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No one ever talked about the smell of teleportation.
The bards and legends always talked about flashes of blinding light, the rush of warmth or cold on the skin and even the sizzling sounds of raw arcane magic. But never, in all her years of hearing heroic and exotic stories, of which Sorala sought out as many as she dared, had one ever mentioned smell. Which was odd when you thought about it.
You experienced a flash of light every time you closed and opened your eyes. The sensation of heat or cold was taken for granted even if a warm fire after a winter’s breeze was a more mundane cause than the freezing cold between the stars. And what child had not encountered a loud noise in a dark room and felt surrounded by it? No, all of these were commonplace to the point of prosaic, unworthy of even the most casual passing remark.
But smell….even before Sorala opened her eyes, the white squire knew she was in a different world. Gone was that ever present, if rarely noticed, universe of scents that made up her mental and physical landscape. The resinous pitch of distant pine trees. The smoke of wood fires. The crisp, clear scent of a winter’s breeze fresh off a snowfield. They had been the uncelebrated background notes to her existence.
In their place was quite a different kaleidoscope, with an onset so rapid and jarring it made her head hurt. Tangy salt resting on her tongue. Wet sand and sodden wood. Exotic spices that made her stomach growl. Overripe fruit rotting on the vine. And over it all, the rank scent of verdant plant life. The smell of life, hot and wild.
Sorala opened her eyes. Then reclosed them. The sun overheard, which her entire life had been a rather wan thing near the horizon was suddenly an angry fiery orb directly overhead. Heat smote down on her like a blacksmith raining blows with a heated hammer. Sorala was already sweating, her woolen clothes sticking to her suddenly sodden skin. Squinting, she reopened her eyes. The distant skyline of Algidheart and the elaborate stone ring Lady Morgannan had housed the portal in were no more. In its place was an expanse of blue-white ice, glittering dazzlingly in the tropical sun. It was slightly wet underfoot and rocking gently as if she were standing on a massive ship in Glacier Lake, one of the mighty timber haulers bringing firewood for the city. To her surprise, as her eyes adjust to the glare, the Ulfen finds she is not entirely wrong.
She is standing at the center of an enormous ice floe in the middle of a busy harbor. Directly ahead of her, past the rolling ice and over the choppy ocean waves, she can see a port city, almost toy-like at this distance. Wooden wharves stick out into the water, behind which crouch stone and wooden warehouses, shops, homes and other buildings. Hills rise behind it, also dotted with structures of all sorts, mingled with tropical trees and brush. Ships of all sorts are tied up at the dockside, ranging from tiny whaleboats small enough to be rowed by a single man to immense ocean men of war that boggle the mind and eye.
The city is burning. Thick palls of smoke rise from raging fires, which are busily devouring whole districts. She is too far to make out little else but her imagination can fill in the rest. The screams of panicked people, the laughter and shouts of attacking soldiers. The smell of blood and smoke in the air. The howl of the hunting werewolf…..
”Sorala. So good of you to finally join us. Welcome to Port Peril.” A aristocratic voice drawled, dragging Sorala back to the here and now. The white squire jerked her eyes away from the burning city back to her immediate surroundings. Around her were the uneven tumbles of ice and snow that made up the surface of the surely magical iceberg. Some of it was heaped quite high, tall as a city wall, in a jumbled pile of natural-seeming ice blocks. At the base of such a cliff, only a few feet away, is a knot of humanity.
In the center, of course, is the owner of the voice. A voice Sorala knows all too well. Lady Elysia Morgannan. Heir to House Morgannan as fair and cruel as a winter blizzard. She was dressed in light blue, trimmed with startling white ermine fur. Blond hair, arranged in naturally appearing curls, tumbled down to her waist. Her clear, pale skin shone like fresh snow on a dangerous mountain peak. She was lounging at ease in a roughly hewn ‘throne’ made of solid ice. Such a seat would be painful after only a few minutes but Jadwiga had magical talents to eliminate any such petty discomforts.
Around her clustered a group of the obligatory servants, guards and assorted hangers-on. The heir to House Morgannan would not be allowed to be unattended, even in the middle of a battlefield. It was unthinkable, like asking when spring in Irrisen would come or when the fey would settle down and buy sensible shoes. Most would spend their entire lives as such, at constant beck and call from the flower of youth to the ruin of old age, and that was if they were lucky. If they were unlucky, Lady Elysia had many ways of making her displeasure known.
The Jadwiga noble had a delicate crystal glass in her hand, filled with blood red wine. At her side a servant held the rest of the bottle, ready to pour more at even the hint of her Mistress’s need.
”You have nearly missed all the fun, Sorala.” The noblewoman said easily, her ice-blue eyes fixed on the White Squire. ”I hope it was with good reason? The city has nearly already fallen, or so my captains assure me.” A purr of displeasure entered the cultured voice. Her mother, Lady Riina, was a harsh mistress but it took a very brave man indeed to report anything but good news to Elysia. Sorala wondered if anyone had dared to do so during this campaign.
”All is well from home, I trust?” The noblewoman asked, her attention wandering away from the White Squire to the icy landscape around them. When she spoke again her voice was distant, obviously addressed to herself and not the lowly squire or even lower servants. ”A stronghold built here could be useful. Carved out of the ice itself.” A task that would surely claim many lives but where were the lives of serfs? ”May be a useful way to strengthen our hold….”
She waves a manicured hand in negligent fashion. Instantly a servant steps forward and tops up the glass with red liquid, bright against the snowy backdrop. The Jadwiga noble takes a genteel sip and then goes on, ”I am told there is a convoy of ships, at anchor, that still resists us. It is one of the last knots of resistance in the city.” Another dainty wave indicates some area behind them, hidden by the towering crumble of ice. Sorala is not fooled by her gentle actions. The white squire had seen those delicate hands become steel talons, quite capable of removing an eye, or a heart, with bird-like speed.
”You are assigned to take care of it, squire. It is not an order I wish to give twice.”
A Jadwiga order if Sorala had ever heard one. Long on expectations and short of useful details. Was she being given troops or were they already in place? Was she in command or did she have to report to others? Was she supposed to hang or impale every resistor or were they taking prisoners? Parole? And who was this convoy? Civilians? Soldiers? Angels from another dimension? Gods, where to even start?
====
Eleven
====
Sorala squeezed her eyes tight, as if to block out the dizzying world. Gone from her view, like a campfire snuffed by a blizzard, were the magically lit braziers, the Jadwiga in their grotesque and ostentatious clothing, and the ornate old theatre, awash in warm colors evincing a setting late summer sun, a nod to a time before endless winter gripped the land. The threatre - and its inhabitants - had more in common to those distant lands Sorala has been learning of, places like Cheliax and Taldor, than of weathered wooden hovels of her home village and mutely painted fishing boats, its tans, whites, and greys blending into Irrisen’s snowscape as if they both had always been there, tied to each other like baby to its mother.
Alas, an eleven year-old girl’s willpower is no match for reality. The theatre’s crowd buzzed with anticipation, garbled conversation intruding upon Sorala’s willful isolation, the Jadwiga accent imperious and jabbing. Worse still, the smell. Perfume laid heavy in the air the girl imagined it a miasma, so thick Sorala’s eyes watered even while shut. The perfumes - Sorala would learn over the years - changed subtly over time, but the perfume’s base was always the same, an earthy and piny scent drawn from the sap of the great winteryews, mixed with glacier-water and supplemented with others fragrant infusions. The smell of the winteryew sap itself was not unpleasant, but dear gods Sorala grew to hate it none-the-less. It was, for all intents and purposes, the smell of her abduction.
====
Now
====
A Jadwiga order if she’d ever heard one. Filled with expectation, starved of guidance. Sorala’s mind tumbled, even as her face remained placid. It was always a dance, finding the perfect response, one that conveyed more than could be said, words often conveying disrespect - intentional or not - when spoken by a lessor to a Jadwiga. A couple of seconds ticked by, and Sorala took in Lady Elysia’s radiating impatience, the way one braces for a bitter gust of wind. Best to remind the Lady of her mother.
”I apologize for the delay in my arrival. I was attending to your mother,” Sorala replied, her face blank as the White Squire dipped into a deep and formal curtsy. ”Your mother is well, m’Lady, and she appreciates your concern for her well-being and continued health. She also trusts that things are going well, yes?”
Giving only a beat for the second implication to register - I serve your mother, not you - Sorala plowed forward. ”I am of course happy and eager to help our House attain further greatness, and revel in the opportunity to add to its illustrious history. I shall depart at once. I understand that you don’t wish to give orders twice, but if I may beg a couple of clarifications? They will be helpful in expressing your deft handling of the situation to Lady Morgannan. Who is in charge of the assault on the convoy? How many of our new subjects still hold out?”
The smell of Elysia’s perfume - this season accented with Vergian ice wine - assaulted Sorala, rising even above the unfamiliar smells of the tropical city around them. Sorala glanced over the servant refilling Elysia's wine, not bothering to take in any details. History as guidance, the man would be dead within the month.
====
Eleven
====
The musicians began warming up, and to her surprise, Sorala found their music pleasing. The girl sat and listened to the bone horns and gut strings work their magic, accompanied by hide drums slapped with vigor, the music building and growing more structured as the musicians geared up for their performance. The crowd quieted and Sorala could sense those rising around her. Opening her eyes, Sorala stood too, taking in the traditional fealty to Baba Yaga, a long, winding, and obsequious poem not unlike traditional Jadwiga-court speech, now that Sorala thought on it. Most of the crowd feigned observance, fidgets and sideways glances giving away any true lack of enthusiasm for the Queen of Witches. Turning her head slightly, Sorala looked to the Morgannan family, finding the girl - Elysia, the Lady’s eldest, staring intently back. Elyisia was seated in front of Sorala as was the custom of Jadwiga and their servants - and was nearly aasimar-like in appearance, with pale skin and radiant blonde hair. She was dressed in an ice-white dress patterned after snowflakes. Despite the formalwear and the girl’s heavenly appearance, the look she gave Sorala was as black as any country night, and just as withering.
Sorala shut her eyes tight once more, and they remained so through the remainder of the symphony, nauseous with the smell of perfume, stomach tumbling with worry. The girl had seen that look on other Jadwiga, and it never ended well for the recipient.
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Lady Elysia’s eyes harden at Sorala remark and it is clear her subtle hunt about the chain of command in House Morgannan has not been missed. Sorala knew such a reminder risked irritating Elysia and the danger therein, none better, but the squire also knew something many in the Irriseni court never learned. That not holding your ground was even more dangerous. There was an old Irriseni saying, dating back to Ulfen days.
"When one lets the wolf nip, one lets the wolf feed."
Obsequious behavior and loyal service would not save you from Lady Elysia, or her ilk. They would reward lifelong obedience with the same cruelty they would to a confirmed traitor, as remorseless as a rock rolling down a hillside or a lighting bolt striking a plowing farmer.
"I am sure she will be here soon enough, once word reaches her of our success." Lady Elysia says smoothly. She reckoned herself a power in the court, and she was, but Lady Riina not one to be challenged, not even by her daughter. Perhaps especially by her daughter.
Her voice grows colder when Sorala dares to ask for more information. She idlily swirled her glass, watching the bright red wine create a tiny whirlpool behind the crystal. The servants froze still, standing so immobile Sorala wondered if they were still breathing. Perhaps not. Finally the Jadwiga noblewoman sighed, her breath as delicate and lady-like as new lace.
"I am unsure. Things are moved rapidly since our invasion. My captains assure me this is normal, when things go so well." A tiny sip of the wine as he blue eyes look Sorala over, "Vasim is currently leading that particular attack."
Not good. Vasim was a werewolf, one of the many House bully boys used to terrify peasent and keep trouble makers in line. A strongly built man even without his shape change he was a terror when the bloodlust innate to his curse was upon him. House Morgannan gave him plenty of outlets for such a behavior. The man was violent enough for an assault, but violence did not always breed military success.
Fear was, despite Jadwiga beliefs, not always a guarantee. The blood mad enforcer was probably hurling (literally) men and women at sheer walls as they spoke. How had Halga allowed this? Or had she been overruled?
"As for the foe, what does it matter? We have swept all before us, even with their infernal ships and cannons." Lady Elysia says, the last word obviously very unfamiliar. "I am told it is a matter of a few hundreds, Squire. Surely that is within your capabilities? Gods know, you have trained enough. Perhaps you are squeamish about exercising your talents?" Her tone indicated that had better not be the case.
"Also," she carelessly added, "I gather they are not locals. Travelers or merchants or some such."
Sorala felt the blush spreading across her cheeks, Lady Elysia flippantly throwing one bad decision at her after another. Vasim? A few hundreds? Travelers or merchants?
So, so many questions, more certainly than the Lady would tolerate. Best not to inflame her anymore. Once again, the seconds ticked by, and Sorala's mind turned, her face straining to remain placid.
"Your captains are correct, m'Lady. Things do move rapidly when they go well." Until they don't.
Casting a brief glance once again to the nearby servant, a pang of guilt stabbed within Sorala's breast. Someone, perhaps this man, would pay for her earlier impertinence. This was the way of the Jadwiga. Every slight rolled downhill, an avalanche of petty frustrations and grievances visited tenfold upon those with less power. Sorala made a note to herself to pray for the Lady's servants once the day was over.
Turning, Sorala surveyed the burning city, suddenly aware she was sweating. Profusely. Brushing her arm across her lip, it came away salty and wet. Her armpits were slick, the hair on her temples soaked, her lower back and nethers uncomfortably damp. Gods, it was going to be long day. For now, she'd save her prayers, as she'd no doubt need them.
"Where is my boat, m'Lady?"
Crack
A splintering, snapping sound fills the air. Instinctively Sorala glances down, fearing the ice below her feet is cracking apart, perhaps due to the tropical heat of the surely warm sea. But no, the slightly rocking floe under her is as stable as ever. She looked around and instantly saw the true source of the tiny sound. It had not been cracking ice but glass.
The finely spun crystal in Lady Elysia now sported a fine crack along on side, intricate swirls of jagged edge. The aristocrat's face was unchanged but Sorala could feel the boiling anger inside. Clearly the woman thought the squire's last question had been making sport of her. It did not take to imply such an offense with the woman.
She let go of the glass, which was nimbly caught by an attentive servant before it hit the ground. In a blur another glass was offered, filled to exactly the same height of wine. Elysia ignored it, staring Sorala down, eyes hard.
"I see your training is not all it should be. Do your eyes even work?" The polished voice has gained a bit of edge now, of real annoyance instead of the effected smoothness of a moment ago. "You will not need a boat, squire. House Morgannan, as always, provides. You will find a path of ice connecting this portal to the adjacent island." A frozen pause and then, "You are dismissed."
And with that, she was dismissed.
It did not take Sorala long to see where her mistress (well, one of her mistresses) had meant. Around the tumbled jumble of ice blocks that Lady Elysia was contemplating becoming a fairy castle was another flat space of bare ice. It was larger then where the portal opened and, judging by the crushed snow and ice, had served as an assembly area for the troops. A broad path of floating ice lead directly off the floe and connected to a large island dead ahead. It too was dotted with buildings and ringed with wharves. Just like the other....city? Town? She had beheld during her audience with Lady Elysia, it was smothered with smoke and dotted with fires. Above the town a dark, forested ridge outlines against the sky.
A few soldiers, dressed in heavy furs, are standing near the flat parade ground. They stiffen to attention at seeing her and salute. While the House has plenty of guards and troops they are not an real army in the sense of the word that a Taldane or Chelishman might use. They are loyal to this house and are trained more for obedience then efficiency.
"Yes, Lady Squire?" One of them says, bolder then the rest. "Can we help you?" Clearly Sorala looks as lost as she feels.
Sorala nodded her head and followed with a deep curtsy, hands folded in front of her, the traditional sign of respect given from a woman to her social betters. Her hands shook, ever so slightly, as she crossed them in front of her.
"House Morgannan provides," she repeated, using the traditional salutation of her House, and then straightening, turned on her heel and briskly walked to the ice bridge.
Out of ear shot of the Lady, Sorala breathed deeply - two times - through her nose, a trick she'd taught herself to calm jittery nerves when she'd first arrived in service to the House. A trick that had come to be almost second nature over the years, especially after any interaction with Elysia.
Sorala had considered apologizing to the Lady. The public ingratiation would certainly buy her some more immediate goodwill. But... there was always a cost to such displays. Casting a silent apology to whichever servant ended up downhill of that avalanche of rage, Sorala drew Eitleán and crossed the ice bridge, the rimeblade glowing faintly, the cold air it gave off comforting. She didn't bother to fill Eitleán in on any details - it was there, after all, and could hear the conversation just fine. Instead, Sorala needed the familiarity of holding the blade she'd come to see almost as an extension of herself, its weight in her hand as natural a feeling as scratching an itch. Plus, Eitleán could sense its surroundings - a useful skill in an active war zone.
Stepping foot on the beach, Sorala forced the urge aside to take off her boots and step in the... sand, they called it. There would be time for that later, provided she lived through the day. Ignoring the salutes from the soldiers, Sorala instead frowned, casting her eyes over those still at the parade grounds. "Take off all the furs except those you'll need for protection. You'll die of dehydration before any arrow catches you."
Her gaze stopped at the soldier that addressed her, a young man, bolder than the rest, but perhaps stupider. Did he know who he addressed? Was word getting around that she was soft? She'd not shown much strength in some time...
"You there. What is your name? Congratulations, you're now my honor guard. Pick nine of your compatriots - the best warriors here - to be your comrades. And then take me to the fight. Hurry. The lives of our soldiers and the reputation of our House is at stake."
On the way to the fight, she would ask the questions of the soldiers that she could not ask the Lady. How many enemies? Are they organized? Any individuals stand out? What weapons do they have? What weaknesses? What fortifications? And the soldiers, they would give her the answers. For this was the way things worked.
Sorala might have ignored Eitleán, but clearly the blade felt no such compunction to ignore her. As soon as her fingers grasped the worn, smooth hilt she could feel the connection between them flaring in her mind. That link, always present, seemed to fade when the sword was sheathed and belted, a background hum in her mind. Detectable but diffuse, like a bright lamp under a thin blanket. When she drew it however, it never failed to re-awake.
"So dour, Sorala." Eitleán said, his voice a confident, genial baritone in the vaults of her mind. "Why are you never smiling when you draw me?" A sniff and then, "Look! The sun. Gods, we can be warm. Do you know how long it has been since I have been warm? Can't you feel it?"
She certainly could. The tropical sun warmed the back of her neck as if someone was pouring hot honey down her back. Even with the cooling aura of Eitleán's magic, and the nearness of the shifting ice path, she could feel sweat pooling under her armpits and across her face. She could feel it but could Eitleán-
"Well, I can imagine how it feels." The blade said, a bit stiffly. Sometimes the weapon got a bit touchy about the lack of engagement it had with the surrounding world. "Where are we anyway?" The blade said with interest, "I forget what the plan was. I've been in lots of campaigns but, I admit, not many in places like this." Through their bond she could sense the hardened steel item taking in the sandy beaches, softly swaying palm trees and lapping ocean waves.
The soldiers, unable to hear any of this of course, bowed nervously. "Of course, Lady Squire. In an instant." He pauses and recalls she asked for his name first. He winces at the oversight and says quickly, "Rossem, sir." He salutes again, just for good measure.
He turns and barks a few orders at the scattered soldier who, as far as Sorala can tell, not doing much apart from looting a few sad looking shacks near the beach. It doesn't seem like they have assembled much though, a few cracked barrels of drink, some battered silverware and a half-hearted stack of laundry. Then again, by Irrisen standards, a bounty.
In short order Sorala has two squads of armed men and women around her, and they shed their heavy furs with relief. She notes a few drinking from semi-hidden flasks or jugs. She is about to reprimand them but recalls water skins are not official bits of the uniform, which was fine in cold Irrisen but here? Lack of water would kill.
Their is a momentary hesitation when she asks them to lead them to 'the fight'. It becomes obvious there is more then one going on, whatever Lady Elsyia said. Yes, the city was generally fallen but some of the locals were still putting up spirited resistance in various pockets. This island was more subdued then the mainland, at least as far as these soldiers claimed, but it still buzzed with activity.
She mentions Vasim however and they instantly leads her up the beach. "It is not far, Lady Squire. We will get you there. Step carefully, this...sand, is tricky stuff. Nothing like good honest snow."
They do their best to answer here questions but none of them are officers and most seem to have done their best to avoid being shuffled into Vasim's command. She can't blame them. Sorala has seen the werewolf literally tear men's arms off for saluting too slowly. Which was ironic for the creature wasn't even a solider but merely a jumped up thug.
She does gain a few details however. Apparently there was a convoy of foreigners in the harbor when the Irriseni invasion went off. As the violence began, they withdrew from their boats, en masse, and took up refuge in a an old ramshackle fort near the wharves. Clearly they were spirited fighters for their quickly barricaded themselves in and are holding back any Irriseni attack. Sorala presses them for what nationality these foreigners are but Irriseni folks are insular to absurd degrees. They do seem to mostly be human however, with plenty of them wearing barbed armor. Just what she needed, to try and take an fortified position stocked with heavy infantry.
They pass a column of men going back down the beach as they hurry up. It is a couple dozen Irriseni soldiers guarding several scores of battered looking locals. Sorala slows down to get a good look at the defeated foe. Most are humans wearing light linen shorts and shirts, most smudged or stained from days long before this fight. Their skin is often as dark as rich hardwood and the White Squire wonders if this is racial or the byproduct of a beating, tropical sun. Few have shoes or even belts. A few other races are scattered in with dwarves, halflings and a few half-orcs sprinkled in. They all look the worse for wear but their enslavement has only just begun. Few would last long, if Sorala knew anything of how slaves were treated by her masters.
Few dare to look up at her but a there are a couple hardy souls who lock fierce gazes with her, dark faces rich with anger.
"They asked for some of the prisoners to help clear the rubble, sir." Rossem says. "Some of the streets are a jumbled mess."
"Dour indeed," Sorala mused. "Eitleán, you enjoy the heat? It is miserable." Sighing, Sorala takes in the blue-green waters and swaying palm trees. Hopefully she'd be back home soon, once the locals were pacified. "Anyways, we're in Port Peril. I assume you've never been here? Lady Elysia has given us the pleasure of rooting out a band of foreigners putting up resistance to our armies. Vasim is leading our soldiers against the holdouts. Which I'm sure is making things worse."
The sand did indeed prove tricky. Her booted feet sunk into it, requiring an exaggerated motion, much like the outsized stepping motion of Wintercrux's famous folk dancers, to move. Sweat rolled from Sorala's temples - the heat and damp air proving even more exhausting as she labored. Pull-stepping down the beach, Sorala inwardly laughed at the ridiculous sight. Pale white men and women, still overdressed, struggling with the sand. A perfect place for an ambush. Surely there's streets here that we can use? And did they not make some sort of snow-shoes for the sand?
Sorala's mood darkened even further as she hears that things are not going as well as she was lead to believe. A common phenomenon in court, she had found. When the Jadwiga could - and often did - execute the bearers of bad news, every effort was made to spare them from necessary truths. She looked to Rossem, frowning slightly as he salutes yet again. Best break the tip of that icicle, before it grows dangerous. "Never fear giving me bad news, Rossem. We can't fix problems if we don't know they exist."
The prisoners passed and Sorala called a halt to the slave-drivers and her own soldiers. "Rossem, give your men a few minutes to drink and rest. Eat if you have anything with you."
Turning to the slave-drivers, Sorala pointed with the tip of Eitleán to the leader. "I need one of your captives." Walking around the crowd, Sorala took them in further, noting that many didn't wear shoes. Probably better for the sand.
Sorala's frown deepened as she noted more defiance and anger present in the men. Why are the women so subservient? That would need to be rectified if this was to be a proper Irrisini colony.
Sorala settled on a middle-aged woman with a weathered look, barefoot, a halfling, who would not meet her gaze. The woman's hair was pulled back in a practical bun, her face and hands lined a rough - that of a laborer. Pulling the woman aside, Sorala kneeled in the sand and looked to the woman until she raised her eyes.
"Hello." Sorala paused, letting the gentle tone of her voice register with the woman. "Difficult truths are hard to hear. But they need to be told none-the-less. The group of slaves you are with will be used to clear rubble. It will be thankless work, and they will be subjected to the whims of their soldiers. Soldiers that are raised to hurt people, and who are hurt by their betters. The slaves will be worked like livestock, and in this heat, likely not last the week. What is your name? Do you still have family alive? I can help them, perhaps. If you help me."
"Um, yes sir." Rossem says after a brief look of confusion. The besmusement doesn't subside as they tramp up the sandy beach, and Sorala is forced to admit that overcoming a lifetime of training isn't something someone does in a moment. Irriseni habits of deference and fear went deep.
"Vasim," Eitleán said with disdain, "Amateur." Her blade was never once to mince words especially about soldiering, although it was usually too bored or jaded to offer much. "And no, I've never been here. It seems nice to me. What, did you enjoy stomping through thigh high snowdrifts? I bet there isn't blizzard in a thousand miles of here." Her rimeblade, covered in frost as usual, sighs in contentment.
The soldiers, her soldiers, are happy to take a break from their brief march while Sorala confers with the slave-drivers. They cluster under some oddly shaped trees, eager for the shade and drink out of hastily revealed flasks. Few have food however, and Sorala wonders if that means none was stocked ahead of time or if it merely hasn't been given out. Or worse, if House Morgannan was running low of food supplies, not an unheard of problem in Irrisen.
The slave-drivers look reluctant but a single glance at the frosty blade in her hand is enough to quash even the idea of truculence. They move aside and leave her alone, sweating in the bright sunshine.
The halfling was very tanned, with a landscape of wrinkles and lines across her face, proof of a outdoor life. She doesn't seem malnourished however, or sickly. If anything she seems healthier then most peasants Sorala has encountered in her homeland. Liquid brown eyes size Sorala up for a long moment as she decide how, and perhaps if, to speak.
Finally she does, her Common strangely accented, "Norintha. " The total lack of honorific surprises Sorala, don't these people know how to address their superiors? Or was she supposed to be insulted?
Her face holds no sneer however, or anger. Merely fear, and that, at least, is something the White Squire is used to. Norintha's eyes keep wandering to Eitleán's gleaming, iced edge.
"Truly, you are fighting a worthy foe. I'll be sure to tell the bards of their daring deeds and proud bearing." The sword remarked sarcastically, taking in the scared, tiny woman.
"What sort of...help?" The halfling adds, unaware of the blade's caustic remarks.
====
Twelve
====
"No. No. " Alastia was practically yelling as she stepped forward pulling on the rimeblade - Eitleán, Sorala reminded herself - grabbing the frost-riddled blade with her mailed glove as if it were not a deadly weapon. "You see how easy it was to step aside? You start with the sword drawn back to hack, like an axe to a tree, and this will get you killed. No, you start as if at a dance, pursuing a paramour. You lunge with a little jab, first to keep your partner at arm's length and test his resolve. Is he interested in getting closer? If so, you step to him and stab, especially if he wields a larger weapon than you! Get in close, and give him the Jadwiga kiss!"
The Jadwiga kiss, being of course, a mortal wound. Sorala pulled on her sword, face scrunched in effort, blushing red as Alastia kept the sword's blade firmly in her grasp.
"What? ?" Alsatia yelled her own face blushed red, rage-filled.
====
Now
====
Sorala stayed kneeling, softly speaking. "Listen to me, Norintha. You are captured. You are enslaved. This is the way of things, and nothing will change this. You do have a choice, however."
"I need a local that can help my men get through the city. What roads to take, even the ones that bypass other roads when blocked. That can provide information on your people - your ah, what is the word, speakisms, things that sound like they mean something they do not? I need help identifying your symbols, such as the flags on your ships."
Casting a glance towards her soldiers, obviously lacking food, Sorala sighs. Help finding where the food is stored.
"You can accompany us, and answer the questions I have. This is the help I need."
====
Twelve
====
Eitleán, for its part, stayed silent in her hand. There would come a time when the sword spoke to her, so Sorala was told. But it had been a year, and... nothing.
Alastia let go of the rimeblade and took another stance, drawing her own wooden practice blade and waving it gently in the air between them, as if saying en guarde.
A tear - frustration? Fear? Anger? - rolled down Sorala's cheek, for what reason, the memory wasn't clear. The girl raised the sword and tried to dance as her dueling tutor instructed, ending into a step and lunge. Predictably, Alastia batted the assault aside and sent a thwack of her own wooden sword onto the girl's thigh, collapsing Sorala to the ground, teeth gritted together, nostrils flaring, as she rolled onto her side.
"Perhaps you are afraid to hurt me?" Alastia asked, tone bemused. "You cannot hurt me. Have you ever hurt anything other than a fish?" The dueling tutor snapped her fingers and a peasant trailing a rope behind him entered the room. The rope was tied to a creature the likes of which Sorala had never seen. Pink skinned with a curling tale and wiry white hair sprouting from it. With a stubby snout, the creature sniffed along the ground as it walked, all four legs ending hoofs that clicked across the floor as it sniffed and huffed.
"It is called a pig," Alsatia said, almost cooing. "A most wondrous animal, rare here in Irrisen. It can give you something you haven't had in - three days, as I understand. A meal. Truly, the meat of a pig is one of the finest-tasting meats on Golarian, and one few of your station will ever eat."
Sorala's stomach visibly rumbled, her mouth watered, and she rolled onto her knees, standing with a wince.
"A pig is also a very smart animal. As smart as our toddlers, so they say. They feel pain. They feel fear."
"I know you are hungry, and all you need to eat well for a week, is to put aside you-"
The words in Alsatia's mouth died as quickly as the pig did upon Eitleán's blade. Sorala pulled it from the pig's throat, a voice intruding on her mind as she did so. The voice was masculine, genial, sarcastic.
"Call the bards!" Eitleán sighed, "We've got a real saga to spin here!"
====
Now
====
"You've said that before," Sorala thought, "About the bards. But not every body is a vessel for you to be plunged in." Or so she hoped, in this case at least.
"You are enslaved, Norintha," Sorala repeated, idly moving her rimeblade closer to woman. "That is the hard thing, the inescapable fact of the day. But what kind of bondage you endure, that is up to you. You can die clearing rubble, like the poor souls you travel with, or you can be useful to us. And in return, I will do what I can to help your family. It is your choice to make. What will you choose?"
"I'm not saying you stick her."Eitleán said, "Contrary to official Irrisen policy I don't believe in sticking folks for the sheer thrill of it. Although, given her future otherwise, it would probably be a mercy. Not much to tell the bards either way, honestly."
Sorala did her best to ignore the sword's ramblings and focus on the short woman at eye level.
Not all of Sorala's training had to done with swords, tactics and footwork. From time immemorial White Squires had been trained with a very varied curriculum ranging from winter survival to courtly etiquette. One of the most...interesting lessons had been in how to lie and to discern it in others. Unlike most of her tutors, who were traveling instructors who made a career out of teaching Squires (Alastia, who still loomed large in her memory, had done it for decades for almost every major Irriseni House, by the time Sorala had come along) her 'lying' instructor had been a convicted criminal. Introduced as a card sharp, gambler and all around confidence man, Sorala had imagined a dashing man with a quick smile and dramatic cloak, full of jokes and false merriment.
Tikhon had not been like that at all. He was tall, but as serious and dour as the merchant bankers who often visited the Lady Jadwiga. His face was lined with care and his eyes had heavy bags under them. As far as she could recall the man had never laughed once during their time together, unless it played a role in his lessons.
"Do not watch the face, when looking for lies." He had told her once, during one of their lessons which were always held in a bare room, across an empty table. "Or the eyes. These are common mistakes, child." Always child. "Look at their hands. An untrained liar will always give themselves away by their hands."
Sorala glanced at the worn, callused hands of the halfling woman and thanked Tikhon again. The word 'enslaved' at hit a mark with the halfling, although the woman tried to hide it. Clearly that word held more meaning then Sorala might have expected. Was the halfling surprised? She had been caught by a victorious foe, during open battle. What did she expect, a kiss on the cheek and a full belly?
Norintha glances from the stewing slave-drivers to the frosty rimeblade and back again. Slowly she raises her brown eyes to Sorala's own, her smudged face firm.
"I will help you...if you do what you say." The halfling finally says, voice quiet but hard. Sorala was impressed, to be honest. She wondered how the average Irriseni peasant might react in such a state. Probably beg for mercy while grabbing her bootheels, with tears all around. Port Perilers were made of sterner stuff, if Nointha was anything to go by.
"You are here...to stay? Your people, I mean." The halfling added, glancing at the ice floe gently bobbing in the harbor. "Or is this just a raid?"
"Do I get to go home after helping you?" is implied in her words.
The woman also holds up her bound hands and feet, rough rope already rubbing her skin raw. "Will you cut me free?"
"Already with demands." Eitleán remarks, "I changed my mind, I like her."
"I like her too," Sorala thought, reaching down to grab hold of the rope binding Norintha's legs. The rope was rough - nautical rope - likely pillaged by the Irrisini captors from a ship. "She has some leverage, and she knows it. Though if her countrymen are like her, many of them will die with their demands." Sorala stared at the woman's weathered hands, not surprisingly stilled as the rimeblade drew closer.
Tikhon would be proud, perhaps, of Sorala today. Of course, the lying instructor would never say as much, unless there was some benefit in doing so for him. Another, unintentional lesson, passed from tutor to student.
"Listen to me closely, Norintha. My people... they believe that fear and cruelty are the best motivators of the lowborn. Be careful who you make requests of, and how you make them. I appreciate your bluntness, but many will not."
"I will never tell you a fiction. When I say I will help your family as best I can, it is an oath. In return, today, this is what I need: There is an old fort near the wharves. Do you know it? This is where we are headed. Take us there, on the quickest path, which may not be the most direct..."
Glancing down to the sand, Sorala paused weighing whether to disclose her soldier's lack of food. Sighing, she proceeded. Tikhon's unintentional lesson - never admit anything you don't need to, unless there is something in it for you - echoed through her head in his weary voice, even though the lying tutor never actually voiced it. "On the way... if there is a bakery, or a tavern, or a market that you know of. Make sure to point it out to me."
The White Squire slid Eitleán between Norintha's legs and pressed the sword down onto the rope, severing it cleanly with a simple flick of her wrist.
"As I said, I will not lie to you. And I expect honesty in return. My people are here to stay. Your life will be very different. But, with obedience and luck, you can have your family in it."
There was little kindness in Sorala's actions, though the Squire would not pretend to it. Norintha's leg bindings would slow the soldiers down, and time - especially if they stopped for food - would be of the essence. Norintha's hands would remain bound for now.
"I never get to free people." The sword says in the vaults of her mind, his voice oddly thoughtful. "Interesting."
Norintha considers Sorala's advice carefully, with that same guarded expression. Only her hands reveal the stress and nerves that surely are boiling behind that tanned façade. When s e spoke it was still that slow, accented Common.
"My da told me somethin' once." The halfling's dark brown eyes fixed on Sorala's own. "If someone tells you they will never lie, they are already breaking their word."
Then she shakes her legs a bit, probably letting the blood flow back into her tough, callused feet. The captive shakes her head back and forth, her bun bouncing slightly in the tropical heat. A thin sheen of sweat sticks to her skin which she does her best to wipe off with bound hands. After a moment she is all business, voice brisk, "The Old Fort. Aye, I know it. "
Nointha turns to face up the beach, away from Sorala. Hands still bound, she awkwardly points along the sand to where a long spit of land sticks out into the glittering blue waters of the bay. It is little more then a dark line to Sorala's eyes but she can see a looming, frowning building at the end of the...pier? Wharf?
"That's the new fort. Haborhorn." her new guide says, "On the Breakwater. Not what you want. Old Fort is on shore. I know the way. Follow me. Not far."
Sorala dismisses the slave drivers who once against start hustling their charges forward. The White Squire notes they are not light on the whips even though it is hardly required. The column heads down the beach at a slow, aching pace.
Her men file slowly out of the shade and out their water away. She gets the feeling they would have much preferred to vanish into the city for loot and easier pickings but the danger of trying to slip a White Squire was far too great. Sullenly they take up station and they all follow Norintha down the beach.
But not far. After only a few dozen yards she points at a set of rickety stairs leading up into some low warehouses. "I'll take you on the Porter's Path. Much easier then the sand." A pause and then, "Why were you on the sand anyway? Roads better for walking."
Sorala sees no danger and they slowly make their way up the stairs. She finds herself standing on a low road cut into the ground, nearly waist deep, and Norintha would be invisible from the top. The low channel seems to be a quick way for porters to carry goods to and from the wharves and beach without cluttering the main roads further inland. Clever.
"You say food..." Norintha says, glancing back at her captors. You...you pay for food?"[/b] Her question is tentative as if she knows what the answer will be.
Eitleán laughs slightly in her mind, "I thought they were all pirates down here. Do pirates pay when they raid? Interesting idea. Bring that up with the Lady, Sorala. She could use a laugh."
"See, Eitleán? I can provide even an ancient soul such as yourself with new experiences."
Turning to the woman, Sorala frowned. Idly, the White Squire thought that she must surely have new lines creasing her forehead from this day alone.
"Who built the Haborhorn? What does it mean?" Sorala asked, filing the name of the fort away for later. "Given the way that this occupation is going, we're likely visiting this Haborhorn next." The Squire had other questions for Norintha, but it would be best to wait to ask those. One does not give up all their leverage - and that was exactly what Norintha had with her information - easily.
Nodding to Norintha, Sorala gives her a wan smile, one more teasing than warm. "Roads are better for walking. My soldiers wished to walk on a beach, however. Sand does not exist in our land."
It was a nonanswer, but Norintha would have to settle for it. Instead The White Squire steered the conversation to the porter's road. "This... is clever. So, you take goods from the wharves to, what is the word, warehomes on this road? It does seem though... like a good place for robbers to find prey. It is easy to catch a fish in a channel."
Sorala kepet her voice genial, but focused on the woman as she responded. The question was close enough to Sorala's fears - an ambush - without directly stating it, that she hoped Norintha would give any ill intent away.
Eitleán remains sublimely aloof except for a barely audible snort.
Norintha looks confused at her questions about the Harborhorn. "Who built it? We built it. The people of the city. Not long ago, I remember it being finished, when I was a child. It is to guard the harbor and for the officials to keep. To house the guards and all that."
The halfling nods when Sorala mentions not having sand, "I've heard of that. Beaches that are all rocks instead of sand. I've even heard of some sailors talking about coasts that are just cliffs with trees and boulders. No place to put a ship ashore. Sounds dangerous and not nearly as nice."
She carefully considers Sorala's questions about robbery and answers carefully, "Warehouses. Robbery does happen but....one is not wise to rob from many who docked here. They were hard people, with many weapons. Strangers, with little patience." She glances at the rimeblade and then the armed soldiers standing around her. "But maybe you do not worry about that."
Sorala watches her closely but detects no sign of a trap or ambush in the halfling's mind. Maybe she would happily lead the Irriseni into one, but apparently doesn't have one set up, which makes sense. So when the halfling leads them on down the sunken path, Sorala follows.
They tramp down the road for a few blocks, the worn and washed stone warm under their boots. It isn't too uncomfortable however as the rows of dilapidated and swaybacked warehouses provide ample shade. Indeed, so shaded that Sorala is forced to splash through puddles full of green slime at regular intervals. Other then this unpleasant shallow pools however, the road is fairly well kept, if very worn. Sorala guesses this is a busy way in peacetime, choked with porters and slaves carrying heavy loads to and fro from the waiting ships. Here and there short stone stairs lead up to the higher main road, for easy access for those who needs to enter the main traffic.
Finally Norintha leads them up one set and points across the wide, empty street that had once been the backbone of the local district. Sorala glances up and down it, and sees little signs of activity. It is hard to imagine but a city is a big place and even during an active battle, much of it would be quiet at any given time, clam between storms. The White Squire doesn't see much burning or destruction here, clearly Irriseni troops passed here lightly, if at all. Then she spot, about two blocks up the road a rough barricade of carts, wagons and stalls clustered in the street, strewn with dead bodies.
Maybe not so lightly.
Norintha points down a narrow alley to a wooden building just visible set back from the main road, "It is a bakery. They should have bread inside." And indeed, Sorala can see a wooden board sign hanging from the building with a loaf of bread, along with some strange unknown language. The building design is odd, not matching the others in this district, foreign and exotic but not any richer or better built. Just different.
Sorala cast her eyes back towards the beach, imagining for a second walking barefoot in the sand, dressed not in armor but a simple linen dress, the same weight of the nightgowns the Irrisini noblewomen wear to bed in their fire-stoked warm bedchambers, Eitleán left... somewhere else, Sorala unfettered, unburdened, light. Pushing the thought aside with a literal wave of her hand, she simply says. "It is different, the lakeshores of my home. More... uh, investigation of your beaches is needed before I can offer an opinion."
Stopping at the alley, Sorala paused for a look about, up and down the alleyway, and along the rooftops. To Norintha, Sorala nodded, her voice low. "Thank you. What is that language on the uh boardsign? Why is the building stranger?"
Turning to Rossem and his - her, she corrects herself - soldiers, Sorala paused, her words more fluid and faster spoken in her native Skaldic tongue.
"Listen. That building down there? The strange one, different from the others. It is a bakery. A warrior fighting on an empty stomach is worthless, like a candle in a blizzard. I will go first with the halfling. Then Rosssem, then the rest of you. I expect you to behave as soldiers, not Linnorm raiders. We go in, we eat a very quick meal, and we take some food for later. That is all. No terror, no attacking unless attacked."
Placing a hand lightly on Norintha's back, Sorala applies just the lightest pressure. Forward. Then, alongside the halfling, Sorala steps into the alley, her left hand guiding her guide, Eitleán held tightly in the other, its dull white light casting shadows of the Irrisini raiders along the alley walls.
Sorala's mental fantasy fades slowly but not before she is reminded that her mind is not, entirely, her own.
"Well that isn't very nice." Eitleán remarks, "I could use a vacation too, you know. I work at least as hard as you do. Long walks on the beach, sounds nice to me. Not sure about the barefoot however. I've never had feet but I have a feeling sand gets hot..."
She didn't have time to listen to the rimeblade's meanderings.
Norintha glances at the bakery and then back at Sorala when the White Squires asks her some questions. She shrugs, "Many people from many places in Port Peril. We are a city of strangers, of travelers." This is a strange statement to make to Sorala' who comes from a land frozen in time, both literally and figuratively. Everyone in her entire society is based on who their ancestors were during Baba Yaga's invasion, centuries ago. She could turn to Rossem right now, and he could tell her who his great-great grandfather was without hesitation.
Did people in this land...not know such things?
Her soldiers seem at first delighted to be entering a bakery but then confused when Sorala indicates they are not to simple smash and grab what they like. It was unusual, assuming the men were thinking of this in terms of the raids back home, which were usually just fancy ways of resupply. Most fighting in Irrisen took lace over food and firewood.
The White Squire is surprised, and slightly confused, to see a look of disappointment cross her guide's face when she tells her men to be gentle. Curious.
Norintha leading the way, they reach the main doors of the indicated bakery. Their is a definite scent of bread in the air, strong enough to make Sorala's stomach growl in response. Teleportation was hungry work. But the main doors looked locked and bolted. With the halfling still in front of her, Sorala peers down a side alley to see if there are other ways in. She sees a side door, but it too is shut and probably bolted. Come to think of it, it is a city under attack. If there is anyone inside, they are probably cowering in the basement with the door locked.
That's what civilians did...right?
Sorala snorts, the image she had of her walking on the beach, sheer dress and all now accompanied with Eitleán in her hand. "OK, you can come too. I don't know about it getting hot," Sorala thinks, wiping another bead of sweat from her brow, "But gods, everything is hot here. I shall experiment when there's a moment and I'll let you know how it feels."
"So..." Sorala says, staring down at Norintha, Sorala drawing the pause out while her mind catches up to translating the thought, "OK, there are travelers and strangers here. But do you know where the bakers are from? What land, I mean? What language they speak?"
Turning to the soldiers, Sorala frowns as the door doesn't budge - which makes sense, of course. Were she a baker, she'd do the same thing. "It is confusing," the White Squire says, switching to her native Skald, voicing the confusion showing on her soldier's faces. "We're not raiders. We're occupiers. If you smash this bakery and kill the bakers, they will be unable to make us bread tomorrow. And the day after. The day after that."
Unconsciously, Sorala drifts into the ally. The Squire walks lightly, Eitleán held out to light the shadows, its glow moving the darkness from nook to doorway to nook, light and darkness playing across the alley walls, a dance of sorts, as Sorala beckons to Norintha to stay near. The White Squire's frown deepens when she reads Norintha's expression. Curious.
"You want us to hurt these bakers. Why?" Did they hurt Norintha's family? Was Norintha a baker as well, a rival? "Be honest. My lying... coach, is the word? He taught me skills to read you like a saga. Now is not a time for obfusc, obfusc..." Sorala struggles fro the word, it settling just out of reach within her mind, like a roach, scuttling away from light. "Games."
While Norintha answers - whatever that answer entails - Sorala wedges Eitleán's blade into the doorway, between the door and jamb, and pushes, grunting softly. With any luck, there would soon be a crack, and the soldiers could stealthily enter the bakery and grab what they needed. The smell of bread, bringing water to her mouth as much as the heat brought it to her brow, was nearly maddening. Worry nagged and pulled at Sorala. She'd had a good breakfast, possibly more than her soldiers had eaten in days. It could be a challenge to keep them under control.
"Far away." is all Norintha says, clearly not much more advanced in geography then her own men. Then the halfling brightens ad adds, "They have elephants there, I think. Or something like that."
The alley remains quiet around them although Sorala can hear sounds in the distance now, the muted shouts of men, the very faint ring of steel and...the sizzle of arcane magics. It is so way off, but they are drawing closer to whatever fighting still rages. Still, without food, her men (and herself) will be poor soldiers indeed.
Norintha seems very confused by the idea of a lying coach but it is clear to her that her subterfuge has been caught out. Glancing at Sorala's face, the frosty rimeblade and back at the still quiet bakery, she admits sullenly, "The bakers are not good people. You will see why when you open the door." But she rallies and looks Sorala right in the eye, her brown matching the White Squire's blue. "But I told the truth. There is bread in there and this is on the way."
Games, indeed.
Seeing nothing else for it, and the scent of freshly baked bread driving her slightly mad, Sorala grabbed Eitleán and began to pry open the front door.
[i]"You know,"[/b] The blade says conversationally as Sorala gets some leverage against the rough wooden door. Luckily it is not very well made and there is a sizable gap to work it. "When they talk about rimeblades people always talk about slaying berserker jarls in battle or slicing open the hearts of linnorms. No one ever discusses the pure majesty of being a crowbar." His tone is sarcastic but Sorala gets the a sense that, somewhere deep down, Eitleán might enjoy a vacation as a crowbar or a hammer. Or , at least, the rimeblade likes to think so.
It doesn't take long for her to get a good angle and with a wrench of her shoulders, she cracks the door free, the lock popping free from the old wood. Sorala takes am awkward half stumbling step inward, scuffling on a rough stone floor. The inside is dim and her eyes slowly adjust to the gloom. The scent of bread fills her nose, along with other more exotic scents of spices and sugar.
"Mother, I am hungry." Rossem mutters behind her, craning his neck to take a long sniff of the air. But Sorala is impressed, none of them break ranks past her. She wonders if is it discipline, respect or simple fear that keeps them in line.
She can see the bakery is a long low building, cluttered with furniture. Wide tables take up much of the space, along with crates fully of supplies. Empty ovens take up one wall, wide open mouths of blackness while the other wall has wooden shelves half-filled with breads, buns and other finished products. A white dust covers everything in a ghostly aura.
Then Sorala sees the people.
Fully a dozen of them, halfling cowering under the tables or beside the ovens. They are dressed in battered rags that barely cover their nakedness and many sport weals and bruises. From long experience Sorala can spot signs of hard masters with little patience. All are chained to the floor with iron chains.
Behind them half a dozen larger figure slide into focus, armed with clubs and axes. They seem to have darker skin then Sorala is used to, with straight black hair.
"We are closed." One of them rumbles, voice edged with both fear and a strange accent. "Go away."
Sorala raises her hand, a quick, easily readable signal to her troops - and the slavers - stay. A flurry of thoughts and competing impulses crowd the White Squire's mind, and the woman blinks a few times, the silence stretching through the room. But only for a couple of seconds. Sorala's keen mind was one of her greatest strengths, she could analyze and come to a decision in a mere moment what may take others hours or days.
The most impressive thing about their predicament, Sorala realized, was Norintha. The woman had shown some facility for deviousness, a keen mind, and a way to meet the requests of her betters in a way beneficial to herself. Best case scenario, Sorala figured, from Norintha's perspective would be that a fight breaks out, the Irrisinians kill the slavers, the halflings were freed, and perhaps, even, Norintha can slip away in the chaos.
Less ideal, but still acceptable, would be that Norintha slip away in the chaos, with a large number of casualties of both sides.
Worst case, worse than death, would be that Norintha was herself enslaved, for these masters would be much crueler than Sorala.
Impressive, Sorala thinks, almost muttering the word aloud. Norintha did have the intelligence, wit, and fortitude to be a special servant. But, she also had led the soldiers into a dangerous situation, intentionally, and things could have - and still could - go very, very sideways. A frozen pond for sure, Sorala thinks, echoing an old Kellid colloquialism. Impressive, but dangerous.
Sorala lowers her hand, placing it atop Norintha's shoulder, holding the halfling fast. Her first words address her soldiers, in Skald. "Stay, soldiers, but be prepared for a fight."
The White Squire's fingers dig into Norintha's shoulder, holding the halfling in place, and the White Squire directs her next words to the slaver who seemed to be in charge. "My men need food and we will have it. But, we will pay for your time - and the damage to your door." Sorala casts her gaze down, briefly, to the woman held in her grip. "Give us the bread in this bakery - all of it - and you can have her. Gather the bread and drop it at my feet, and I will turn her over. And if there is a fight, know that you won't be leaving this building upright."
Norintha quivers a bit under Sorala's touch but says nothing, just a dim outline in the gloom of the bakery. Her face is nothing more then shadow . Didn't these people believe in windows?
The thugs look blankly at Sorala, clearly not having expected to conduct business. She can hardly blame them. Few of her colleagues would have said anything other then giving the troops the order to charge. Still, she didn't have the time or energy to waste fighting a bunch of thugs over a few crusts of bread (even if the mere sight of them made her mouth water). Better to give them a handful of coins and get on with her day.
The thug who spoke coughs, looks around wildly and then, wincing, stamps the floor with a bare foot. The sound is odd and hollow, not the soft thump of flesh on stone but of wood. Clearly there is more to the floor then meets the eye. He stamps a few more times, nervously while watching Sorala, shifting small clouds of white flour dust.
Finally, from the dim depths of the shop, the White Squire hears the grating of iron and the squeak of hinges. Somewhere, a heavily latched door grinds open. A quick patter of footsteps and a humanoid shape emerges from the darkness.
"ਕੀ ਚੱਲ ਰਿਹਾ ਹੈ?" The figure says in a liquid language Sorala doesn't know, but she doesn't have time to listen. She is busy staring at the new figure in the bakery.
Sorala is from a land where humans regularly interact with what others might call 'monsters' on a regular basis. Indeed, many of them are her allies in the current assault. Werewolves, snow giants, orcs and all manner of fey of every description. She could even speak Aklo and Sylvan with these strange denizens. But the person standing in front of her, now shouting at the thugs, is new even to her.
From the neck down, it appears to be a fairly large, if somewhat rotund man, dressed in little more then baggy pants. Muscles and rolls of fat gleam with sweat, his skin a very rich brown, different then any the White Squire has seen before. He is wearing shoes, actually soft slippers, the first footwear she has seen in Port Peril. His head however is not a human, but a goat's, complete with shaggy fur and two small ebony horns. He doesn't seem to have any trouble speaking when he turns to Sorala and says in fluent if accented Common.
"You wish to buy bread?" he glances at the frosty rimeblade, which glitters in the light from the doorway.
"Best bargain you'll have all day." Eitleán says in her mind, oddly grim. He always settled down if violence seemed likely, the sarcasm draining away like wine from a glass.
The goat man then shrugs, "Then there is no trouble." he finally glances at Norintha, "A small slave but surely worthwhile, your excellency." The goat man actually bows slightly, perhaps pouring it on a bit too thickly.
He gestures to his thugs, mutters and order and then turns back to Sorala. "Allow me to light a fire, so we can see." The goat man kicks one of the slaves, barks an order in his own language. The halfling jumps to her feet and hurries to one of the kilns. Sorala can feel Norintha tremble under her iron grip. Fear? Or anger? She could not risk a glance down.
The slaver's thugs start to gather bread from the wall shelves, stacking it on a nearby table. Loaves of bread, piles of glazed rolls, some of them coated with honey or interwoven with thick veins of flavoring. One part of the table was simply covered in thick pastries filled with some type of thick cream. It was a bounty worthy of a Jadwiga's table far beyond anything Rossem and his kind ever even got to smell, let alone eat.
The strange goat man watched this for awhile and then said conversationally to Sorala, "You are with the...army then? The invaders?" His tone is wheedling but polite, "You are from far away, yes? New to this place? You intend to stay and...buy much bread?" His thugs pile more of the foodstuffs on the table, which is now overflowing, but there is not much left on the shelves.
The kiln lights fully, bathing the bakery in a warm ruddy glow.
Sorala's eyebrow raises just ever-so-slightly. She had long ago learned to keep her emotions behind a placid demeanor, a particularly useful skill when speaking with the Jadwiga. But this. This goat-man, was entirely unexpected. Truthfully, Sorala had expected there was perhaps a leader somewhere else, but she'd expected a swarthy pirate-type, not... a creature from the beyond places. Which, by her first guess, was exactly what this eloquent man-beast was.
"I am with the army," Sorala says, keeping her voice as flat as her expression. "And we could perhaps buy much bread, if you are welcome to such an arrangement."
The White Squire slowly lowered Eitleán while the goat-man's thugs piled bread high upon the table. While she spoke, Sorala's mind tumbled through memories of days spent in the Morgannan library, studying under the tutelage of loremaster Aelick, page after page of reading about places far beyond the Morgannan estate, places that the young White Squire had dreamed of visiting, dangerous and exotic, and anywhere, frankly, than the dangerous and familiar place she now lived.
"Careful what you wish for, eh?" she thinks, taking note of Eitleán's quietude, a signal that the blade expected violence of a most severe sort.
"And I am from far away," Sorala continued, "Though I gather not so far as you. What is your name, goat-man?"
"Just what in the hells is this thing?" she thought, mind tumbling, tumbling...
Sorala's mind races through options as she considers the goat-man. Druid stuck halfway through transformation? Fey amusing itself with a jape? Did reverse satyrs exist? It takes her a few moments but then she notes a few other details. A reversed wrist that bends oddly, a strange cunning quality in those eyes. Ah yes. A Rakshasa.
Loremaster Aelick would have been proud how quickly she put it together. She wonders what the little gnome is up to now, who only had two great loves in his life. His collection of books and of meeting new people. Irrisen rarely had visitors, let alone exotic ones, but her loremaster made sure to meet and greet every wanderer, pilgrim or merchant who passed through the city, usually dragging Sorala along. It was a surprisingly risky hobby and she idlily hoped the old gnome was still about in the world.
But her mind turned back to the present. A rakshasa, an outsider created by pure evil combined with feral magics. Cunning enemies, they were from distant Vudra a land that meant little to Sorala expect spices, jewels, and indeed, elephants. She wondered why a Vudra bakery was here in Port Peril. Many were powerful magic users but she doubted a baker posed much threat.
"Sooraj Dvivedi, your excellency." The rakshasa said smoothly, "I was born here but yes, my blood comes from a distant land." Sorala had long experience with beguiling courtiers and flattering servants. It was a way of life for many in Irrisen, the only way to stay alive. Surviving while serving Lady Elysia Morgannan was not something for the blunt. Sorala knew the tricks and was slightly amused to see this goat-man use them so ably. Clearly here was another used to serving cruel masters. Or he had a natural talent. Was it an act or the truth? A cover for danger? Was he holding a knife, literal or metaphorical, in his one hand while the other offered bread?
"Not him,"Eitleán says quickly in her mind, dismissing the goat-man. 'The girl!"
The rimeblade is correct. Sorala can barely feel it but Norintha is tensing under her grip, shifting her feet. The halfling is getting ready to spring away and try to break her grip, while doing her best to hide it.
The girl? The girl! That curious point in time, when things slip away and out of control, the moment before a sled overturns and tumbles, or where a swordsman loses control of his blade, feeling the alarm as his fingers lose their control of his weapon's pommel, that moment, at once frozen and moving too quickly, liminal, neither here nor there, but arriving somewhere dreadful, with a finality seemingly inescapable. And yet one has to try.
The girl! That rash, manipulative, to smart-for-all-their-good girl!
Sorala digs her fingers into Norintha's shoulder, putting all her force into the tips of her fingers, as if a serf digging into frozen ground. As powerful as her grip is, Sorala's voice is the opposite - hushed, terse, intended to go no further than the two of them.
"Stop. You're not going anywhere. Is your family here?"
Sorala could see pathways stretched out in front of her, none of them leading anywhere particularly promising.
She could let the halfling go, and see what Norintha did. Eitleán's warning - directed at Norintha and not Sooraj - suggested the rimeblade sensed something more to the halfling thank Sorala supposed. If let go, the girl would either attack or run. If she ran, Sorala doubted she'd get past her soldiers. If she attacked... well, that was interesting.
Sorala could talk. Like in Conqueror, moving a piece along the board, to put your opponent off track. Put the piece on the board, obfuscate at the same time. A little honesty, mixed with obfuscation, was a suitable piece for the gameboard.
However, these slavers lived a life in the shadows, suggesting they were not outright powerful, or trustworthy. They also had some manner of hidden lair beneath Sorala's feet, and that in itself was intriguing, and certainly useful in a pinch. It would be better if they weren't around to share it, or cause problems if Sorala needed a place to lie low, whether because the invasion went poorly, or... She shut the next thought down before it fully formed, and would think more on that once Eitleán was safely back in his scabbard.
Turning her attention to the rakshasa, Sorala shrugged, the slightest hint of an apology. Time to put a piece on the board. "I must apologize to you, Sooraj. I'd planned to kill your men, when we first stumbled in here. I'd put demands out that surfaced the leader, and then when he presented us with the bread..." Sorala makes the slightest waving motion of Eitleán in the air, a small chop. "But, I imagined the leader to be as his men. That is, a man, not a rakshasa! My Lady would be very pleased to meet you." Again Sorala waved Eitleán, this time as if to say Look around! "You have an organization with skills - and I assume connections - that my liege would appreciate. So, I've reconsidered my earlier intent."
"However, I'm afraid I must renegotiate our deal. You can't have the girl. She's proving to be quite... knowledgeable about the city, and I need that. Provide us with our bread, and I shall return with introductions from my Lady, and ideas about how we can create a mutually beneficial friendship."
Her speech concluded, Sorala put her second piece on the board. She dropped her hand from Norintha's shoulder, and waited to see what the halfling would do when presented with her momentary bit of freedom...
"I should have let her get away with it," Eitleán commented, "Serves you right for letting your guard down like that. Distracted by a mere...goat's head." The sword reflects obviously also intrigued by the exotic rakshasa. "Besides, I'm curious what she might have tried."
That made two of them. Whatever else Norintha was, she had proven to be surprising.
The halfling mutters back, just above her breath, "All halfling are family." Which was, on the balance, rather unhelpful. Still, it probably meant she didn't have any direct kin sitting in this room. Sorala was unsure if this was good or bad.
Sooraj Dvivedi's face is hard to read in the flickering light of the oven, shadows dancing across his face (also, it being mostly a goat doesn't help) but one thing is very clear. Sorala's mention of 'her Lady' and possibly proximity to the new levers of power in Port Peril greatly interests the inhuman baker. Those weird, misshapen pupils fix on her, widening.
"I am honored by your consideration, your excellency, The goatman says but adds, "I would offer my congratulations to your liege, but I am not aware of her name or even her rank. It is clear she is no pirate." He glances at the men huddled behind Sorala, who only have eyes for the stack of bread. The White Squire is just happen they have not broken out into a riot over the food, and she guesses her physical impediment in the doorway is the only thing keeping them contained. That and Eitleán's frosty glare.
"But of course," Sooraj goes on about Sorala's altered deal, "I would not presume to separate you from your property over such a small thing as some bread." The Vudran deigns Norintha with a glance before waving a hand, "I do not know the customs of your land, your excellency, or the treatment of our slaves. So I offer this only to help you. I would keep a closer eye on this one." The goatman shrugs, "I deem her to be unbroken. I would suggest some time in chains, or perhaps liberal use of the whip before she is a suitable servant, to be presented in company."
The small shiver passes through Norintha. The rakshasa's own slaves cower back, half hidden in shadow like figures out of a child's story. They seem quite broken.
========
Twelve
========
Loremaster Aelick's office was cluttered with mementos acquired from over the diminutive tutor's life. Shelves sagged under the weight of tomes written in languages Sorala could only guess at, their spines glinting in the dim lighting of Aelick's candle-lit demesne, writing squiggly, as if stamped by fey of a wistful - and distracted - temperament. Clothing, dyed vivid colors and impractical in the Irriseni outdoors, hung from hooks and chairbacks, and slouched over tables. Strange masks, said to be from the southern lands, gazed over the room, and atop one towering shelf sat a small clockwork bee, ornate key sticking from its back, as if the contraption - a toy, Aelick insisted - was just waiting to be wound.
But it was the knife that captured Sorala's attention most of all. It sat in a stone cradle near a cluttered top shelf, just to the side of Sorala's view as she sat across the Loremaster's cluttered desk for lessons. Its blade was a darkest obsidian, and according to the loremaster, as sharp as any made by the swordmasters of Tien. The blade seemed to sparkle in the candlelight, as if it absorbed the light and then spit it back out, as if a night sky in a tiny universe.
Sorala was twelve, and only able to hold Eitleán under supervision. The sword had not yet bonded beyond their first connection. The blade remained flat gray, like Sorala's eyes. Eitleán did not speak in her mind, though her blade tutor assured her it some day would.
However the nightblade, as Sorala thought of it, hinted at possibilities. It sat unnoticed atop a bookshelf in the office of an ancient gnome with a wandering mind. It would be easy, Sorala thought, struggling one afternoon to keep on topic with Hallit sentence diagramming, to creep into the office in the wee hours when all but the guards slumbered, and liberate the knife. And then, with a trip to her mistress's room, Sorala could liberate herself.
======
Today
======
Sorala blinked, clearing the memory from her mind. It was a stupid plan, borne from the mind of a girl still hoping she could be something beyond the control of her mistress. Sorala waved her free hand to the guards - come in, gather the bread - and then placed it again on Norintha's shoulder, this time a lighter touch, meant to reassure.
"I appreciate your advice, Sooraj Dvivedi. I believe my mistress shares your views on the treatment of slaves. I shall tell her of your kindness to our cause, and your excellent manners, and return with word of how we can grow a friendship, like the tall, thin trees that line your beaches, which I can only assume grow like weeds."
"I am Sorala Ironeyes of House Morgannan, and if any of our people bother you further, mention that you are my friend, and they will leave you... and your property alone. House Morgannan does not forget kindnesses, and will need friends in the coming years."
Standing aside to let her men gather the bread, Sorala gives Dvivedi a deep curtsy, a sign of respect, Eitleán's blade ticking against the worn wood floor, the White Squire's other hand still holding Norintha. The girl - they would need to talk. Once out of earshot of the slavers, while her soldiers filled their bellies. Memories of her Loremaster flooded back, of how Aelick saved the life of a willful girl with a bad plan...
Sorala's memories vanish as quickly as her breath on a cold Irriseni morning. This is no time for wool gathering, not in the middle of a battle. That said, few sagas talked about gathering bread mid-combat.
Her men gather up the baked goods, with a few shoving pieces in their mouths, with rapid speed. After giving the goat man a last unfavorable glance, Rossem and the rest vanish back out the door, leaving the table as bare most furniture back home.
Sooraj bows again at Sorala's word, a florid motion with much hand motion. "I am in your debt, Mistress Ironeyes. A fitting name, if I may be so bold, for one as just and resolute as you. I look forward to serving the cities new administration in anyway I can. Please, give my highest regards to House Morgannan. I look forward to an audience." He waves toward the door, "Enjoy the bread."
In short order they are back out in the bright sunny street, the humidity settling on Sorala's shoulder's like a heavy wet cloak. Her eyes, so recently adjusted to the gloom of the bakery, are dazzled again by tropical sun. How did the locals get used to it? It was like noon sun glinting off an icy lake, all the time. She knew that some peasdent used narrow slitter glasses to block snow blindness, a trick learned from Kellid wanderers far to the east. Maybe she could have something made for her...
'Very stylish.'Eitleán says and then add, "Why do you have to bow and drag me through the dust. Can't you salute people with your awesome and legendary blade?"
They cross a few streets, her men eating bread as they walk. Clearly expecting them to wait was so impossible it never occurs to them. Still, the mostly keep formation around her and don't totally degrade to a hungry mob of children.
Ahead the sounds of battle are louder and more clear. The shouts of men are distinct now, as well as groans of pain. A crack and sizzle of magical spells and the clatter of loose stones. Over all of this is a grumbling roar which can only be that of a frost giant. The battle is very close now.
"My many thanks, Sooraj," Sorala says, curtsying once more, a faint smile gracing her lips as she knows she'll hear about from the rimeblade. "You're a man of good judgement and - judging from my men's reactions, a fine baker. Until we see each other again." One last nod, and Sorala pulls Norintha out the door, hurrying towards the front of the group.
The White Squire makes sure to put some distance between herself and Norintha, practically dragging the girl to gain some distance on the soldiers. She speaks low in the common tongue as they go. "This heat, this sun. How do you do anything but lay on the beach in a... it is called a hummock, yes? Anyways... you fulfilled my command, if... unconventionally. We'll return in a few days, you and I, and free your people. If you are serious, you will fight for them. And we will need someone good with locks, if you know anyone." With a careful flick of Eitleán's blade, Sorala severs the remaining rope binding Norintha's wrists. "And if you are not serious..." Sorala waves Eitleán, as if towards the horizon. "The world is large, and it would be easy to slip away once we join the battle."
Turning back to her men, Sorala speaks, her voice flat as her eyes, the more familiar Skald rolling off her tongue. She could taste copper in her mouth, a curious thing that happened every time she knew violence was near. "Do you hear it? Can you smell it? Yelling, blood, ash? We'll be bonded soon, as only those that kill for each other can be. I've given you a full belly today. Stay loyal and there will be many more meals. Protect the girl - Norintha - from our countrymen, for she knows the city. And commit yourselves to fighting with honor. We do great things for our House today. The sagas will speak well of us. Stay close, follow my lead, and bundle any fear in the dark place inside you, like a cave left buried under snow. We do our duty to our House, to ourselves, and to our future." Turning back towards the battle, Sorala raises Eitleán and sprints towards what the day will bring, the best and worst of it stretching out in front of her, the rapidly approaching unknown. Sorala was, at the heart of it, one half of a weapon, and it was time to do what she did best in the world.
"Hammock." Norintha corrects automatically, the halfling obviously confused by Sorala's words. Clearly she is still very unsure what to make of the White Squire and Sorala can't blame her. She barely knows what to make of herself these days. Still, she got everyone bread and no one had to die, on either side. That was probably worth something.
"I've met better jailers,"Eitleán remarks as he cuts Norintha's last bonds loose. "But then again, I am a poor warden's truncheon."
Sorala's speech seems to go over well, although she wonders how much of that was her inspiring turn of phrase or the fact she just filled their stomachs. Perhaps Irriseni loyalty is only belly deep? Still, they seem committed and follow after her when the White Squire sprints out into the alley, around a corner and out into more blinding sunlight.
And they smack right into the back ranks of milling soldiers. Chaos breaks out as Sorala, Rossem and everyone else get instantly enmeshed with a bunch of other troops standing in a large plaza. She panics for a single moment before she realizes these are allied troops, other Irriseni. Then she is busy trying to calm down the fights and scuffles that just broke out from her headlong charge, so it is a few moments before Sorala can pause, catch her breath and look around. There is a good bit to see.
She is standing on the edge of a open bit of space, several times wider then the streets behind her. A rough plaza, it wraps around a crumbling old pile of roughly mortered stones that are obviously the Old Fort Norintha mentioned. Old is the right word. While several times larger then the houses around here, it is in severe disrepair. The walls are little more then tumbled piles of rocks, overgrown with plant life ranging from colorful blossoms to full blown trees, roots like thick ropes. Sorala can vaguely make out the remains of towers and gates, but it is all mostly just a mass of rich brown stone.
Sorala's trained eyes can see movement along the top of the old, broken walls. Figures moving this way and that, and the gleam of armor. Lots of armor. Like, full plate armor.
Eitleán snorts, 'Looks like more then a pack of pirates.'
A few flag poles have even been stuck in the rubble fort, clearly revealing the besiged don't intend to give up any time soon. The banners are blood red and black, and they trigger some bit of lore Sorala gathered from somewhere.
Cheliax.
Her eyes leave the ramparts to the base of the old walls where she sees a thin line of fallen bodies. Past attempts to rush the fortifications? Men and women wearing thick furs, along with a few more exotic corpses. Half a dozen fey, a winter wolf or two and even a blue skinned frost giant. Heavy losses for so little gain.
"You will charge or I'll rip your throat out!" Sorala hears a voice roar next to her, in rough Skald. Turning her head she can see the source of the shouting.
A hulking human form but with sharp, canine angles. His black hair is rough and wild, spilling down over his back and chest. Clothes barely fit across his bulging, muscular frame, setting him apart from the other mostly underfed soldiers. His teeth seem awfully long....
Vasim and he is clearly assembling the troops in line for another, futile charge directly at the ramshackle walls.
"Isn't it exciting, though, Eitleán?" Sorala thinks, her mindvoice lilting and teasing in tone. "Doing something different? Setting someone free instead of sending them to their gods?"
The chaos Sorala turns into sends any teasing from her mind, and the White Squire grips her sword close to her side, careful to not accidentally stab anyone in the press of Irrisenity. Reflexively, her spare hand reaches out and pulls the halfling close. "Norintha, they are slavers too. I assume you'd like me to kill them all?"
OK, maybe she wasn't done teasing after all, though Sorala catches her tone exhibiting a little too much dismay as she catches sight of Vasim. Things were... as she expected.
"Norintha, the fort is falling down. Surely there is a way to the top that is not over the walls where our men have been attacking. Do you know of anything?"
Sorala doubted that the Cheliaxians occupied the fort before retreating here upon her peoples' arrival. Surely it would be in better condition if that was the case. Perhaps Norintha knew something they did not - a particularly crumbly section of the wall, or gods willing, a long-underused tunnel? One could hope, at least.
Regardless of what Norintha did - or did not- know, the current situation could be used to Sorala's advantage. She turns to her soldiers, and beckons them as close as they can get within the crowd.
"They are going to rush the walls, again. Many of our people will die. Don't be fools. Follow me when the assault begins."
There was no need to announce herself to Vasim yet. Sorala held her troops at attention on the outskirts of the crowd, waiting to see if Vasim could urge more of his men to their deaths.
There is a long moment of eloquent silence from Eitleán in response.
Norintha glances at the row of Chelish flags and then back to the White Squire. "I would not mind..." The halfling says with a very slight grin. Sorala makes a note that her new halfling guide is a formidable woman.
The halfling considers her question for a long moment, glancing around the crowded streets filled with soldiers, clearly trying to get her bearings. Sorala guesses this is not what the area looks like, a heaving swarm of shouting dying men, fey and werewolves. The smell of dust, blood and fear mingle in the air, resting on her tongue. Even with a lifetime of training, Sorala feels her pulse quicken, her eyes widen, the thrill of combat rising.
In her mind, in a different place then where Eitleán spoke, Sorala can hear another voice. Alastia saying, "You are not a Ulfen berserker. Never loose yourself in blind bloodlust. Remember, you are a soldier not some backcountry barbarian!"
When Norintha speaks, it shatters Sorala's memory like old ice.
"The main gate is on the other side, that is where people usually come and go." The middle aged halfling rubs her chin in thought, "But the doors are mostly still there. Would be hard to charge. I think on the waterside, the buildings run right against the wall. Perhaps..." She waves a hand and Sorala can see, along the side of the Old Fort facing the ocean (which is several blocks away) houses and buildings are built right up against the crumbling old wall. It is, at least, less exposed then charging blindly over bare ground.
Sorala is about to shuffle her men when she sees activity on the ramparts of the old fort. A new flag goes up, striking in a freeze sea breeze. A flag of pure white. The flag of parley. The Chelish wished to talk? Promising.
Vasim of course ignores it and starts to order his men forward in another bloody charge.
Sorala's eyes widen just so-slightly as the white flag goes up. Her teasing - and Eitleán's sulking forgotten, Sorala's mindvoice muses "This day is full of twists and turns, is it not? Perhaps it will be an easy one, in the end."
"We may not get the opportunity today," Sorala says to Norintha, careful to betray any emotion. "They wish to parley. Stay with Rossum, I am going to speak with a very dangerous man."
Turning to Rossum, Sorala barks an order in Skald, "Keep the halfling safe. Use my name if need be. Don't join any charge. Use my name if need be. I'll be back as soon as I'm able."
Frowning, Sorala pushes into the crowd, Eitleán held high above her head. She'd found the rimeblade's display usually sufficient to get members of the House to give deference, even when she was not known.
Pushing next to Vasim, Sorala gives the werewolf a salute worthy of the most decorated military commander. Wrestling control from Vasim would be... touchy. Turning, so that she can be viewed by most of the soldiers as well as Vasim, Sorala points Eitleán towards the white flag fluttering above the fort's walls.
Turning on her heel, Sorala starts a slow walk towards the castle walls and the white flag flying above it, a softer message meant only for the werewolf trailing behind her. "Vasim, walk with me."
"Do not pull the wings from the carrier pigeon, Vasim. Lady Elysia assigned me to take care of this. It was not an order she wished to give twice. I don't know why she felt the need to send me when you so ably have things in hand, but here I am for one does not question the Lady, as you well know. I can say this - I will speak well to your Leadership today, when she asks. To bring the Chelish to heel, like an... elk broken for riding. It is a fine accomplishment, and you should be proud."
"Please take a well-earned moment to celebrate with your soldiers. You are welcome to accompany the parley as well, if you wish."
Flattering without icing over who was in charge. Sorala hoped it was enough to molify the werewolf.
Rossem gives Sorala a salute, and wipes away some crumbs from his mouth. "You fed us," he adds simply, 'We'll follow you anywhere. Less charges the better though." She wondered if the man had ever spoken so long to a commanding officer before. Perhaps her people were not quite as beaten down as she thought. Just hungry.
Pushing through the crowd is difficult even with the rimeblade parting the bustling groups. In her mind Eitleán remarks, "Maybe we can get you a specter, that you can wave around when you want to seem important. Or perhaps a very fancy hat.'
Her speech to the Irrisen troops obviously catches everyone off guard from the sweating men to the tiny fey to the single looming frost giant, his blue skin shimmering in the heat. Sorala notes some are still wearing heavy furs and cloaks, perhaps unwilling to leave such wealth behind even during a brutal charge over open ground.
Vasim looks totally thrown by her arrival, and his dark eyes dark from the rimeblade to Rossem and back again. A low growl forms in his throat as he rudely pushes some stammering human officer aside. The werewolf steps up to Sorala, looming over her like a dark forest tree but Sorala is not afraid. She has dealt with such people her entire life and for one sworn in service of Lady Elysia, a mere werewolf is a trifle.
Well, he does have very long teeth and fingers like hardened claws....
And yet he follows her out of close earshot of the milling troops.
Vasim listens to Sorala's words without interruptions but it is obvious from his agitated step and hunched shoulders he doesn't like what he hears. Sorala's place in the court hierarchy is vague but the werewolf would normally never dream of outranking her. He was an fairly effective bully and enforcer, sent out to keep the countryside in line. Vasim was no force in court in normal times. Yet, these were not normal times. Here he was, placed in command of a small army and given the chance to prove his worth in a new and exciting land. Port Peril may be a place where a bully could shine, if given the chance. And now Sorala was taking it away from him.
The werewolf growled, "You humans know nothing of the hunt. Does the wolf, after tearing off the leg of a stag, sit down and discuss terms? No, it tears out the throat." Vasim took in a heavy breath, making his huge chest swell like a great bellows. "Talking is a waste of time. We should charge, take the fort and demand what we will. What is the point of parley." The last word is snarled like a curse, "Unless we want the locals to get in the habit of defiance."
"Oh, please, Eitleán," Sorala thinks, her mindvoice lilting. "You're much more attention-grabbing than any hat on Avistan, I guarantee it."
Sorala walks in front of Vasim, leading him, like a well, dog, towards the walls. The Squire's voice drifts over her shoulder, her pace slow and meandering, her attention split between the hulking brute just over her shoulder and the walls of the fort. Were there threats? Was this a trick to do as she'd intended while Vasim pushed his men towards their deaths? To cut the head off a snake, in this case, the Irrisini?
Stopping, Sorala kneels and looks at soldier, a thick man, still clothed in his furs, a fine bubble of blood forming at his mouth. The last vestiges of a life. A wasted life.
"How did this battle begin?" Sorala asks Vasim as she pulls the man's cloakhood - made from a bear's pelt - down over his eyes. Did he have family? Likely, given the typical Irrisini organizational skill, they would never find out exactly what happened to him. "What was the flashpoint? Why?"
Sighing, Sorala stands and once again looks to the walls. "Keep your senses and wits about you Eitleán, for any that want to do us harm. Vasim excluded, of course." She waits while Vasim explains himself, and then starts walking again, quicker this time.
Waving her hand towards the thin line of bodies, Sorala smiles, a flat, mirthless smirk. "It looks like the locals are already in a habit of defiance, yes? And besides..." Sorala waves her hand again, this time towards the fort. "They aren't locals. They are Chelaxian, and - in case you're not aware - Cheliax is a powerful nation, with a population and army that makes ours look... provincial in comparison. We've got plenty of work in front of us without starting a second war. Which may be the result of your battle today."
"But, dear Vasim, I concede I know nothing of the hunt. I was from a family of fishermen, before I was Morgannan's White Squire. And I've got little facility for tracking. But I am a soldier, and I know the business of warfare well. And I can tell you that your assault has had little effect."
Sorala steps over a small, red-hatted fey, ugly and gnome-like, her frown deepening. "You've lost a giant today. One of two in your army. And two winter wolves, a handful of fey. And countless men. And, as far as I can tell, unless we're entranced by an elaborate illusion, we're still standing on the wrong side of the fort's walls, yes?"
"These dead were men, and fey, and a giant, that could be put to use later, to pacify the rest of the island. Their deaths make our jobs that much harder. Our men are not an infinite resource. We will talk with the Chelaxians and find out what they want. This is no more their home than ours. They have no connection to Port Peril's food, geography, people. We shall find out what motivates them, and after our parley if it is needed, we will charge the fort again."
Sorala raises her hand to her eyes and blocks out the sun. Squinting, she raises her voice next, to the men on the walls. "Parley accepted! Send down your negotiators!"
Eitleán replies with a bit of snark, "This is a city under siege, currently being invaded by our army. I'm not waiting until you tell me to pay attention. Trust me, soon as we stepped through that portal I was watching your back." Then, a bit snidely, "Even while you were fantasying about strolling along the beach."
Vasim seems very confused when Sorala asks for the exact cause of the current crisis unfolding around them. Ever so softly he sounds out the word 'flashpoint', the word rolling oddly in his elongated jaw. Then he shakes his burly shoulders, "We are invading the city, Squire. They are the prey. We are the hunters."
'I think debate over casus belli is wasted here, Sorala.' Eitleán comments dryly.
The werewolf's confusion quickly shifts to anger however at Sorala's following comments. Vasim might not be the sharpest knife but he has a certain cunning and Sorala's remarks are not lost on him.
"It takes blood to win fights, Squire. Surely you learned that in your life so far?" Vasim growls. His hands clench and unclench at his side and the White Squire has a fair idea the man would love to attack her and tear her throat. Still, while impetuous the werewolf is not that crazy and he merely rages internally when Sorala orders a halt to charges. Vasim's quivering anger however does slightly concern her.
'How to win friends and influence people.' Her rimeblade remarks.
At her shouted words the Irrisen soldiery, of all races and species, happily stands down. Charging a fortified position is no one's idea of a fun time, and it doesn't take a lifetime of training to see frontal attacks were useless.
From the ramparts a Chelish armored figure waves an arm and shouts back, voice barely audible over the din, "Accepted!" There is a clatter and confusion behind the walls as Chelish troops hustle this way and that.
Barely audible Vasim growls to himself, "They will strength their walls.."
In short order however, two figures start to scramble down the rubbled wall. Behind them, archers and other troops gather, clearly covering them with protection. One of the two figures is heavily armored while the other seems to be wearing civilian clothes. They pauses half way down the wall, in a place where a lone tree grows right out of the jumbled rock, providing some shade and a semi-flat spot. Sorala notes the tiny platform is littered with Irrisen dead.
Fair enough.
Sorala strides purposefully toward the meeting and, after a long pause, Vasim follows after. Clearly missing out the chance to be at such a meeting is too much for the werewolf to resist. The other troops part around her, giving her a free path toward the parley.
The rocks are another matter and instantly Sorala can see why Vasim's charges were pointless. The rocks are just small enough to shift and slide under her feet but large enough to trap them. Everything is worn smooth by countless rains and coated with mud and green slime. Was this entire island alive? They scramble upward, pausing now and then to cut clinging roots or shift imposing stones.
The Chelish wait patiently.
Nearing them Sorala can see one is a fully armored knight, the metal twisted into an array of sharp and twisted spines and spikes. The metal is dusted a dark gray, although here and there a scrape exposes bright metal. Sorala can only wonder how hot such protection must be. A heavy metal spear rests in his hands, the jagged tip dripping blood.
The other Chelishman, and he is a man, is dressed in rather stylish clothes fit for a noble. Blood red robes trimmed in glittering gold, complete with a small tiara of worked gold. His skin is pale and clear, if reddened by the sun. He is young, younger then she would have guessed but his eyes were sharp and penetrating.
"Greetings." He says in Common, glancing at the hulking Vasim. "I trust we can be civilized about all of this? This is a parley and all that, so can we agree to peaceful discussing matters?" He reaches for a pocket and pulls out a small box, pauses and offers it to Sorala.
"Snuff?" The young man smiles a smile that does not reach his eyes, "It is quite safe, I assure you. There is no excuse for us not to be civilized."
Behind him, the knight remains silent as a worked statue.
"Fair enough," Sorala thinks, her mindvoice calm, all teasing gone. "I apologize for neglecting you. Of course you're looking out, and I should have been more respectful."
Sorala simply shrugs as her vocabulary eludes the werewolf, her wiry shoulders rolling inside her cloak. He was a blunt object, one tool expected to do the work of an entire toolbox. "Fair point, again. I expect we'll need the Chels to fill in the gaps."
Vasim's anger hovers over Sorala, like a winter squall, but Sorala has spent most of her life living in similar clouds, and she brushes it off. The wolfman was not likely to kill her. Here, now at least. "Blood must be worth the sacrifice. Again I ask, what have you gained? Perhaps we gain that in the next few minutes, and then the blood will have been worth it. And if not, there is always your approach to try again."
Taking in the knight, Sorala offers them her small, flat smile, as devoid of mirth as that of her snuff-offering counterpart. "You must be as hot as some of our soldiers in that armor. And the message sent with your blood-soaked spear is not lost. You must be a fine warrior, one I wish served us."
Despite the fearsome knight's presence, the most dangerous enemy stood in stylish clothes, hand offering a gift. Sorala waves her hand, brushing the offer of snuff aside. "Our people have a long and storied history, our sagas as moving as any opera, our symphonies a delight upon the ears. But, I would not call us civilized. And, alas, I am not in the habit of accepting gifts from those that would kill me. Thank you for the generous offer, however, and I mean no offense with my refusal. I am simply cautious. Vasim, would you like to try it?"
"I am Sorala Ironeyes. I admit to arriving... a few hours ago from afar, and was suprised to find our soldiers in a battle with such a formidable and storied group of foreigners as the Chelish. From your..." Sorala struggles for a moment with the foriegn word, "perspective, how did we get here? Why do you defend Port Peril?"
Giving a sideways glance to Vasim, she repeats her earlier question. "What was the flashpoint to our little tussle today?"
The knight is utterly unmoved by Sorala's attempts at conversation. As far as the White Squire can tell, the figure isn't even breathing, not that such a thing is easy to tell behind full plate armor.
"I wouldn't waste your time," said the young man easily, opening the snuff box and pulling out some pungent flakes of dried leaves. "The woman you are addressing is Maidrayne Vox, Mistress of Blades for the Order of the Nail. She is currently under going a vow of silence, for..." He turns toward the glowering figure of steel, "What was it again? Youthful indiscretions of the flesh?" The towering warrior did not move an inch.
The young Chelish noble smiled and sniffed at his snuff saying, "Quite." He frowns when Sorala declines but says easily, "Shame, it is of quite good quality. My own family's plantations."
He snaps the lacquered wooden box with a click and puts it away.
"Well said." The nobleman agrees with the White Squires take on events. "Frankly, as I see it, all of this," he vaguely waves a manicured hand at Vasim's waiting troops, the Chelish lining the walls and the several dozen dead bodies scattering the rocky slope, "As an unfortunate misunderstanding. As you astutely surmise we are strangers to this port, merely passing through. Imagine our surprise that, while gathering food and water for the next leg of our trip, we find ourselves amidst a rather dreadful battle."
A sniff and then a shrug, "I at first guessed it was merely a rival gang of pirates. You know how it is 'How has the bigger ship' and 'Give me my loot' and all that. Barbarians, the lot of them. Clearly I was wrong however." He gives Sorala, a piercing glance and then spares a moment for the troops below.
"Judging from your clothing, you come from a more northerly clime? Ulfen, maybe?" Then he frowns, "Not enough beards. Surely not Mammoth Riders, not enough Mammoths." The noble chuckles at his own joke, quite merrily, as if he wasn't sitting on the field of battle with dead bodies within arm's reach.
"But I forget my manners. Here I am asking you information without introducing myself." The smile dies away, "I am Lord Carvius, scion of House Charthagnion, Guardians of the Hespereth Straits, Keeper of the Nine Forts and Overlords of Kharijite. My pleasure to meet you Sorala Ironeyes."
"As for the fighting, I can only confess self defense." Carvius says, another delicate shrug of his thin shoulders, "As I said, we were purchasing provisions in the harbor when armed troops assailed us. Under advisement from the more military minded among us, we withdrew to this happily secure position and waited for tempers to cool." A quick glance at Vasim, a knowing smile and "But we understand how these things go. One's blood gets up and, well everything just starts looking like an enemy. Berserker, I think the northern tribes call it."
The Chelish man lets out a small breath and goes on, "I assume we can come to some arrangement that reduces further bloodshed? Or do you need to talk to your superiors?" there is a slight edge to his voice, the tone of an important man hoping he had not just wasted his time explaining things to the help.
Eitlean remarks in the silence of Sorala's mind, 'He'd give the Jadwiga a run for their money.'
What bothers her most is...she can't tell if the man is telling the truth. This is normally something Sorala is very good at. It is a little disconcerting to be out of her depth so quickly. Tikhon would have been less then impressed.
At her side Vasim indicates that, as far as he understands, Carvius is telling the truth about how the fighting started.
"She is currently undergoing a vow of silence?" Sorala asks, casting a sidelong glance at the Mistress of Blades, idly wondering if she could best the Hellknight in a fight. "How long does this vow last? Wouldn't that be an... impudent, excuse me - Taldane is not my first tongue - impediment in a battle? Not that the Mistress needs assistance, given the state of her weapon."
"My apologies for my fascination. I realize we have more important things to discuss. It is just very different - she is very different. Than the warriors of my lands. I have never seen a Hellknight before. I see why their reputations are so large. And yes," Sorala muses returning her flat gray eyes to focus on Carvius. "I am Ulfen." It wasn't a lie, exactly. Sorala was in fact Ulfen - in ethnicity, if not in nationality.
"It seems unfortunately that you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. And it seems that we've paid a price in blood for your being here. Tell me, so I can better understand, why were your ships in harbor? Cheliax is a long way from here."
Sorala lets Carvius's barb about superiors go by unanswered, like gust of wind - blustery, but of little importance to the matter at hand. She had been given the order to resolve this situation and that was enough. But there was no need for Carvius to know this.
She dares not smile in this situation, but Eitleán's remark brings a smirk - internally at least. "Officious, passive aggressive, self-important, and cruel. Think Elysia is looking for a suitor?"
"You've asked for parley, Lord Carvius, scion of House Charthagnion, Guardians of the Hespereth Straits, Keeper of the Nine Forts and Overlords of Kharijite. What is your request?"
Maidrayne Vox remains a silent looming figure throughout Sorala's questions. Even her eyes are invisible lost in the deep dark of the heavy helmet and visor. It was like staring at a stern standing stone. And yet, despite the utter stillness, there was a sense of action there, of potential. Raw power and motion, pent up behind a façade of steel.
'And you want to fight her?' Eitleán said mildly, 'You are crazy.' A slight pause and then, 'We'd have to go for the joints...'
Her thoughts are pushed down a different slope when Carvius laughs and says, "Large, yes. First rate." The Chelishman cocks his head and gazes at the Hellknight Mistress of Blades. "I swear, they put something in their water, she must be what, six and a half feet tall?" A turn back to Sorala, "Don't don't let that fool you. She is quite the jokester, wonderful at feasts. Isn't that right Maidrayne?"
Imposing, glowering silence. Sorala vainly seeks for some movement, some reaction. It is like trying to see an earthquake in a distant mountain.
"Ulfen, eh?" Carvius says and then with a formal air studied to a schoolboy reciting a poem says,
"By sun and moon
I journeyed west,
My sea-borne tune
From Gorum's breast
My sing-ship packed
With poet’s art:
It’s word-keel cracked
The frozen heart."
What is remarkable is, he says the ancient Linnorm poem is bad but understandable Skald. The poem is not one Sorala knows yet it stirs something in her blood, some deep memory of a time before the White Witches, when her people were their own masters...
"Capital!" Carvius says, obviously quite pleased with himself, "Never thought I'd ever get to use that, old Professor Sextent would be proud."
He waves casually when Sorala asks why the Chelish are here, hundreds ir not thousands of miles from home.
"I mean, frankly, it isn't any of your business. Port Peril was, when we landed, an open port not under your control, but in the interest of friendly relations I can tell you. Sargava, of course. We are a major expedition to bring order and civilization to Garund. Building roads and crushing bandits, all that. Bringing light and wealth to the colonies."
The nobleman sat down on a handy flat rock, and shifted slightly to be under the shade of the sole tree. He glanced up at the boiling sun and said, conversationally, "Beastly hot, isn't it? Unnatural."
Eitleán is silent for a moment when Sorala ventures her joke but then says, 'Those such as these do not seek suitors, Sorala. They seek prey.'
Lord Carvius narrows his eyes when Sorala repeats his entire list of titles back to him, and his face tightens a bit. When he speaks, his voice has lost some of the fake jovial tone.
"My request is simple, Sorala Ironeyes." The young man says, "First and most obviously, a halt to the deplorable and unwarranted violence subjected to me and my own. Second, a promise of safe passage to the docks without further molestation. Third, repayment for any damages done and lastly, a formal apology from whoever your leader is." His eyes are still hard and narrow, reading Sorala's face. "Should be straightforward enough."
Sorala catches the tightness in Carivus's voice, his face. "Interesting. Pride to the point it could cost him. More like a Jadwiga every second." She would of course apologize, and hope she was believed, for she meant no offense. But that would wait a bit. First, Sorala needed to figure out options. And to buy time, Sorala pivots, first to Carvius's poem, the Skald flowing from Sorala's lips, fluid, less halting and purposely precise as her Taldane.
"Ahh, it is so good to hear this poem. Truly, it stirs something deep in my bosum. The memory of blood, yes? Your Skald is - frankly - better than our champion's here. Your Professor Sextent should indeed be proud. Would you like to walk with me?"
When Carvius brushes off her entreaty, Sorala waves a hand, letting the offence go, and continues speaking in her native tongue. "Of course and understandable. My Taldane is better than either of your Skald, alas. I shall switch back to Taldane. For now."
In her mindvoice, Sorala comes to the easiest of the decisions. "Conditions one and two, are of course possible."
Pivoting to the Hellknight, Sorala resumes in her Taldane, a small frown playing again across her lips, a bit of regret showing that she couldn't hear the woman talk.
"It is a shame that I can't hear what your champion has to say. In my culture, women have the sharpest insights and soundest advice. If I may offer advice, muzzling your Knights does your people a disservice. And Maidrayne Vox, Mistress of Blades for Order of the Vail, in the future, if we are all alive and you are in Port Peril, and of course if you are finished with your vow, you have a standing invitation to visit. If your masters allow for it, of course."
"Yes, the joints. We'd open with some rime magic, make that heavy suit of armor a burden rather than protection. And then snip her joints. She'd be as useless as a marionette without a puppeteer."
The third condition would be more difficult, but Sorala believed she could offer them enough. That fourth condition though. The apology? Sorala had to restrain herself to keep from snorting at the thought. The next bit would be delicate. And she would have to do it in Skald.
"I wished to walk with you out of earshot of our soldiers so that I could discuss things openly and honestly. Speaking in my native tongue will have to suffice instead. Forgive me if I speak too quickly, and let me know if you need clarification on anything. Spending the day speaking Taldane has reminded me just how difficult communicating in other languages can be."
"Conditions one and two can be granted. Hostilities will be ceased and you will be given safe passage to the docks. I will accompany you there myself, and no one will harm you or your soldiers. As for repayment in damages, we are in the process of securing our hold over the city, and can offer you nothing directly at this time. We also suffered loss today. You can take some solace that you have made our coming weeks much more difficult. You are of course welcome to finish any business in the city that was cut short, and are welcome to any supplies that you... find on the way to the docks. If you need to pressgang the locals to fill out your crew, you have our blessing to take any locals not in service to us. Projecting power from afar is difficult. You need a navy to bring order and civilization to Garund. And I gather that we are an important resupply point. We look forward to helping your navy project its power in the future. Your ships will be welcome here in our port, if we part today on peaceful terms."
"As for your fourth condition, I believe in speaking hard truths, even when they are not pleasant to hear. Our nobles do not apologize. If you insist on such a thing, you will die today. This is the hard truth. I have no doubt that your women and men will acquit themselves well in the field of battle. But you will die. All the snuff-producing plantations in the world mean nothing to a dead man. It will be painful for us as well, no doubt, and a much more difficult road for our people, for Cheliax is a powerful nation and will need to be accommodated. But don't believe for a second that your or my life is so valuable as to be but a minor inconvenience to the plans of our masters. Accommodation will be reached with or without us."
"So think carefully if my master's apology is worth dying over. And though I recognize it does not hold as much value, you will get an apology today - mine. I see that I offended you by the use of your titles. Please know that in my culture, when dealing with those that may wish to cause you harm, it is... prudent to use every title known so as not to cause offence. I meant no disrespect, and - if I may - will refer to you in the future as Lord Charthagnion."
Lord Charthagnion seems somewhat mollified by Sorala apology and waves it away. "Of course, of course. Different cultures and all that. " Still, the White Squire has long experience with such seemingly minor missteps spelling someone's doom. How many servants had seen she flogged or left out in a winter's storm for some barely detectable slight or mistake? A memory stirs of a young house servant whose fingernails had been removed for leaving a single fingerprint on her mistress's fine crystal.
"I did not muzzle her," Carvius says in Common, waving at the Hellknight, "It is self imposed, ruled by some obscure religious dictate. " A smile, "Chelish are greatly involved in obscure religion."
The young nobleman follows her Skald, although it clearly takes some effort from him and she fears some of her subtly is wasted in translation. In Common he replies, "Forgive me if I reply in Taldane, my Skald is not up to diplomatic niceties."
The Chelishman stands up, a movement that makes Vasim growl. The lord laughs at this and says, "Am I so mighty, do I engender so much fear?"
Then the humor flickers away again, like snow atop a stoked stove. The shifting mood puts Sorala off balance, but it is also a ploy she is long familiar with.
"Your acceptance of the first term is taken, gratefully. Ending a pointless fight is wise and I am glad you saw it. You predecessor, whom I believe is standing behind you, seemed to lack it."
There werewolf does not growl this time but give a toothy grin and says, "Your ships were burning, last time I saw them Lord."
For the first time Lord Charthagnion shows real emotion, both the mock joviality and the cool diplomatic mask falling away. Instead is replaced with outright fear and disgust.
"The boats are on fire?! I'm trapped here?" The young man says with open revulsion. He whirls around toward the ramparts and shouts, "You there! Go to a high point and check our ships! Report back instantly." Two archers hurry off down the crumbling wall, heading to a teetering tower of old stone along a far wall.
Carvius takes a deep breath, visibly steadies himself, smoothing out his robes and slicking back some wayward hairs. After a moment he replies quite calmly, "Let us set that matter aside while my men look into it. I believe the tower should give them a suitable vantage." Only an echo of terror crosses his face before he goes on, "As for your third acceptance, that seems fair enough. I believe most of our supplies was onship already, when your attack came. As for our dead and wounded, a bill can be sent via diplomatic channels to...whoever is in charge of your lot?" A glimpse to the still grinning werewolf, before adding, "I assume you have diplomatic channels?"
A tiny shrug, and then he stills. The young man leans over, picks up a tiny stone from the gravel pile around them. He bounces the brown chunk on his hand a few times. "Hard truths. Hard truths indeed."
"Your nobles do not apologize. Ever?" Another bounce of the stone. "Curious. Even when it would be wise to do so? Are you suggesting your masters are fools? Or perhaps blind to the future? Do they bind their eyes and cast about without reason or logic?" He tosses the stone at a dead Irriseni, and the rock bounces off the woman's head.
"Perhaps. It is so in other kingdoms, or so I am told. Barbarian kings ruling by iron fists and bloody swords. Brave, in their own fashion, but utter fools. Because fools they must be, if they place themselves on the same level as a Chelish noble, scion of a Grand House, heir to the Archduchy of Longmarch."
"Maybe the answer would be different I was here with my Legions..." Another sour smile, "But I am without me Legions. And, while your master may be a fool, I am not. Very well, no apology. Well, what should one expect of backward barbarians?"
'I hope he gets to meet Elysia . It'll be the shortest embassy on record.' Sorala's rimeblade comments inside her head.
Then from above a voice calls, "Sir, ready to report!" The archer does his best to vanish into the stone, which tells Sorala all she needs to know about the report.
Carvius must have come to the same conclusion for he lets out a very long, very theatrical sigh (that the man cannot possibly hear) before waving and shouting, "Out with it then. The ships?"
"All afire, sir." The voice floats down. "All save one, your flagship."
"Thank the Archfeind for small mercies." The Chelish Lord says heavily before turning to Sorala, "Well, I clearly have matters to attend to. Our truce is decided then? And we will be free of further nuisances? I would not look kindly on a betrayal of my trust and honor."
A long moment of silence passes.
There is a painting by the fine Irrisenian artist Galia Kliempt, an artist so pure of expression there were rumors she was more than Jadwiga even, an etheral wisp of woman said to be from beyond Avistan, even Golarian. The most common rumor was that she was from the fey realms, though others held she was from the far east - a kitsune trickster - and some even felt she was from another planet. It was, according the histories, not true. She was Jadwiga through and through, and capable of capturing the inner landscape of the residents of Baba Yaga's realm simply by virtue of having lived in it.
Her most famous work depicts a young woman in the capital of Whitethrone, the landscape behind her muted, imposing buildings in gray and white, rimed with ice. Around the woman, a swirl of colors, her inner turmoil made evident in reds and oranges and yellows. The woman's hands are clasped to her cheeks, her mouth open in a singular, everlasting scream, an apt title Kliempt's work as any more flowery Jadwiga sentiment. The Scream is often considered the greatest Irrisenian work of fine art, and surely Sorala thinks, was painted with a forecasting of this exact moment in time, a silent scream of building frustration and rage ringing through the White Squire's mind.
The barbs thrown her way by Carvius were easy enough to brush off with a simple, placid shrug and a one word reply, "Perhaps," but the news of the ships...
Sorala briefly considers killing the Chelish. It would do no good. Certainly they had contacts here that would tell their next representative what they knew and saw today. She considers for a moment longer giving Vasim over to Carvius for restitution, but without knowing for sure it was him that gave the order, nor whether Elysia blessed it...
It was best to let that lie, for now. Instead, face still placid, she gives Carvius a cool nod. "You have two hours to gather your things. I promised to escort you to your ship, and I intend to do so."
Turning on her heel, Sorala's grey cloak trails behind her as she makes her way down the walls.
"Congratulations," she says to Vasim, her voice flat. "You've humbled of the haughtiest men I've ever met. Your order to burn to ships was the inspired."
She doubts Vasim will realize the compliment is little more than an attempt to fish for information about who gave the order.
"Once the Chelish are gone, secure the fort and join me this evening to report to Lady Elysia. In the interim, I'll take the Chels to their ship. I'll be taking thirty of your men and the giant for security."
At the bottom of the walls, Sorala looks about the milling crowd for Rossem. She would need to get word to the dock immediately to save the last remaining ship...
"Two hours.." The Chelosh nobleman mutters musingly and then shrugs, "Very well, we shall meet here and discuss again in a few hours. Perhaps we hope need to gather information. Mistress of Blades, let us retire." The pair retreat, the Hellknight as silent as ever, picking over the loose stones. The armor seems a heavy weight and she missteps once or twice.
Eitleán chuckles, "She's acting. Clever."
The sarcasm is lost on Vasim when she compliments her for screwing this situation up almost beyond repair.
"That was general order, Squire." The werewolf says, some of his anger having faded away during diplomacy. "Burn all the ships and prevent slaves from escaping. Chaos and destruction was the goal."
Ahh, the Irrisen way.
It only takes Sorala a moment to find Rossem, the others and Norintha who is still there. After Vasim leaves, grumbling something about her stealing his giant, she is alone with her men. A sea breeze blows off the harbor, bringing the scents of salt, old wood and rotting fish. What shouldn't give for a keen northern wind right now.
Rossem looks up at the rocky walls and says, nervously, "Are we...still attacking?"
Norintha glances around and says so quietly only Sorala can hear, "You said it might be easy to slip off...." Clearly the halfling is pressing her captor, just to see how far she can push things.
"Not a few hours, Lord Charthagnion. Two hours." Sorala watches the pair ascend to their position, her shoulders finally relaxing a bit. The White Squire sighs, a deep exhale, letting some of the tension she's been carrying in her go. Tension creeps back, however, as soon as Vasim gives his non-answer.
"Ah, so I don't have you to thank for the order then, Vasim? Who shall I congratulate?"
A small bit of regret pinches at Sorala's mind. "Probably should have given the wolf to the Chelish."
Back at the base of the fortress, Sorala looks with Rossem back at the walls. "No. Probably not, anyways. They've been beaten and ask to be taken to their ships. We will be accompanying them in two hours, along with thirty more men and the giant, for security. But, we won't need it."
The Squire removes a small, slim book from her pack. The book is plain, bound in ivory-white leather, yellowed by years of handling. Ripping a blank page from the back, Sorala scribbles a hasty note onto it and folding it in half, gives it to Rossem. "Send two of your men up the beach. It seems the safest route. Have them present the note to whoever is in charge," - if anyone - at the harbor.
Do not burn the boat flying this banner under any circumstances, unless: I give the order to do so, or I have not arrived at the harbor in four hours, or a contingent of armored men and women arrive without me, carrying banners like the ones I have sketched here. If any of these things happen, burn the boat to the waterline and kill the armed men where they stand with no remorse. With great urgency, Sorala Ironeyes, White Squire of Lady Riina Morgannan.
Below the message, a simple drawing, replicating the banners of the Chels that hang from the old Fort's walls, a means for the reader of Sorala's note to find the ship and Chels she writes of.
"When you are done with this task, Rossem, gather another thirty men from Vasim's forces and wait. You'll have whatever remains of two hours to rest."
With Rossem sent on his mission, Sorala turns to Norintha, frowning slightly at the girl's request. "Yes. It would be easy to do. Get us to the harbor, preferably on a route that will keep views of the Chelish ship hidden until we are there, and you are free to do what you wish. I should tell you, however, that the safest place to be in town right now is by my side. And I hope that you will stay. I gave you my promise to free your people from the slavers, but I can't do that without your help."
Vasim shrugs, "I'm not sure, it just seemed to be...in the air. The Jadwiga made it clear we were to subdue the city completely." the werewolf seems to be a bit uncomfortable, clearly aware Sorala was setting some sort of trap. Even the most basic brute in Irrisen knew that information was a weapon as deadly as any dagger or magic spell. Still, the concept of a 'chain of command' was as foreign to Vasim was were the brightly colored tropical birds currently flitting above their heads.
Rossem glances up at the ramshackle former fort and says uneasily, "What if they don't want to come out?"
In short order runners have taken her message to the harbor but it is little comfort. Irrisen is not known for a obedience to written messages. Gods, would whoever was running things down there even be literate?
"That's taking it a bit far." Her rimeblade remarks in her mind.
Alone with Norintha, the halfling seems to digest Sorala's words slowly.
When she speaks, it isn't of escape, her people or the Chelish. Instead it is a simple question, but spoken in firm, clear language.
"Where are you from? Tell me about your home, Sorala Ironeyes."
Sorala clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, allowing a hint of annoyance to creep into her voice as the werewolf proves craftier than she suspected. "So, you just pluck orders from the air? Like a... a polar bear plucks spawning salmon from a river? In that case, really when it comes down to it, the idea was yours all along, wasn't it? I shall see that you are properly rewarded, Vasim."
As to Rossem's query, Sorala simply shrugs. "Then we burn their last ship, leaving them stranded here. And we throw more of Vasim's army at the walls."
Pulling a roll from her pack, Sorala sits in the shade of a nearby building, relishing the moment of calm and lack of - for the moment at least - a clear threat. Ripping it in half, the White Squire offers one part to Norintha, with her spare hand, while her other hand rests on Eitleán's hilt, the rimeblade never far from her grasp, even when it sits in her lap. "I will answer your question, Continually Surprising Norintha, if you answer one of mine."
"Now, I shall answer questions, one for one, for as long as you like, as I am able. If you wish to know more, ask. And here is my question in return: what were you going to do back there, at the slavers' bakery? When you tensed, as if to spring into action."
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Norintha considers the question silently for a moment, as they both stand in the shade of a ramshackle warehouses. To Sorala the air is rich in strange and exotic scents, heavy with salt. The street was once paved with wood, she guesses, but has long been churned to mud the boards returning to the stuff from which trees are made. Here and there, in nooks and crannies, the flotsam and jetsam of the maritime world are piled. broken crates, coils of frayed rope, the rinds of fruits Sorala does not recognize.
The halfling suddenly shivers, "It's so cold." She steps out into the sunlight.
Cold? To Sorala it felt like she was standing in a sauna, except the fire was above inside of below. The boiling sun was slipping from noon to the west now, still strong and bright.
In the bright light, Sorala takes a long look at her erstwhile guide. She was older then Sorala had thought, probably reaching middle age. Shoulders bent slightly with hard labors, and callused hands, yet she was proud and tall for all that. Life may have been hard on her, but she remained strong and whole. A free woman. What a strange concept.
"I was going to start a fight." Norintha finally said, voice quiet in the empty street. Just around the corner the Irrisen force was talking and marching, but it seemly oddly distant for the moment.
"Between you and the slaver. It was a bad plan but I hoped perhaps you would kill each other and the slaves could escape in the confusion." The stout halfling shrugged, "It was the best I could come up with."
A long moment and then, "You said I can ask more? I have one more question. You said why your liege is here, your master." This last word is said with obvious disdain. "But why are you here? What are you looking for, so far from your home?"
The answer was not surprising, being what Sorala thought was the aim, and yet it was. The Ulfen Irrisini underclass rarely exhibited such backbone, or such a tolerance for risk. She probably doesn't realize... Sorala thinks, her mindvoice trailing off, leaving the second part of her thought unstated. She doesn't realize just how hard her new masters were.
Except, Sorala muses, she is apparently not. Elysia would have had the halfling strung up at the first sign of disobedience, and yet Sorala had no such inclination. Indeed, she realized, she held a grudging respect for the woman.
========
Twelve
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In the end, it was a stupid plan. Sorala, perched on a chair on top of Loremaster Aelick's desk, was able to barely reach the shelf holding the nightblade. Pulling the knife from its cradle, Sorala marveled at the blade for a mere second before slipping it into a satchel hidden under the copious fears covering the girl, furs good for warmth and Sorala figured, subterfuge.
The girl slid the chair off of Aelick's desk and slipped out the Loremaster's office, the girl a dark shape moving through the Manor halls, unseen. Or so she thought. She twisted the handle quietly on her bedroom door, and slid into her room, only to find Aelick sitting on her bed, the gnome's face a furrow of anger, and later, many years later, Sorala would realize, worry.
"The knife," the Loremaster said, holding his hand out, voice clipped. "You silly, stubborn girl, the knife."
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Now
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"It wasn't a bad plan. But it was a reckless plan. Still, I understand you had a moment to make a decision, and I likely would have done the same."
Sorala steps into the sun, next to Norintha, and raises her face to the sun, a small smile gracing her lips. "But I am glad you did not. As to your question..."
The lesson Aelick imparted in those days and weeks after the knife was patience. A rushed plan was no ideal option, as long as there was time to plan others at least. Sorala's thievery of the knife went unmentioned and unpunished, and the years passed. And standing there in the sun in a strange land with a woman who just admitted to almost goading her into a fight, the realization hit Sorala like a gale wind, piercing and chilling. She was still waiting.
"I am here because I have no choice in the matter." The words are spit, redolent with simmering resentment, a rare show of honest emotion. Seconds pass, and Sorala gathers her composure, her voice once again neutral when she speaks once more.
"And now for my next question. What did you do, before my people invaded?"
Norintha considers Sorala's reply for a long moment, face unreadable. "No choice..." She mutters, tapping her chin as she considers the proud, strong Irriseni warrior in front of her. For a strange moment, Sorala wonders how she looks to this halfling. Powerful, tall, dressed in outlandish clothes and bearing a terrible sword. Bringer of death and suffering to her entire people. Sorala must seem a monster, a fear made flesh.
'Or fight or fly,
This choice is left ye, to resist or die.
Northina finally says, as if quoting something. Some holy text? Or perhaps a local saying related to the sea? The halfling podners something for a moment and comes to some sort of choice.
"We have time, before you meet the Chelish again, yes? Take a moment and come with me. I want to show you something." The halfling gives a small smile, one of the first Sorala has seen on the middle-aged and worn face of her guide. It suits the woman, and makes her look far younger. "I promise, no ambushes."
Norintha leads Sorala down a narrow side alley for a few blocks, twisting through a tangle of rundown buildings and warehouses. It seems to be a blighted commercial district, as far as Sorala can tell. Old crumbling storage buildings mixed with ramshackle shops. Suddenly it opens into a irregular shaped square, an odd shaped gap. Around the space are small poorly built wooden shanties, half buried in mud and garbage. A reek of human waste fills the air, and the buzz of flies is audible.
"Slave quarters." Norintha says grimly, "These house the slaves for rent." The signs of squalor are many, even to Sorala's untrained eye. Many of the homes are falling apart or covered in exotic fungal growths. Even as she watches a pack of rats break cover and vanish into one of the seemingly empty homes.
But Norintha turns away from the dwellings toward a squat stone pillar in the middle of the haphazard square. It is light colored stone, stained by rain and neglect. It is square and unadorned except for some very faded words carved into the rock, no longer readable.
"This marks where Basoom was hung." Sorala's guide says, "He was a slave, many years ago. He was hung for the crime of, after a lifetime of whips, chains and blows, daring to dream of other things. He planned a world without slaves, without that violence. He spoke to others, dared share his hope. And for that, Basoom was betrayed, found and, on this spot, flayed to death. This stone was placed here to teach a lesson to the other slaves, to show how hopeless their lot was. That this was the price of a dream."
Norintha took a step forward and pointed at the ground around the solemn rock. Around the base the ground had been smoothed and paved with seashells, the mud covered over. Flowers rest there, some fresh and colorful, others long dried and withered. It is a veritable halo around the monument, surrounding the grave marker.
For a moment the harsh reek of the slave huts falls away, replaced by the sweetness of a blooming rose.
"All have choice, Sorala Ironeyes of distant lands." Norintha says, quietly.
Then she breaks the spell and once again they are standing in ankle deep slop and muck, surrounded by rotting shacks. "Come, let us go. You should not leave your troops alone." The halfling then says, "I am a tailor, and still am whatever your people may do." She holds up a callused hand, revealing the tell tale smooth thumb and forefinger.
The spot is, despite the reek of sewage and other uncomfortable smells, despite the fungi growing on top of dilapidate shacks, despite the salt in the air and the oppressiveness of the humidity, the verdance of life climbing from cobblestone cracks and snaking up mud-splattered walls, despite all this, the spot brought a vivid recollection of home.
Sorala's real home, when she was Igrit Tharn, daughter of a fisher and a washer. Their village was tidy - much tidier than the slave shacks here - but hardly richer. Small wood homes, encased in ice, the ice, with a chimney and some wood, serving as a second wall and insulation to the outside. A wood-plank road wound around the hamlet's small levee, where small fishing craft sat, pulled up onto the icy ground, channels dug free from snow almost every morning so that they could be slid back into the ice-churned lake.
Nearby, a mile or two, was the tree that Hennet Magnuson was hung from. A Herald of Summer's Return, the man was a smuggler and rebel. Or so the whispered stories said - Hennet was gone a generation before Sorala was born. He wasn't hung in the snap-your-neck sense. Rather, he was bound and stabbed in the gut, and left over night for the beasts, or the fey, or the elements to claim him. In the morning, there was nothing left but blood slicked ice below the tree.
That spot, below where he was hung, where whatever happened to Hennet happened, the blood-slicked spot - it thawed. And remained, as far as Sorala was told and her village remembered, snow and ice-free, a strange and unexplainable thing. On Irrisen's warmer days, the spot would grow a patch of moss, or perhaps a small, purple flower would push from the frozen ground, hope made manifest in a symbol.
Of course, no villagers left seashells of flowers. Nor would they, if they had access to such things. To be caught at the tree was enough to get one strung up on it. But everyone knew of the tree, and its blood-soaked patch of summer, an idea persistent in the community's memory.
Sorala looked at Norintha, this most remarkable woman, and decided Norintha was not as smart as Sorala had first thought. What choice is death, after all? Getting flayed alive or strung up to be disappeared by the horrors of Irrisen's darkest night? A symbol does nothing for the one made into one, Sorala thought, frowning slightly. And those left behind, their lots are not improved. Still, she'd not insult Norintha by saying so.
"Thank you for showing me this, Norintha. It has brought me memories of my own home, ones long forgotten, and for that I am, ahh, abrubtly? No, abidingly grateful."
Sorala stands in thought a few moments more, blinking as Norintha's mentions going back. "You said they are rented? I... don't understand. One person owns them, and then others pay for them? Who pays for them? What do they do when they are rented?"
Gathering her last thoughts, Sorala looks one last time around, eyes landing on the stone pillar, all that was left of Bassoom's existence. "The ones you wish to see freed? Do they live here?"