure out what was going on inside a woman's head when he gave it his full attention, and these days, he didn't have any attention to spare.
On several occasions, Dutch entered to find the room dark. Talbert's head was resting on the table, and the candles had burned down to nothing. One night she walked in with fresh candles, expecting the room to be dark, but it wasn't. Talbert was there, reading and taking notes in a brightly-lit room. She looked at the candlestick on the desk, and the candle was gone as expected, replaced by streams of dripping wax and a tiny curl of darkened wick, but the stick still shed light. If anything, it was brighter than before.
Other times, she discovered that the sheets on the bed had changed from dingy white to day-glow green, or that the room smelled strangely of honeysuckle and sawdust, or she would bite into a leftover heel of bread only to find that it tasted exactly like saltwater taffy. On one occasion, she found a dark burn in the middle of the floor, where a fire had apparently been set and then hastily extinguished. She didn't ask about it, but a few days later, she thought it had happened again when she approached the room and saw thick, white smoke leaking from under the door.
She covered her nose and mouth and burst inside, looking first for the book, then intending maybe to look for Talbert. She couldn't see a thing, but the smoke didn't burn her eyes the way smoke usually did. It was more like a thick mist. At the sound of the door opening, it began to rapidly disperse, revealing Talbert. He was sitting there looking around curiously, the book open to a page covered with arcane text. She just glared at him, then left in a huff, slamming the door behind her.
She didn't come back for four days after that, leaving Talbert to subsist on the stale bread crusts and bits of dried meat left on the bones of the previous days' meals. When she finally returned, she was startled by the screech of an owl that was perched on the rack by the door. She jumped, slipping a dagger into her hand as the bowl of thick stew she carried clattered to the floor.
Then, seeing the white-faced owl staring at her with its dark eyes, she turned back to Talbert. Enough! she exclaimed. What have you found about the treasure?!
Dutch's pressure on Talbert to find the treasure that she heard is talked about in the book, causes him no end of stress, especially because there is in fact a map of the continent of Iewiuf folded into a flap of the back cover of the giant tome. Unfortunately the map is completely devoid of markings, except topography. There are many other sketches and drawings here and there throughout the book but none of them are maps. Some are of objects, orbs, a staff, a ring with a dragon's head and two rubies for eyes, and so on, assortments of things, but very few of the words are discernible to Talbert. Then one day, in a groggy haze, ill fed because he's not had the courage to go to the common room and get his own food, the map of Iewiuf unfolded next to the massive tome, Talbert turns to a page that has a profile sketch of a dragon's skull. The sketch marks several points within the skull that appear to be notations on pressure points, like those areas a monk uses to stun their foes. Looking at the sketch, and then to the map of Iewiuf, he notices a strange resemblance. Good gods! The continent of Iewiuf looks very much like a dragon's head in profile, with Racamere as the eye socket, the bay of The Shallows as the mouth... No, it can't be... Talbert quickly scrambles for a piece of thin vellum, and a hunk of charcoal pencil. He hastily redraws the dragon skull on the velum marking the pressure points and then lays the vellum over the map of Iewiuf. Not pressure points... points of power! That's the word, power, or is it both pressure and power? A point where the planes converge, and the right power applied can release the pressure pushing on the veil between worlds... If every dot on the map is a place that this ancient people regarded as sacred, no doubt there would be some remnants of their culture buried there... The closest sight is in the heart of the Mourning Forest. Ugh! That forest has an ill reputation; the wailing reeds fill the woods with their agonizing call, like that of women in anguish, women screaming in pain... Talbert wanted to study in peace and quiet, not go gallivanting around the continent in search of ancient cultures, but the draw of the power within the book is strong. Already he's unlocked magic beyond what alchemy had ever opened to him, spells, reproducible magic. Maybe each of these sites would hold more clues, more power, and yes, treasure as well... which would finally appease Dutch. What to share with her though? Knowledge is power, Talbert always knew that. Perhaps better that he tells her he found something, but not reveal the full secret?
Treasure? Talbert thought to himself, I don't even know how to translate the word, and I don't think I'd know it if I saw it in here. Treasure, gold, cache, hoard, trove, stash... He mentally listed off another dozen synonyms, none of which he had ever encountered a word for in this strange language. He could have read right over it, and only seen another untranslatable word. What I need is another source. Something to add context so that I can figure out more of this language.
Well? Dutch broke in. Talbert had been sitting there looking blankly at her for almost a minute.
After another moment, he began frantically flipping through pages. The map... the skull... something about the forest? If there was more information to be found... As he flipped through the pages, suddenly there it was. He stood and grabbed the crinkled map of Iewiuf, spreading it over the table and comparing it to the drawing of the skull.
There. He planted his finger on the map, indicating the Mourning Forest. The have to go there.
Dutch strode over to look at the map. With Talbert standing in front of his chair, she had to stand awkwardly close. He could smell the scent of her hair, and felt her hip brush up against him as she leaned in to inspect the map. He began to sweat, and was suddenly painfully aware that he hadn't bathed since he secluded himself in this room, weeks earlier. There was still soot in his hair from the explosion, and he must smell atrocious. He tried to take a step back, but with the chair right behind him, he stumbled and fell into it.
Dutch's eyes darted over to Talbert as he toppled clumsily back into the seat he had inhabited all these weeks. She stared at him probingly for a moment that seemed to stretch on into eternity. Talbert stared back, and he managed to crack a nervous, lopsided smile.
Dutch stood up straight again without breaking eye contact. Fine. She finally said, looking down at him. Gather your things and get some rest. I want to head out before first light. She turned on her heel and walked out, sidestepping the spilled stew that was already seeping into the floorboards. She paused for only a beat to look at the bird, narrowing her eyes crossly before she slipped through the door.
When Dutch was gone, the bird spread its wings and glid down to the floor, plucking the largest piece of meat from the spilled stew with its beak. Talbert just sat there. She hadn't given him much time to prepare...
Talbert went downstairs to get a meal from the common room and arrange a bath. That night, he actually slept in the small room's smaller bed. Though he hadn't given it any thought, Dutch must have purchased another room for herself. That or she never slept, which was a possibility. He had heard that elves didn't sleep, and he had noticed the points of her ears, but he didn't think they weren't long enough for her to be a full-blooded elf.
The book's strange symbols were still in his dreams, but now they wrapped themselves into tight helices that rose into the sky. He was walking through a forest of them, and the breeze made low humming noise as it passed.
As he trekked deeper, the strange runic trees got larger and closer together, and the hum got higher, sounding like a massive groan. He fought his way through, sometimes having to squeeze between the symbols that made up adjacent trees. Their serifs had begun to sharpen and bend outward, becoming jagged thorns. The groaning now sounded like thousands of voiced yelling angrily in the distance, but Talbert couldn't make out any words.
Then there was no space to walk between the trees, and he had to climb to find a path through. His skin was raged from the thorns, and the wind had become a deafening scream in his ears. He could see a clearing up ahead. He continued until he reached the edge, and he looked out into the dark nothingness.
Something stirred below, and he saw the skull from the book rising toward him. It was immense. The skull itself stood taller than the third story of his father's warehouse, and he couldn't even fathom how large the rest of the creature at the end of that bony neck that rose out of the void must be. The skull came level with him, its empty eye socket seeming to stare at him for a long moment. Then it pulled back and turned to face him. It's terrible maw opened, revealing rows upon rows of pointed teeth. It came toward him, and just as the massive jaw snapped shut, his body convulsed, and he was sitting upright in bed.
The room was still dark, but he could make out the outline of a figure in front of him in the diffuse light that seeped through the curtain from the lanterns on the street below. Good, you're up. Dutch's voice spoke softly in the quiet room. He was startled when out of the darkness, he was struck in the chest by the weight of something tough, but compliant. It was only his long coat, folded over. Let's get going.
Dutch entered Talbert's room silently. She had left him the key, but locks hadn't been much of an impediment to her for some time. She looked about the dark room, seeing it in a dull monochrome. Talbert was in the bed, and his long protective coat lay folded on the desk, next to the tome he had spent all these weeks studying. His boots were at the foot of the bed, but the rest of his clothes were nowhere to be seen, so presumably he was sleeping in them. She was about to wake him when he sat up with a start. He looked in her direction, but couldn't seem to focus on anything specific. Humans have terrible night vision.
Good, you're up. She said, tossing his coat to him. He couldn't see it coming in the dark room, and failed to catch it, instead letting it smack into his chest. Dutch rolled her eyes. Let's get going.
As Tabert stepped groggily out of bed and fumbled to find his coat's arm holes in the dark, Dutch stepped to the window and pulled the curtain open. Faint light poured in from the lanterns below and the moon above, sweeping a ribbon of color through Dutch's black-and-white vision. Not that the room had much color to be seen, but she could now see that the stain of the spilt stew was gone from the floor.
I got you something. She said, as Talbert finally found the right hole and finished donning his coat. She held up a small, boxy object that glinted in the light by the window. It was like a little metal box, rounded on the back side, with a glass front. Talbert walked over and took it, looking in through the glass side. There was a wick and a small oil reservoir. It was a lantern.
That glowing thing you did is a good trick, Dutch continued, but out there, there will be times when you'll need to be able to move about unseen. When you're fighting at night, a torch might as well be a big "shoot me" sign. This shines light only where you want it, so that you can see without being seen. It makes the light go farther, too. Not sure how that part works.
Mirrors. Talbert interrupted, watching the way the light glinted off the inside. The back must be shaped that way to redirect light forward, adding to what's already shining that way.
Whatever. These little ones are made for miners and the like. They don't hold much oil, maybe enough to burn for an hour, but I figured if you could make the wick glow like you did with the candlestick, you wouldn't need any oil.
Talbert retrieved the book from the table and held it by the window, flipping through the pages to find the light spell. He spoke the arcane words, and felt a tingling in his fingers where he grasped the book. As he held the tiny lantern, looking in through the open glass cover, he touched the wick and it flared to life, brighter than he expected. Of course, it was brighter. He shut his eyes against the light and turned his head away, then blinked, momentarily blinded. That was REALLY smart...
Dutch had to try to suppress a laugh as Talbert flashed the light in his own eyes. She didn't try very hard. The laugh had a sweetness to it though. Talbert had received much crueler laughter for much less, and he couldn't help but join in a little himself. Glad I didn't buy you that crossbow I had my eye on. Dutch said, though a giggle. If I do, I'll have to remember to write "point away from face" across the front.
Empty . . . . Silent . . . . Cold . . . . Dark . . . .
Orwyll couldn't move. He couldn't speak. There was nothing to hear, and the pain of it drove spikes into his head. Not even the thunder of his heartbeat could pierce the terrible quiet . . . . Yet even his heart was stilled, in this place.
The binding ice was in motion, however. Crystal-clear and harder than the mountain-bones of home, it crushed the lanky man into a fetal ball as he careened through the void. He could feel its razored edges slicing his skin as its glacial plates shifted along their courses. A winding river of pain pressed against him -- the right shoulder, his left side from hip to breastbone, the fragile tendons behind the left knee. The flesh was giving way beneath the maddening embrace. Had his blood been running, it would have frozen straightaway, only to pull the wounds open again as the rime-stream kept about its path.
And the cold! Oh, gods -- the cold. Everywhere the scalpel-fine frost cut him, Orwyll could sense the chill that sliced through the whole of his body. The blades of his gelid prison would have severed him into scores of scattered bits had the arctic shell not held so tightly. And if there had been room to move his lungs, he still could not have screamed through the icy clutch on his inward parts.
Yet through these horrors, the highlander was still aware. No point of reference was to be had in the forbidding black, but something was pulling him through this nowhere -- but to what end? . . . . And then Orwyll remembered what he had chosen to forget: and the stabbing silence and the flaying ice and the spearing cold all redoubled. Him.
His mind reeled in terror. Nonononononononoooo! Don't go back! I don't want to see anymore! No! The unheard screams echoed off the inner curves of Orwyll's skull, rebounding and amplifying as his uttermost certainty grew. His curse, his foe, his menacing shadow was drawing him near once more.
The impossible speed of his imprisoned passage intensified, and Orwyll became aware of two new sensations. First, a subsonic, rhythmic throbbing began to course through him. So deep was its pulse that it threatened to shatter his frozen bones within the sack of meat they inhabited. Its power increased along with his flight: the farther -- the closer -- he got, the stronger it became. He was near, nearer than ever before.
And second, in this place of shadows devouring shadows, Orwyll could see. This had never happened before, and the prospect frightened him all the more. The light -- light!!? -- was the blue-white of lightning through heavy clouds on storm-swept peaks, but it had to come from hundreds, thousands of leagues distant to be so weak and pallid. Yet it was sufficient to provide him with a new tableau of horror:
Silhouetted against the starless void, Orwyll could see the tiniest curvature of a perfect sphere of black so pitch it ate away at the darkness in which it hovered. And Orwyll looked. And the black looked back. Yes, he knew. Yes, He knew. Impossibly, tears started beneath the icy lenses over Orwyll's eyes.
All at once, his speeding path was arrested. And then he was flung rightward while his stomach, guts, heart, and breath tried to stay behind. The lurch seemed fit to pulverize him to soup in a glazed jar, but, to his dismay, Orwyll endured a while longer. This new motion made him feel somewhat like a bay leaf riding the water's swirl in a stirred pot; he knew he was spiraling downward, inexorably approaching what would consume him, consume everything.
Those fresh tears began to freeze, clouding his sight against his frigid helm. Despite the hope that dawned within him that he might be spared the grotesqueries in that hundredth part of his vision, Orwyll knew he was to be shown. For what he thought was a flawless sphere of night was filled with a liquid roiling, mutating its edges in patterns of gibbering insanity, vistas of scenes and things so vile they could never be described -- the words did not exist to express them. More tears.
Then -- the voice.
It is good your heart quails, mortal. I shall drink the cup of your tears, and you shall know that all you ever may be will be Mine to feast upon. Too long you have hidden My might from view, secreted away in your lonely tents and caves. She is coming, and her slaves are already at work among your pitiful peoples. You have not seen the barest hint of the sufferings I shall grant you, should She not be stopped. You shall know them; you shall feed their corpses to Me; you shall serve Me!!! Go, feeble one -- your path shall be made clear.
Orwyll was flung away through space once more, his mind straining against the recall of these sights, riven anew by the ice and chill . . . . And for the first time, he thought he could hear himself screaming . . . . .
----------
Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh!
The ice-rimed blankets snapped and crackled as Orwyll woke from his oracle of madness, sitting bolt upright with the agonized cry still upon his lips. The fire in the tent's center blazed merrily, sparks and smoke wafting out the open flap above. A foggy haze enveloped the youngish man as the fire's great heat sublimated his icy glaze straight to vapor, but it was of little note as Orwyll spotted the tracings of blood on his long-sleeved tunic -- tracings that matched his fresh nightmare pains, from heartbeats ago.
His blood rushing in his ears, ragged breaths scraping through his throat and lungs, Orwyll never heard his attacker's approach.
Thwack!
Gods be damned, boy! What fresh madness is this?!
Cradling the rising knot on the back of his head, Orwyll turned to peer up at Declan through bloodshot eyes. Pushing on the palleted floor with his right palm, the young man rolled onto his side and drew his feet under him, wincing at the bite behind his knee. As he stood, Declan muttered another oath, and snatched up the medicine bag beside the tent entrance.
This again, eh? First o' yuir kind t' ever bleed from the dreams, lad. Off wit' 'at shirt, and ye'll be tended.
Orwyll shed his tunic, this time with no sound of discomfort. He saw the apologetic look in old Declan's eyes, and how it shifted to shock as the younger man loosened his trousers. Standing just in his underclothes, blood flowed freely from the whisper-thin slashes across Orwyll's body. Some of the crimson rivulets caught on the crisscrossing scars that formed a strange hatchwork over his thin frame, running into stair-steps of red anguish.
The grizzled old healer dipped a clean cloth into the fire-warmed kettle of water and began to wipe away the blood with practiced movements. With his free hand, Declan broke open a jar of salve and traced the fresh cuts with the sticky styptic, following behind the pinking rag. His brow was furrowed with concern and doubt, pinching his weather-beaten face into a new expression made almost funny by the odd way his whitening grey hair swarmed out from his scalp and chin. Once the wounds were closed, Declan wrapped them deftly and then put away his kit. Then he took a seat beside the fire, kettle, and stewpot, and waited.
Moving slowly, Orwyll grasped the tunic and trousers up from the floor, and began to inspect them. He rolled the bundled clothes over in his hands several times, studying their hole and tears and the pervasive rusty stains that marked the accrual of his scars.
Orwyll staggered over to the entry and moved into the damp evening chill, but returned swiftly, now empty-handed. With movements more fitting a man thrice his age, he doddered over to the wicker chest that held his personal belongings. Straining with the effort, Orwyll lifted it open and began to pull out travel wear, bags, and bundles, casting them into an unceremonious heap at his feet.
An' where are you goin', ye daft goat? It's the middle o' th' night, fer starters, an' yuir not t' leave th' mountain fer finishers! An' not a word ta me, eh?! Declan's outcry was met with only the stuttering clatter of Orwyll's un-sorting. After a few moments, the aging healer roared in frustration: Fine then, ye ingrate! Go! An' fall offa cliff as ye get oot!
Orwyll wrapped himself in his heaviest clothes and a thick cloak, heaving his haphazardly packed bag to his shoulders. The youth hefted his twisted, lightning-blackened staff and stepped into his wool-lined boots.
Orwyll looked back to the man that had trained, treated, fed, and supported him for the last six years. I can't stay. I go t' th' council.
Orwyll never noticed the silver-blue plume of wisping energy that trailed from the scrape on the back of his head as he trudged down the broad trail from Declan's tent. The starstuff rose behind him like a banner-ribbon, dozens of feet into the darkening sky, marking his passage for anyone who was watching. He did notice, though, when the field of his vision took on an azure tinge, and he knew that he'd make a strange sight by the time he reached the clustered elders' tents at the mountain's foot. There was no point in trying to bat away the mystic haze -- no matter how he waved at it, it clung to his head like a perpetual fog and only dissipated in its own time. The strange emanations had first marked him as star-darkened six years ago, and cost him his clan name and the liberty to choose his own way in life. Yet here he was, striding with purpose toward a reckoning sure to cause upset within the gathering of clan leaders, entirely unsure of what to say or do.
Six years I've been stuck on that rock, barely able to feed myself, trapped by custom and this . . . curse. Supposed to be a keeper of knowledge and a power to guide the clans in strange times, but I've been of little use to anyone over the years. How do I convince them to let me go? Do they even care how I've suffered? What has Declan told them? . . . . I can choose one mistake or another -- break the tradition that keeps me like a neglected dog on that little hill, or stay and go mad with the visions . . . . This will be great fun.
After a few hours' walk, Orwyll strode into the ring of tents surrounding the council fire. No torches glowed within the elders' tents, and the telltales of discussion and revelry lay scattered about -- empty wineskins and broken drinking horns were piled next to the seating-stones, and the tramp of booted feet has scuffed a wild circle about the fire's base. The mingled scents of scorched beef, mutton, and goat rose from the discarded bones thrown into the piled embers before him.
Orwyll stopped in his tracks, hunched over and leaning on his blackened staff. He made no sound save the quiet rattle of his breath, and waited. He could hear the noise of revelry from the outskirts of the encampment -- raucous laughter and the clatter of some brawl or another, the shouts of victory and loss as dice were thrown, a cluster of voices rising in song.
After a few minutes, the guard on duty emerged from the shadows to the east, and the burly warrior hustled toward him. Orwyll never stirred as the man approached, and no word was given as the wandering sentry grasped at the young man's left arm. Neither man was prepared for what came next.
Orwyll felt a surge of something well up from beneath his breastbone -- something vicious, and violent, and wrong. What looked like a pair of taloned purple-black hands skittered down from his shoulder and leapt onto the guardsman's arm, and plunged into the thews of that grasping arm. There was a hissing crackle of power, and the watchman gave a ululating cry of pain as he was thrown away from Orwyll to fall to one knee, cradling his arm. What looked like days-old bruises writhed over his flesh, and the warrior's breath came in ragged gasps.
The scream was enough to wake some of the clansfolk nearby, but Orwyll's voice suddenly thundered into the restful night, shattering whatever calm had been. Elders!!! Rise from your full bellies and stuporous drink! Come and judge the word of the Stardark! Terror and change have come upon you, and your wisdom will be tested this night! Rise!!! Prove yourselves worthy of the clans you lead, for I, Orwyll of the Stardark, bring ill words to the highland people!
As fresh hue and cry rose from the gathered tents, Orwyll, moving with no volition of his own, it seemed, scribed a circle about him in the loose black earth with the end of his gnarled staff. He tried to draw himself to his full height, but only managed to pull himself a few scant inches taller than his customary stoop. The muscles in his back and shoulders twinged at the effort, but he propped himself upon the staff so that he could at least meet the eyes of the gathering people without craning his neck upward.
In varying states of undress and sobriety, the elders and their wives emerged into the council ring, rubbing sleep from their eyes and belching from stirred-up stomachs. In a few short moments, Orwyll found himself the focus of a multitude of outraged glares and muttered curses. He made no move from his hastily-drawn circle, and uttered no more words as wakefulness crept upon them.
Old Mulaghy broke the awkward silence by sliding his softened posterior onto his appointed stone, and the whitebeard waved his axe-shortened stump of an arm about the circle, gesturing for his peers to take their places. As the nine other elders took their seats, Mulaghy thumped his own staff thrice upon the ground and addressed the assembly.
Orwyll, Clanless, Star-darkened -- ye stand judged by yuir deeds. Ye ha' no place here at the council fire, yet ye call us t' be worthy o' th' clans gathered. Ye're not to leave yuir place upon th' mountain except as we call upon ye, and no such word has been given! Ye know the penalty for leaving yuir place, and still ye are here. What words, then, have ye, child of the shadow beyond? Our judgment'll be given after ye've spoken. A heavy pause. 'N' speak well, lad, for these words may be yuir last.
A rumble of agreement tumbled around the circle, echoed back by the clansfolk stirred by Orwyll's pronouncement.
It seemed that whatever force had compelled Orwyll's strong words had vanished, for no reply came to his mind. Grasping at the gnashing memories of his vision, the young man tried to speak, and felt his typical clumsiness seize him instead. What words he found came in a jumble, and the jumble became a torrent of nonsense -- just as Orwyll had feared.
Just don't look up! Don't look up! The things that are out there -- the thing, the One! It's so dark in the cold . . . the ice that grabs you and keeps you safe from the shadows . . . . But it bleeds ye all the same! No escape from it -- from Him! An' He's so HUNGRY. Gnaw the marrow from yuir bones -- all o' us! A mountain o' highlander corpses, meat an' gristle gone down that black gullet, every bone shattered and hollow for His hunger . . . till He swallows that mass o' dead, too, and the hills we call home!
I saw Him, yes! But I didn't want to! So dark it eats the shadows around it -- even the stars can't shine anymore. Ye feast on the flocks and herds, drain barrels of ale and horns of mead, but ye don't know what's ready to chew the graves of our fathers to nothing!! Ye dinnae ken the might of that . . . craving, . . . . And ye'd leave it to ruin me on that mountainside . . . .
The sky was broken before m' birth, and none o' ye saw. The star fell on me, made me like this, and ye pushed me up that rock so ye wouldn't see what it did. Only once have ye called me, and for what?! Two families lost in feud, and I set the shrouds 'pon 'em all! Gravedigger for the forsakers is all I am to ye! An' ye'd judge me for turnin' from the way?
Hahahahahaaaaaaa! What y'see not is comin'. Comin' t' ruin it all. Don't look at the signs! The wards are breaking, torn by things from Outside, things the Ancients put away before our world was new. If ye look, ye'll see, and it'll have ye; don't look, and ye'll lose everythin'.
The cold and the dark and the hunger are callin' me. Callin' me off the mountain, past yuir judgin' and cursin'. 'Cause worse still is clawin' its way back. 'N' if I don't feed Him the ones who serve Her, He'll tear me apart, and your holy mountain'll become the cairn of every child of the highlands. Y'must break the tradition of our fathers t' keep us all from dyin' forever. Y'must release me from this prison, t'stop the prison from breakin'. Even our ashes'll fade away if'n ye don't . . . . Nothing left, fools. Nothing!
Talbert stumbled on a loose stone. He had been shining his lantern too high, looking at the road ahead rather than paying attention to his footing. Why did we have to leave so early? he wondered once he had regained his balance. He tugged on the strap of his pack and hurried a few steps to catch up, this time keeping the light on his feet. He kept the light a bit too low though, and nearly ran headlong into Dutch.
Dutch whirled, hearing the quickened footsteps advancing too quickly behind her. One hand shot up to Talbert's shoulder, stopping him up short. The other had already instinctively wrapped itself tightly around the hilt of the dagger at her belt, and she had taken up a stance that would allow her to divert the force of a larger, stronger attacker.
Seeing the surprise in Talbert's eyes deep-blue eyes, dulled to grey by her darkvision, she softened her grip. Whoa, where's the fire? she asked, her tone a disarmingly gentle tease.
Sorry. Talbert said sheepishly. He couldn't see her in the darkness, but he dropped his eyes to avoid meeting hers all the same, and nervously adjusted his pack.
Take it slow. You need to practice navigating with that. She stepped past him, moving her blocking hand over his shoulder to pat him on the back. The sun will be up in another hour. Why don't you take the lead until then? She hoped a little confidence was all he needed. Either way, at least this way she could keep an eye on him, and with the road only going one way, he could only screw up the navigation so badly.
Talbert's lead was clumsy at first, but as he went on, he found that it was getting easier. I can do this! He was thinking to himself a while later, as he begun to pick up the pace. Only moments later, his light went out, the spell having run his course. It was then that he realized the sky had gone from black to blue. The sun was not yet anywhere to be seen, but morning had clearly begun, and the lantern was no longer necessary. Talbert shoved the cool metal device into his pocket and walked a little faster, hoping to stay far enough ahead that Dutch wouldn't notice him blushing.
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As the morning went on, they eventually began to pass other travelers nearing the end of their own journeys to Rydwyrna. By starting so early, they had assured that they were well ahead of any other travelers leaving the city that day. Those who were ahead of them, of course, had a full day's head start, so they spent most of the day walking in solitude, just Dutch, Talbert, and the owl.
I take it the bird is a permanent fixture on our little quest? They had been walking for hours in silence, and Dutch didn't bother to keep the frustration from her voice.
Talbert was oblivious as usual, lost in silent thought. He stopped and looked around for a moment before spotting the owl perched in a nearby tree. It had been following them all day. Dutch waited expectantly until, as if he had only just remembered that it existed, Talbert replied flatly. Oh. Yeah. He then continued moving down the road as if nothing had been said.
Dutch stood for a moment, clenching her teeth and fists, and looking around exasperatedly before jogging a few steps to catch up. She wanted to scream at him. Never in her life had it been this difficult to get a man to talk to her (she was much more accustomed to dealing with the opposite problem). She was bored. Does it have a name?
What?
Does it have a name? She repeated, fighting the urge to smack Talbert in the back of the head.
Does what have a name? Talbert asked absentmindedly, without bothering to turn around.
The BIRD! Does the bird have a name?
Oh. Talbert said lightly, still failing to notice the growing irritation in Dutch's voice. I haven't really thought about it.
They returned to walking in awkward silence. At least it was awkward for Dutch. Talbert didn't seem to notice. She decided to try a different tack. What does a well-educated owl say?
A what?
A well-educated owl. What does it say?
Why would an owl be--
It's a joke! Dutch interrupted.
Oh. Talbert said, then was silent a moment longer. Dutch was beginning to think he had gone back to ignoring her when he continued What's the owl's field of study?
A well-educated owl says "WHOM"!
After another moment of walking in silence, Talbert stopped and turned to Dutch. You did, he replies in a confused tone that says "what other answer could there be?"
Stopping to look at him, Dutch quirked an eyebrow. Huh?
You said the owl was well-educated, then you asked who said it was well-educated. "A well-educated owl, says whom?"
That's not-- She paused, trying to mentally untangle things before deciding it wasn't worth it. JUST NAME THE DAMN BIRD! she shouted, and stormed off down the road ahead of Talbert, no longer interested in talking to him.
Rounding a bend in the road, Dutch was surprised to see a wagon parked off to the side. There was no driver to be seen, but judging by the the horses' asses that were pointed right at her, it must have been headed in their direction. She stopped and held up her hand to Talbert, motioning for him to stay where he was, but he either didn't notice or didn't know what she was trying to tell him. When he tried to pass her, she grabbed his arm. Wait here, she whispered.
Why? he asked, not even attempting to match her lowered voice.
Dutch put her finger to her lips. Just wait here and be quiet. I'll see if it's safe.
Talbert didn't know why it wouldn't be safe, but he didn't argue.
Dutch approached the wagon cautiously, slipping the dagger from her belt and holding it in a reverse grip. This technique was good for defense, but would slow her down if she needed to throw the blade. Most importantly, this allowed her to keep the blade concealed. She had another dagger in an an ankle sheath, and a couple more small knives concealed on her. She could get to the one at the nape of her neck if she needed it, but unless she was captured or attacking an unsuspecting target, she'd be better off going for her rapier or her bow. The last one was in the hollowed-out sole of her left boot, and would only be useful if she had to give the others up.
She ran through scenarios in her head. If there was a single attacker, she'd want to get in close as fast as possible. If there were more, she might be able to take the closest one as a shield, otherwise she would have to take cover behind the wagon and go for her bow. If they have bows, will Talbert have the sense to take cover?
When she was ten feet from the wagon, she still hadn't seen anyone. She ducked down to approach unseen, took cover behind the wagon against the most likely sight lines among the trees, then poked her head over the edge to look down into the wagon.
The wagon carried a number of small barrels, mostly gallon-sized, and a few bags of grain. Looking around while keeping one eye on the tree line, she spotted a beat-up lute case shoved into the corner, but no signs of weapons. Doesn't mean anything. If it's bandits, the wagon will be stolen, and they'll have their weapons with them.
She made her way to the front of the wagon, checking on the state of the horses. If they needed to make an escape, quickly unhitching one could help put distance between them and any attacker.
Suddenly, there were footsteps. Someone was clomping their way noisily out of the bushes. The footsteps weren't fast, like someone charging, and whoever it was certainly wasn't trying to be stealthy. Perhaps this wasn't an attack. She decided that even if it was, it was better if she didn't look like she was preparing for one. She slipped the knife forward in her hand, its butt still facing outward. In this position, the blade was still hidden, but the knife was ready for throwing. It would be useless up close this way, but noisy movement and the nearby cover of the horses made close combat unlikely to be necessary.
A young man stepped out from behind a tree. He looked to be a few years younger than Dutch, and his eyes were on his crotch, where he was struggling to refasten his pants. If he's a bandit, he's really bad at his job.
As the boy looked up, Dutch forced a friendly smile to her face. Well met, fellow traveller! She called. She thrust her chest forward just a bit (not enough to be obvious about it) and raised her arm to pet the horse in a way that she knew would display the curvature of her hip. The boy seemed to be alone, and they could use a ride. Besides, the boy couldn't possibly be as bad a conversationalist as Talbert.
The boy stopped in his tracks, his hands frozen in place, still grasping his belt to keep his pants from falling down. It took him a moment to find words, and even then, only one managed to wrestle it's way out. Hi.
The boy just stood there clutching his belt, unsure what to do. Don't let me interrupt. She said, glancing briefly but pointedly down at his motionless hands. She affected a hint of a country twang that suggested that she had grown up on one of the farms in northern Berthelm, but that she didn't like to let it show. He turned to finish fastening his pants, and took a moment to tuck in his shirt before turning back around. The name's Irina Olstencliff.
Rando, the boy said, stomping clumsily through the remaining bushes that stood between him and the road, Rando Mawniquer. He offered a hand in greeting, but of all the places Dutch imagined that hand might recently have been, none of them made her particularly interested in shaking it. Besides, there was still the little matter of the knife she was trying not to show.
She turned to the horse, stroking its muzzle with a feigned affection that gave her an excuse not to notice Rando's outstretched hand. She waited until he became awkward enough to withdraw the hand before turning back to him, flipping her hair in a subtle flirtation to smooth-over his bruised ego. How far you headed?
Rando glanced to the contents of the cart. I'm carrying a shipment for my uncle, bound for the Wailing Banshee. I'm supposed to meet another trader there, and carry his goods right back. He seemed a little nervous, as if he wasn't really supposed to be talking about his uncle's business. You? The hope in his voice told her the next part wouldn't be difficult.
Up the new road, to Briarhill, she lied, effortlessly, then waited for him to offer her a ride as far as she actually wanted to go.
It was then that Talbert got bored of waiting, and strode up behind her. Everything ok?
Rando looked over, startled, then he did a poor job of keeping the disappointment from his face as she realized that "Irina" was traveling with another man.
Could his timing be ANY worse? Dutch wondered. She took the opportunity to re-sheath her dagger unnoticed as she turned to him. Rando Mawniquer, this is my cousin, Edwin.
Talbert. Talbert corrected, failing utterly to pick up on her subterfuge.
For a moment, she wished she was still holding the dagger. She put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed before he could tell the stranger his surname, and all about the treasure they were after. So, his name is "Edwin Talbert", not what I had in mind, but I can make it work if I can get him to keep his mouth shut. Glad I didn't say he was my brother... He doesn't need to hear your life story, Edwin.
That hurt! Dutch was digging her fingers into Talbert's shoulder. She kept talking to the stranger, but none of it made sense. They weren't cousins, and his name wasn't Edwin. Why was she lying? Whenever he tried to speak, she just squeezed harder, so it didn't take him long to stop trying.
After a few minutes more of this, it was agreed that the stranger, Rando, would give them a ride. Dutch had offered to ride up front with Rando, while "Edwin" would ride in the back. That suited Talbert just fine! It would give him more time to read. He had pointed to a place on the map, and now Dutch was expecting him to take her there. He knew it was somewhere in the Mourning Forest, but beyond that...
The wagon bounced over loose stones and ruts in the dirt as it worked its way back onto the travel-smoothed road. Talbert sat, leaning his back against one of the miniature casks, and pulled the leather-and-silver-bound tome from his pack. He flipped through the pages, searching for the skull diagram. There had to be more information... something that would give him some idea of what direction to go, or what to look for...
”I’ve heard enough… There’s going to be nothing left of you when we get done with you.” Othald, a young clan chief, newly risen to the position, nodded at two of his personal bodyguard and they trudged forward to grab Orwyll and put him out of his misery, as many thought should have been done oh so many years ago. As the warriors’ feet breached the circle traced in the dirt around him, a blast of tendrils composed of white, freezing light exploded out from his body, and threw the men back five paces onto the ground themselves. Undaunted, they both rose, and attempted to corral the mind-sick visionary again, and again were blasted back. The frostburn wounds on their skin caused them to look to Othald, who waved them off. ”Okay, you’ve clearly gained some power, and our attention. If you can speak coherently, we’ll listen.” Othald, outspoken as most young clan chiefs tend to be, beckoned the cursed and clanless Orwyll to speak plainly. Which, of course, Orwyll was incapable of.
His rants of thresholds, walls, barriers, power, dark, cold, claws, intelligence, order, chaos, wyrms, worms, and worse were all accompanied by his constant looking up at the stars, the moons, all four, even though Sylgja was new and dark. He spoke to the stars as though they were his audience. He whispered at times, unhearable, and at others screamed directly in the face of someone. Afterward he drooped exhausted, and that's when Mulaghy, white of beard, and long of wisdom, spoke again.
”The end of the world is it? You know how many twisted souls have warned of that same end before? How many have passed before you? How many have woken to a world still here?” He knew his words would fall on deaf ears, deaf or stopped up with whatever madness filled them. ”It’s time we had an end to your madness, Orwyll.” This time Mulaghy indicated for two of his men to grab the star darkened man. Yet his men ended up blasted back by the same cold, white light, only this time those in close proximity felt like they heard a voice say ”Off”. Mulaghy’s young wife, also his clan’s shaman, leaned over and whispered in his ear. He lifted his stump and called off his warriors, then said, ”Perhaps, Branagg, your niece should be consulted? She’s been given visions before, the closest thing we’ve had to a light-touched oracle in a generation.”
Branagg McDonaghy, stoic across the council fire, shook his head, his niece was in mourning, her husband’s death still weighed heavily on her. Yet, Branagg had always listened to his elders, and, likewise, wanted to see an end to the madness. ”Aye, Mulaghy.” Is all he said, then beckoned one of his unblooded boys to go and wake the girl, gently, as there were yet hours before dawn. When the lad returned moments later and sheepishly stood in front of his clan chief, unwilling or unable to speak, Branagg bellowed, ”What is it boy!?” To which the child related that Giveza was “with” someone, the child conveyed quickly that he meant “with” in the carnal sense of the word. Immediately Branagg stood and yelled, ”CAELBRASH!”
Moments later Caelbrash “Brash” McDonaghy, wearing naught but a loincloth, was hauled into the council circle and unceremoniously plopped in the dirt mere feet from Orwyll’s ring. Held there on his knees by seasoned warriors, half naked, he felt the cold sucking out any warmth that might be added by the fire. Brash looked up at the star darkened warlock and saw a man in pain, a man out of place, a man despised and forgotten. Giveza approached shortly thereafter, raven black hair disheveled, and fidgeting nervously with the hem of her hastily donned gown of azure wool. Branagg had little time to even address Brash’s breach of clan etiquette, because as soon as the dark-haired young beauty entered the ring of the firelight and saw Orwyll she screamed, a blood-curdling, nightmare scream, and fainted. Mulaghy’s wife was there to catch her, and she laid the girl down on a pile of furs nearby, after dismissing the clan chief who previously occupied them. Brash caught his chief’s knuckles across the mouth but spit back, ”You judge a crime you’ve committed?” Brash's growl rose just above a whisper, as he looked Branagg dead in the eyes, daring him to contradict him. The flame-haired warrior jerked his head in the direction of a lithe brunette perched near Branagg’s stone. Don't act like nobody knows about it. I’ve half a mind t’ console your wife over it!
Their momentary feud was interrupted by the rising of Giveza from the ground, one long finger, trembling, she pointed at Orwyll, and spoke but two words, ”Kill him.” First Mulaghy, then Branagg, then Othald, and eventually every other chief nodded their assent.
From his kneeling position, already being able to recognize the power of the aura around Orwyll, Caelbrash said, ”You’ll need to rope him if you want to get anything done. You keep trying to grab him and you’re going to end up short of warriors in a bloody quick hurry.”
”Shut yer yap, Brash. If’n I wanted your opinion, I’d give it to you.” Branagg followed up his command with another quick rap of his knuckles across the upstart’s mouth, causing Brash to spit a hunk of blood onto the dirt. His advice was sound, though, and ropes were thrown around the weak and all but helpless Orwyll by multiple veteran warriors. Dragging the shuffling soothsayer of doom out of the council circle and to Aldellion’s sacred tree, still marked by the lightning that struck it a hundred years previous, proved easy, though those with their hands on the ropes began to feel dreadful cold by the time they tied him to the trunk.
Brash watched as the chiefs’ men gathered stones for them, saw them stretch their shoulders and arms in preparation of the slow and punishing death that would follow, and his ire grew. The casual ease with which they took a life of someone of their own blood just because they couldn’t understand his visions, his demons, his foolish wisdom, sickened him. Is this what the ancestors favored? He couldn’t see it if it was. Mulaghy, old but strong, was, as clan rule dictated, the first to throw a stone, it sliced Orwyll’s cheek, bounced off the sacred tree, and fell inert into the dirt. ”Stop!” Brash yelled, which got him a fist across the eye. Growling he continued. ”I claim the right of judgment by combat on behalf of the star darkened.” Branagg looked at him like he’d just grown horns and leathery wings.
”The f’ck’n hell nonsense is this? You can’t claim combat judgment while you sit accused?”
Brash pushed against his captors, bringing himself to one knee, and then to a standing position, they didn’t stop him. ”Can’t I?” He looked Branagg smugly in his brown and amber eyes. ”None more fitting. Think on it, you’ll get a two for one judgment. If I lose, I’m dead, and you can go on with your little picnic,” he nodded his head at the clearly unaware warlock tied to the sacred tree. ”If I win, you’ll release Orwyll from his sentence, and me from mine.”
”To what end?!” Branagg yelled, shocked and appalled. ”You think winning a duel trial will somehow give you back your honor in the clan? You’re as sick in the head as he is.”
A few steps away Mulaghy’s shaman wife whispered in his ear. ”Perhaps there is a way for Brash to earn his honor back, provided he doesn’t die in the ring.” Brash and Branagg both looked at their clan elder with intrigue. ”Brash wants Orwyll’s life and freedom, Orwyll wants us to help him stop the end of the world,” Mulaghy chuckled, obviously believing very little of Orwyll’s lunatic rant. ”Let them do it together. If Caelbrash McDonaghy beats his opponent in the judgment ring, he can take Orwyll Stardark off the mountain and help him stop whatever cataclysm he’s foreseen. When they return to the clanhold let it be with proof that they’ve staved off this tragic end. Then, they will have earned their place of honor among us.”
Brash looked at Orwyll, mumbling to himself, blood trickling down his jawline to mingle with drool and drip on the ropes that bound him. Madness, no doubt, but madness in the world, off the mountain, out of the Highlands, away from the ever judging eyes of his supposed family. There were worse ways to live a life. ”Aye. Let it be so, blood for blood.” The impetuous life-lover spoke the words that bound him to the elder’s decision.
Later, as the sun rose over the distant peaks, and the first rays hit the sandy ground of the trial ring, Brash reached down and pulled a handful of dirt from the ground and rubbed it between his hands. With those Highland dirtied hands he picked up and slid on the leather-wrapped wooden shield, and gripped the hilt of his sword. His opponent, one of Othald’s tested warriors, gripped axe and dagger, swirling the haft of the axe around his hand with ease and grace. Brash rapped his sword on the boss of his shield and looked to the blueing sky. ”Ancestors, your will be done.” He whispered to whatever spirits hovered above the sacred ground, and then stepped inside the pebble marked fighting ring, taking one last glance at the mumbling man he was partially fighting for. A blackness crossed Orwyll’s eyes when he looked, and Brash felt a jolt of something pass through his chest at the look, but it was momentary and brief, and there was blood to be spilled. He could spare no more thoughts for Orwyll of the Stardark, now was the hour of Caelbrash McDonaghy, of blood and fate.
Brash and his opponent exchanged salutes, and Branagg called out: Begin!
In a swift rush, the clan's champion advanced toward Brash's right flank, dagger held in a reverse grip meant to bind or disarm. His axe was slung low, ready for an upward slash -- and it was a stance with which Brash was unfamiliar. Brash turned on the balls of his feet, keeping his shield in close to deflect the dagger, and his eyes focused on the battleaxe.
A quick sidestep from Othald's cousin gave Brash almost no time to react well to the assault that followed. The dagger flickered out, its point edging past his shield's rim, driving it to Brash's left. The force of it pulled his sword arm out of line for his counter, but not so the low-slung axehead. It swept up inside his guard, and the red-haired challenger narrowly backpedaled to avoid a wicked wound to his abdomen. And then, too late, did Brash realize why the axe was wielded so -- a narrow spike was worked into the top of the weapon's haft, and though the swing fell short of the mark, the tiniest adjustment turned the slash into a thrust, and that tiny point pierced skin and deflected off a rib near Brash's sternum. Only the overcompensation of his retreat kept the spike from penetrating a lung.
As Brash tried to bring his sword around in a short, sweeping cut at his enemy's elbow, Kieran's grip slid up the axe's handle near to halfway, and as he stepped out high, the side of the bit deflected the strike. But the dagger swept in across Brash's gut, drawing more blood. The crowd shouted approval, but immediately cried in surprise as Brash's shield trailed behind it, catching Kieran through the center of his mass and shoving him toward the circle's verge.
As Kieran bobbled his way back to balance, young McDonaghy pressed the attack, stabbing toward the axeman's right leg with swordpoint. The stuttering steps threw off the timing, however, and the blade merely scored the skin above Kieran's knee.
Again, Brash was taken off-guard as Kieran pushed off his shield with his knife arm, using the momentum to go into a backhanded spinning strike intended for the hollow beneath the swordsman's armpit. Brash recovered quickly, though, diverting the axeblade with his shield and managing even a rapid lateral chop that caught Kieran beneath the shoulder blade.
Othald's kinsman completed his spin before Brash could truly seize the opportunity of his foe's exposed back. Drawing the dagger and axe in close, Kieran offered Brash a nod of acknowledgment. He didn't expect me to last this long. Not sure that means he's got worse in store, or if he just thinks I'm that bad with the sword . . . .