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Death of the Undying

The air stinks of rotting flesh. The back of my throat tastes like bile. I cover my nose and my mouth as I move down the passageway, past the first ghoul that crawled out from a crevasse in the wall and attacked. The presence of ghouls explains the foul stench, at least. With the odor so powerful, there were surely more to come.

Balthazar and Sir Connor follow close on my heels. They mutter between themselves about what they see. Balthazar quickly searches the body of the ghoul but finds nothing, and Sir Connor notes that, so far, there doesn’t appear to be much of anything in the ruin. It’s just a stinking, winding cavern leading ever deeper into the dark.

As I round the corner, I hear the sounds of teeth gnawing flesh and bone. I know those sounds. They echo in my ears, a memory.

In the dim cavern that opens up before me, I see a ghoul crouched over an old body. Breaking bones with its broken teeth. Sucking at the marrow. Rending the flesh.

“More,” I say to Balthazar and Sir Connor, and beat my shield to draw the thing’s attention.

Its eyes reflect the dim light as it lifts its twitching head and sets its sight on me. It drops the limb it had been holding, stumbling to its feet and coming at me, giving wet hisses and snarls. It’s easy enough to drop—as is the one that lunges at me from behind, its gnashing teeth clipping uncomfortably close to my arm before I’m able to beat it down.

When I turn, I see something else crawling out of the dark. Something monstrous but skeletal, and bearing a weapon. “Fuck,” I mutter, keeping my eyes on the monster as it stalks toward me. I hear Balthazar shout as more ghouls come up behind him and Sir Connor. The sounds of fighting erupt behind me as I brace myself to fight the thing ahead of me.

The weapon it carries is long and heavy—a thick, curving metal spike on a pole that it thrusts at me. I stumble backward as I manage to block the first blow with my shield, but the second blow comes before I’ve recovered my footing and my shield is held just a bit too high.

The spike slams into my stomach. I feel it punch through my furs and leathers into the skin underneath. My body doubles over the weapon as sharp white pain splinters through my abdomen. My guts are forced to make room for cold metal.

But I’ve known worse pains before. I’ve been stabbed deeper, and with colder blades.

Shaking off the pain as the monster wrenches the weapon back, I pull my shield tight against myself and plant my feet, looking up at the monster. It’s about to strike again, as more ghouls flood out of the darkness beyond, then—

“Freydis!” Balthazar shouts behind me, and I hear ghouls dropping. The monster turns its attention toward Balthazar. Finally, his inordinate loudness is useful.

I’m able to fight back two more ghouls, killing them with relative ease, and when I turn toward Balthazar and Sir Connor, I find only the monster. Blocking the entry. Turning toward me.

Bracing myself, I crouch behind my shield. I deflect the first hit as the monster comes toward me, then it aims lower and splits open my shin, splintering the bone. For a moment I’m down on my knee, blocking a blow aimed for my skull, then—as I am dragging myself back up, trying to angle myself toward the entry and away from the monster, another blow catches me on the shoulder.

Pain rains through me from every angle, and I can feel the heat of my blood pouring from my stomach, soaking my pants. The cloth of my shirt clings to me, sticky with blood, and now my pantleg does the same, plastered against my skin around open flesh and bone. Blood is now running in open rivers down my back and front from the fresh wound opened on my shoulder.

Parrying another blow, I make another effort to rise. If I can only manage to get to my godsdamned feet—the monster has moved away from the entry. I might be able to drag myself out of here and back into the light of day.

The weapon, slicked now with my blood, gleams in the dim cavern as it swings toward me once more. Fuck.

With my shoulder in ruins, I struggle to lift the shield. I manage to get it partway up, but too late. The hook catches me in my back and I am dragged to the floor.

As I am slammed into the cold earth, I hear Balthazar’s voice again, and Sir Connor close behind him. Their shouts echo through the cavern, a great and horrible commotion, and the monster looks to them again. It wrenches its hook free of me and goes to them.

If only I could just…get to my hands and knees, it wouldn’t be so difficult to drag myself out of here—

Pain, a searing flash through my calf, ignites within me. I hate to hear the sound of my screams, almost as much as I hate knowing without looking that a ghoul has set on me, and is tearing the living flesh from my bones.

Reaching for my mace—when did I drop it?—I feel another ghoul fall onto me. It seizes my arm and wrenches it back, just about tears it from my body, and it bites into me. I close my eyes against the pain, try to grit my teeth and swallow the screams, but they come boiling madly out.

Somewhere in the distance, through all my screaming and the gurgling snarls of ghouls, I hear Balthazar. “Freydis! No!” I manage to wrench my head up, to see him coming toward me, his mad blue eyes wild with fear and dismay. And there is Sir Connor behind him, spotting the monster looming toward them and vanishing right there into the dark.

That spell of Balthazar’s, his hiding spell—the one he’d put on Sir Connor before we came here. The one I’d sneered at. “A child hiding under a blanket,” I’d said when first he’d showed it to me and, sulking, he’d returned to visibility.

“Balthazar!” I shout, stretching out my other arm, reaching for him with a hand weighted down by a shield and near useless from the ruin of my shoulder. I imagine he’ll grab me, yank me carelessly from the mouths of the ghouls and fly us out of here.

I remember being thrown into the sky—one of his madman’s spells. Next time, I’ll go willingly to dance with him in the clouds.

He’s reaching for me, the jewels on his fingers glittering in the dark. I can almost touch him.

Then he remembers the monster, looks up at it as it moves towards him, and as he lurches back from me and vanishes.

“Tell me,” I once said, sneering, “are you a weak man, Balthazar?”

Some uncertainty wells up inside of me as I am left alone to the devouring mouths. The pain rushes through me renewed, and I am screaming again. I hate these screams—I would give myself up to these tearing mouths and wait it out. They cannot kill me. But these fucking screams…

Blackness eats away at the edges of my vision, and I grow dizzy. My consciousness is fading—it’s okay, I’ve been unconscious before, alone in the forest, in a snow drift, at the bottom of a glacial canyon—when I hear a crash. The ghouls wrench free of me and scatter. They run after whatever sound that was, from wherever it had come, and for a moment leave me in blessed fucking peace.

Slowly, the feeling of the cold earth beneath me comes back. I grit my teeth, blink my eyes to clear my vision, and begin pushing myself to my feet again. I stumble up, pain rocketing up my leg, and I growl low in my throat as I lift my shield and my mace and—

How is the monster back? The cursed skeleton storming toward me and lifting its weapon and—

Back to the earth I crumble, and am barely able to make out the monster aiming its finger at me. The ghouls come in seconds, and I close my eyes and give myself up to the pain.

There is more screaming than just mine. There is a crash of stones, a collapse, and some part of me wonders if the whole cavern is coming down around us, but the ghouls don’t stop eating. Balthazar’s voice returns like thunder through the cavern, chanting some ancient language that I don’t understand, but no spell seems to come.

The ghouls keep eating.

Somewhere in the distance Sir Connor’s voice reaches me: “We have to go, Balthazar! She is dead! This is her arm! She’s dead, we have to leave!” And as I scream, I laugh. I cannot die. I am the Undying.

The ghouls keep eating.

More shouting, more fighting, the sounds of bodies being thrown to the floor and the eruption of magic down the halls. A riot of violence and booming voices intermingled with eerie silences…

…and the ghouls just keep eating, leaving less and less of me to drag out of here, and the less there is of me, the further into the darkness I seem to go.

It’s okay though.

I’ve been in the darkness before.

I’ll be okay.

I always am.

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The Only Two Certain Things in Life

He turns to her absent-mindedly, mumbling something about wine, and goes in. The treasury door is heavy, and closing it requires him to strain at the ornate wrought-iron ring. Huffing in – obviously illogical – annoyance at himself, he steps across the carved wooden desk and past the other furniture, eager to finally sit. There is a mouse on the upholstered armchair behind the desk, eyeing him curiously. He can feel his temper rising. “Shush, you. Begone.” The mouse skitters away, and he almost flings himself into the seat, grimacing at the recent battle injury twinging in his left shoulder as he does so. “Idiot,” he mutters, the annoyance returning with a hot flash of embarrassment. “Commanding troops in the field as if you knew what you were doing. Too slow to even know what’s going on until it’s over. Clueless about formations. And all because your commander went back to Verunheim with Edwyn.” He covers his eyes with his hand. Minutes pass.

The knocking is getting more insistent. It takes several attempts for him to rouse; grimacing, he opens the door to let her in. She has changed – for the better – and rests the goblet and carafe on her hip while eyeing him warily.

“One of those nights, is it? Will you require the large decanter, Lord.. Volksnand?”

With a curt nod, he motions vaguely. “Just leave it there.”

She delicately places the wine on the desk, having to push aside a sheaf of papers to make room within his reach. “These look recent, Lord Volksnand. Did you place them on your desk sometime last night, maybe? In the darker hours of the evening, thinking you would get to them early today?”

He looks up, startled. Yes, that he had. But now an entire day had gone, inspecting pig farms and trying to figure out where Stragosa’s money was going, and despairing at the state of the books.

“I meant to look at them tonight, but thank you for your..” he attempts a smile and realizes it’s a smirk, “efforts at assistance.” He waves her off before she can say more. “You have served me well, and you will be rewarded. You may leave.”

Looking at him appraisingly, she pours some wine then holds on to the wine bottle as she leans over him. “When you start to feel better, let me know. You are focusing too much on being paranoid and you do much better when you don’t look this way.” As he covers his eyes again, she waits for an answer, but none comes. Shrugging, she turns and leaves quietly, door swinging shut behind her.

Time passes and he needs to refill his glass several times before mustering the strength to lean forward and pick up the first parchment. He smiles at the name on the outside, but it quickly turns into a frown at the words inside. Groaning, he throws himself back into his seat and rings the bell, opening the door as he does so. Shortly after, his chamberlain enters.

“Take down the following note from me and have it sent to Lady Gale and Sir Sanguine.”

He coughs, clearing his throat, and reaches for his cup.

“From the desk of Lord Emich von Volksnand, in the year of the lion 604, under the benevolent and watchful eyes of Benalus, in solemn fulfilment of my pious duty as the Master of Coin of the City of Stragosa, duly appointed by the hand of Reichsgrafin Sir Hezke von Heidrich, long may she reign.”

He pauses. “I’ll have to recite this every single time until the letterhead arrives? You can’t remember it? Or pre-write it? Fine. FINE. Next. No, don’t write this part down. Write down the next part. Yes, starting now.”

A moment passes as he rubs his eyes.

“As to the matter of the Night Lord’s Feast that you have been arranging and for which I have helped provide a guest list, and the requisite – and priceless, not easily replenished – materials from the Treasury:

Please remove my name from the guest list. I would like to address some of the assembled, but will not participate myself in the feast. In my place, please add Dame Khorshid, the feared warlord of the Indra’tariq, whose contributions to safeguarding Stragosa,” he pauses, touching hands to temples and closing his eyes, “far outstrip my own. If another spot becomes available, please consider adding Lady Shamara of the Indr’atma, whose efforts to fix malingering issues in Stragosa and overall contributions are..” he clenches his teeth but continues speaking, albeit strained, “highly admirable.”

He pauses.

“It probably does NOT need to be mentioned too broadly to the attendees at the feast – or indeed the general populace – that I nobly sacrificed my own spot at the table for a Sha’Ra warlord. Even though we both commanded troops in battle. I am sure dwelling on it too much would come across as unnecessary glorification. It wouldn’t do at all. I would hate it so. It would be most… upsetting to hear others praising my virtue.”

Walking over to the chamberlain, he hesitates, then resumes talking.

“Capitalize or underline the ‘not’ in the first sentence and make sure there are three dots between ‘most’ and ‘upsetting.’ Also, Khorshid is spelled K-H-O.. Oh, you have a cheat sheet? Good. Who? Yes, she’s the one I’ve talked about befo.. wait, no, that is none of your business. How dare you. We will talk about this later. Now, the next letter.”

The wine glass is starting to look bare, and he eyes the rapidly-emptying carafe with studied disinterest. Once the wine is gone, he will have to send for her again, and she will probably just tell him off once more. Curious.

“Now, private reply in a sealed envelope to recipient “R” as per the standard code book. Enclose their original letter and ensure both are destroyed after reading.”

Volksnand walks behind his desk, downs the remainder of his glass, and places his hands on the table surface.

“My kind and attentive friend. I appreciate your concerns and that you bring such scurrilous rumors to my attention at once. I wish to be clear. At no point have I refused to ‘release Spice’ from the Stragosa Treasury in my capacity as Master of Coin, and I have not neglected certain women despite my prior claims to the contrary. To the contrary, I have in fact followed Sir Hezke’s desire to support an official feast and am highly agreeable to reward those citizens of Stragosa who have helped in the recent battles, helped improve the city, or provided other vital services to the Throne. At no point have I opposed having even the most inferior and debased cultures and their warped religions participate in the feast, as long as the practitioners of those abhorrent, vile practices have improved our city. To suggest otherwise is a slanderous blood libel the likes of which I will fight with the full force of Fafnir’s fulgurous fury.”

He looks up and catches the chamberlain’s expression, then leans back.

“Change the words after ‘fight’ to a single word — ‘vigorously.’ Then add the following — ‘Given that we have essentially no Spice left in the Treasury, and are dangerously low on Coin, I am primarily concerned with re-filling Stragosa’s coffers and planning prudently for the long winter ahead. We can feast fully once the dreams of spring have turned into sunlight and sprouting.’ Yes, that is it. Deliver unsigned.”

Volksnand paces back and forth in front of his desk. “Next: to Corvo di Talmerin, Master of Coin to the City of Silbran.”

He takes a deep breath.

“I intend to agree with your proposal and we shall discuss at forum. However, as to the matter of taxation, for now I intend to uphold the taxation system that was implemented by Master Bakara during his short-lived tenure as Master of Coin in Stragosa. Most of the levies have not so far been .. uh.. levied.. Yes, rewrite that. Have not so far been raised, and as such I intend to give it at least another forum before seeking to make changes to it. Now, as you are not from Gotha yourself, you may not be familiar with this core principle of House Fafnir – a principle that has made the house great. It is a principle of conservatism – indeed, a principle of prudence. It is known by the people as the parable of the moat. When a man is appointed or rises to a position, they wish to improve things. Inevitably, they have ideas. Let us assume for instance that they see a moat or a portcullis. The reformer – let us call him the progressive, who wishes to bring progress to his lands – goes gaily up to it and says, “I don’t see the use of this; let us clear it away.” However, the prudent man – nay, perhaps even the man possessed of uncommon wisdom – retorts: “If you don’t see the use of it, I certainly won’t let you clear it away. Go away and think. Then, when you can come back and tell me that you do see the use of it, I may allow you to destroy it.” This indeed is how I believe the matter of Bakara’s tax code for Stragosa is to be viewed. I am not yet wise enough to seek to destroy that which was created by a man who was here for longer, whose hair was whiter, and thus who was arguably possessed of relative local knowledge that I do not – yet! – possess. Regardless of his other many obvious inferiorities. For Sir Hezke would not have appointed a fool. Certainly not twice. Undersigned yours Lord et cetera.”

The carafe is empty. He hadn’t noticed it at all. The remainder of the wine swishes slowly around the wide goblet, leaving a lazy, thick trail along the side. What a curious colour indeed. Yet he cannot help but feel pleased, almost as if wrapped in a warm, slightly damp blanket, sticking tightly to his ribs, back, and legs. Where was his sword again? Ah, yes. What a glorious feeling to run it across his arm, shaving off hairs with a razor-sharp blade.

“You aren’t done yet,” the words come. Thickly, distantly, almost as if spoken by another man. But the chamberlain turns and picks up his quill expectantly.

“Hello mother. Lady mother. High-born lady mother in the castle. Your favourite son here. You’ve been expecting my letter, yes? Here is it. She left. The woman left. I felt close. So close. But she left, and didn’t want me to come along. That was great. No, I didn’t try everything. You know full well I didn’t. And yes, I could’ve sent her home with … a gift. I didn’t do that either. TRIPLE ELLIPSES BEFORE GIFT, MORON. No, I didn’t do that either. But look, I have a different gift for you. I give you, dot dot dot, four enemies. No, I haven’t stayed out of trouble. And no, none of them are from Sha’Ra, despite what you may have heard from a letter last year when I hilariously misspoke at the wrong time and almost got turned into a jug of piss by a wizard. They have them here, you know? Magicians. Anyway, as I was saying, I have made four enemies. There is the slayer, who means me ill simply because they see through me without even trying. The stag, whose hide I prize and whose antlers I shall mount on my castle walls. The stiletto, bared in the open yet unaware of its true strength. And finally, finally, the serpent, its poison dripping ever more sweetly. Many of my friends are gone or dead, mother, and my enemies are in ascendance.

Signed, your devoted son, full name and title, signet ring, red wax. It’s in the hollow book, third from the left on the middle shelf, fifth volume in “The Great Houses of Gotha,”’

He rises unsteadily and takes the finished letter from his chamberlain. “Take a few extra coppers on your way out. Get your daughter something nice, yes? Something to remind her of home. We.. you can all go back soon, one way or another.”

With the door thudding shut, Volksnand looks at the envelope. Folded once, it fits neatly into the brazier. A single hot coal from the fireplace ignites it with a quiet huff, black specks dancing their way towards the high ceiling as his eyes follow their ascent.

“More wine.”

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International Man of Mystery

Shadows dance in the firelight as the man in black descends from the ceiling. He carefully adjusts his mask and then dashes like the wind into the next room, hiding behind a column.

Sanguine… is reading a book.

*****

She is an expert in her craft, capable of getting information out of anyone. A man is tied to a chair in this forgotten ruin, the soup of drugs in his system causing him to babble everything he knows.

“He has enemies! Powerful ones! Tarrantists and atheists and Vecatrans!!! Please! Please let me go! I’ll tell you anything you want! He works for his father and the Master Paladin!!! Pleeeeeease!!!”

The man screams, but no one hears. She writes it all down. No one has heard this information before.

*****

A pouch of silver sits on the table between them. Shadows obscure their faces. One of them scoops up the pouch and carefully examines its contents.

“He cares a lot about his morality. He’d be very upset if he ever sinned. He lives in the castle. He’s staffing a monastery just west of the city. His honor code is pretty obvious.”

He lists it anyway, seemingly from memory. He should remember it at this point. It’s the fifth time he’s been paid for it. He smirks.

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A vision

Lysander jolted out of his trance, tears flowing from his eyes.
A weeping woman in white.
A ring.
A chest.
His eyes darted to the box before him. That chest. The whispers sounded almost congratulatory, but eerie nonetheless. The young paladin stood and began pacing his small room. He’d never attempted that ritual before, and hadn’t expected the visions to be so… Vivid. Emotional. Lysander ran a hand through his hair, brushing a few stray locks from his face.
Woman in white. But not all white. There was red. The deep crimson of blood. And a ring? In a chest. That chest. Marriage? A bride, perhaps? What about the groom? Was the blood his? Did she… No, she wouldn’t be crying.
Lysander came to a stop near the chest and placed a hand on it. The whispers got just a little louder. Far be it from him to criticize, but why couldn’t an archangel give more concrete answers? Perhaps he’d have to pray on the subject some more. But not now. He still felt a drained from the ritual. Emotionally, more than anything. Maybe it was time for a walk.
He grabbed his white robe from his bed. Lysander rarely left his room without it. He hated dressing the part of paladin, desperately missing his nice, comfortable peasant garb, but he’d found that he could wear just about anything under the robe, since it covered his entire body when buttoned. Besides, it held sentimental value. His friends back in Woefeldt bought it for him.
Where to first? He could walk into town, he supposed. No, there’d be too many people. He liked that his presence seemed to cheer up the people around him, but he tended to draw crowds as a result. Maybe a walk in the woods? Clypeus had made sure to teach him wilderness navigation during his training as a Nuranihim, may as well use it… But he was still on edge from the ritual. Though his Gift protected him from fear, it did not protect him from the heebie jeebies.
Maybe he’d visit some of the farms. If he was lucky, he might even manage to convince someone to let him lend a hand. That sounded nice, he thought. A tour of the farms it was.
Another whisper came from the box. Lysander frowned before setting his testimonium atop it. The whispers stopped.

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Imaginary Roses

Maestro Bastione Montcorbier sits on a tavern stool in the Black Pistol Inn just before sunrise. On the bar before him is a ledger accounting for the tavern’s expenditures. He looks over the blocks of numbers, rubs his eyes and begins to draw musical notes in the margins.

“Good morning, Maestro,” a Gothic boy says. A broom over his shoulder.

“Bonjour, petit homme. How are you, Lev?”

“I am well. I had a strange dream as I slept.”

“Had you? I have strange dreams when I’m awake.”

“In the dream, I was your age, and everywhere I went people threw flowers at my feet.”

“What kind of flowers?”

“They were red. I played a guitar like yours and my feet were buried in red flowers.”

“How did they smell?”

“Like lemon, and cloves.”

“That sounds very nice. And the petals?”

“Thick, like velvet. I laid in them, pet them. It was an odd dream.”

“It sounds wonderful. I’m proud of you.”

“What did I do?”

“You described the scent, the way the petals felt, even their color.”

“So?”

“From your mind you created beautiful things.”

“I suppose I did.”

“Will you make me some coffee?”

“Wait, was that a lesson?””

“With cream. Thank you, Lev.”

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Farewells and Sewers

Her ventures in the woods had been fruitless, so now she found herself here.

In the sewers.

The Undying, the Dragon’s Daughter, the child of the Rimelands. Here. In the sewers.

Freydis was slicked in filth, and digging out more with every passing minute. Sneering through the mud and the refuse as she carved out the tunnel that would ensure that the city’s noted sewage problem would finally be tended to. No more disease ridden sewer rats—in theory. No more plague monsters—in theory.

She wasn’t sure she really trusted any of these southerners or their schemes. Especially when their schemes had her waste deep in sloppy shit mud.

It was too easy for her mind to wander. She didn’t want to think about her current situation, and though she didn’t want to think about the rest of it either…

First Jehanne left. Freydis had been surprised to find that that hurt. It hurt had angered her fiercely. “What do you mean you’re leaving?” she’d said, voice hard as she drew her knife, like maybe she could keep Jehanne there by force, or like killing her might be preferable to letting her go. “You can’t go. You’re teaching me to read.”

“Oh, you silly,” Jehanne had said—in that strange way she had of saying things, with a little bounce on the balls of her feet and a little roll of her mismatched eyes. She’d even reached out and put her hand on Freydis’s hand, re-sheathing the knife with no resistance. “You’ve learned a lot so far. You’re doing great! But there are others that can teach you. No one as good as me, but…” Jehanne looked at Freydis’s bracelet, reaching out to flick the red feather. “For all his faults Balthazar knows a lot. I’m sure he would be willing to teach you.”

For a moment Freydis flushed and thought of reaching for her knife again. Then she deflated and looked at the ground. “I thought you were my friend,” she said, resenting the quaver in her voice.

“Freydis, I am your friend!” Jehanne smiled brightly and cocked her head to the side. Her smile changed for a moment, becoming somewhat flat, dimming a little. “You do know that just because someone leaves, that doesn’t mean they’re not your friend, right?”

“I’m not stupid,” Freydis said, but she looked away and hoped Jehanne didn’t see the doubt in her face.

Jehanne shook her head and her smile shifted back to its usual manic brightness. “I’m just going to work on some things with Bakara. I’ll be back.”

“You could stay with me. And the Blackjacks. We’ll protect you.”

“No silly, I want to go with me husband. Besides, I don’t need protecting.” First she smiled so that her nose scrunched up as she patted the gun in her basket, then she leaned forward conspiratorially. “We’re going to do experiments and blow things up.” Clapping her hands, she gave a little hop.

Freydis tried to smile for her, but couldn’t quite muster it.

She’d mostly cleared this segment of earth, and had to admit she felt good about the work she’d done. She doubted anyone else could have done better. She’d cleared the area efficiently and effectively, and was almost done. The area could use a little widening though, she thought, so she began cutting again into the sides of the tunnel.

Now she wondered if Bjorn would be here working at her side, if he hadn’t left, too. One of the only Njords in town she’d really been able to speak to since arriving here—who had greeted her with a good fight, and warmly. She’d thought they would each other’s backs in this strange place, the only true Njords in Stragosa, at all times.

It was hard to hear the nasty things some of these southerners said about Bjorn—or that he overheard, clenching his jaw and furrowing his brow but saying nothing. Smiling as fiercely and insistently instead. She had supposed that, eventually, she and Bjorn would teach some of these soft southern fools a few things about due respect.

But he seemed to value something about these people—or to regard them cautiously. They had almost had him burned once, she had heard, though she’d never spoken to him of it and he had never mentioned it.

And now he was gone, too.

“Do not look so sad, Freydis.” He had set a hand on her shoulder. “I’m only going for a stretch of the legs. I’ll be back.”

She didn’t ask when. She knew he wouldn’t have an answer. He may not even come back—wherever his journey took him, it would be away from Stragosa but it would not be safe from monsters. It may lead him back to his people and a call of war, or some battle elsewhere. Besides, it was a stupid and childish question to ask.

“Even though you’re going,” she said instead, and did her best to say it rather than ask it, “we will still be friends.”

“Of course! How could we not be?” He put his arm around her and pulled her roughly against him, giving her arm a squeeze and a shake. “Look my friend. You will keep an eye on Walt and Borso for me, yes? They are in need of someone to watch their backs.”

Freydis hesitated. There might be a time she couldn’t keep that promise. But she would try, and she would assure him, to make him happy. That’s what friends did, right? Make each other happy? “I will.”

“Good, friend,” Bjorn said, shaking her again, almost hard enough to rattle her bones. “Come! Let’s go to the tavern. One more drink before I go!” He bent down to poke her in the chest, grinning madly. “And we shall sing some of the old songs and watch the southerners quake in terror!”

There wasn’t a proper goodbye for either of her friends. They said they were leaving, and then they were gone, and that was it.

Like she had slipped away and vanished from the cold lands of her home.

Freydis shook the thought away. She felt like a pathetic, foolish child. When had she become so childish?

The soft earth gave way suddenly beneath her hands, then the wall itself collapsed into thick clots of mud. Dozens—no, hundreds—of skulls toppled out of the earth. They crashed over and around her, their hard domes battering her as she stumbled back and succumbed to the outlandish wave of them.

Thrashing back against the skulls, she cracked and broke them open, crushing them in return and fighting her way out. When the project supervisors came by to check on her after hearing the screams, they found her standing in the mound of skulls, pounding them into powder with her mace and screaming curses.

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Convalescence

The white clad man’s hopes weren’t high. Each time he approached he had heard a muffled dismissal from inside. After the first week, he had started leaving boxes of food on the doorstep. The neighbors reported that the occupant came out some time later to retrieve them. It was some small comfort for the guilt that the Paladin felt.

It had been ten weeks now and Sanguine devotedly approached the door and knocked softly, expecting another terse rebuke. But this time it was silent. Worried, Sanguine knocked again. What if something had happened? What if his friend was hurt, or worse? He turned around looking for someone nearby to see if there was any news- and just then the door creaked.

Whirling around, what met his eyes was a sorry sight. A long and dirty beard with streaks of grey. Grimy lines on the poor man’s face around his eyes, streaked by tears. Torn clothing still stained with blood.

The two men stared at each other for a long moment and tears welled in both their eyes. “We’re even,” the poor man finally croaked with a wry smile hidden behind his beard. Sanguine practically tackled him into a hug with something between a sob and a laugh. “We’re more than even,” Sanguine agreed in a whisper, holding him tight.

That night, Sanguine cooked Connor a hot meal and helped him clean his home and then himself. Connor’s neighbors gave him clothes in true Gothic tradition and they told stories back and forth of happier, simpler times. As the hour ran late, Sanguine poured Connor a cup of wine and the neighbors said their goodbyes.

Connor sipped at it as they sat alone before the fire. “Am I gonna be ok?” he asked quietly, looking down into his cup. His voice betrayed the hurt the hurt done to him and his doubt at his own recovery.

“You are, my friend,” Sanguine answered with determined warmth, watching him. “I’ll make sure of it.”

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A Nonna’s Love

“Hekté, come here.”

“But Nonna, the tomatoes-”

“Can wait. Come, sit,” Nonna gestured to the stool beside her with a floured hand.

Abandoning the knife and basket of tomaotes, I sat next to Nonna and watched her knead pasta for a few silent minutes. Her skillful hands worked the dough from a shaggy mess into a smooth ball, ready for rolling and cutting. She paused before she grabbed her rolling pin and turned to me again.

“Boy, you’re a lot like pasta right now.”

“I- What?” I asked.

“You are a crumbly pile of potential, waiting for life to knead you and press you into shape. You could be hundreds of different things in the end, but for now you’re just the beginning.”

I fidgeted with a scrap of dough infront of me.

“So, you don’t think I should go to Stragosa?”

Nonna laughed, “No, no! Between you and me, I think you need it. But don’t tell your Matri, she’ll start crying again. Always a sensitive thing, she was…”

I stood up and wandered over to the fireplace where a pot of cold water sat. Nonna began rolling out the pasta while I stoked the fire and placed the pot over it. I moved back to the cutting board and contined to cut tomatoes for dinner. The summer heat forbade stewing pasta sauce, but that never stopped Nonna from eating tomatoes every day anyway. Diced tomatoes and anchovies with pasta was a good dish.

Nonna looked my way again, “I think I can get your Matri to postpone the marriage proposal for a bit. Should give you time to grow up a little,” She chuckled, “Benalus knows, you need it!”

“Eh? Nonna!”

Nonna cackled at my objection and deftly cut and formed the farfalle. I laughed a bit myself and helped her bring the little pastas over to the boiling pot, where we dumped them in.

“Ti voglio bene, Nonna.”

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The Highwayman and the Quill

The Black Pistol Inn.

The bells struck twelve as former Highwayman Bastione Montcorbier agonizes over a small drop of blue ink. To compound the problem he realizes his wrist has smeared it over the last stanza. He spears the quill back into the pot in frustration.

“Lev! Bring me a rag, please.”

In moments the boy arrived with a handful of them. “This be enough Maestro?”

Bastione regards his assistant with a smile. “Quite enough monsieur.”

Had Bastione been half as decent as the boy before him he would’ve never struggled those years in Cappacione. If he’d had a patient and tolerant teacher what could he have accomplished? He was exhausted and a tremendous yawn escaped his lips. Bastione wiped the ink from his wrist, through away the ruined manuscript and started fresh.

“Since you’re here, Lev. Would you mind going to the bar for me? I’m falling asleep without something to chew.”

“Course. Want a cake?”

“Do you?”

“I wouldn’t mind…”

“Two cakes then.”

“Yes, Maestro!”

Lev sped from the room and seemed to float on air. Bastione, for his part turned his attention back to his work. Taking up a rule he traced several staves, and clefs onto the parchment on his desk. He rinsed his quill and, dipped it in red ink and with painfully slow movements began a new illuminated manuscript. If his father could see him now. A far cry from the life the two led well into Bastione’s thirtieth year.

“Discovery…” It was a subject that intrigued the Cappacione Bard, in another life he would’ve liked to have been one of those people who dig up old castles, and find pottery. But for now, the man is content with his work. He fought back another yawn and slapped his face. “A single stanza before bed…”

His first letter T was absolutely beautiful. Well balanced, steady, bright. If he kept it up the whole manuscript would be stunning. The quill snapped in his fingers.

“Merde.”

He tossed away his second quill of the late evening. Luckily the break wasn’t a catastrophe. The page remained unmarred.

He pulled another feather from his desk, drew a small pocket knife and began to shape it. His fingers were built for playing strings, the delicate task of calligraphy was still foreign to them.

It was then that Lev burst through the door causing Bastione’s knife to hack the feather in half.

“Tue moi maintenant!” Bastione tossed the halves on the ground.

“I brought the cakes. You look like you could use two.”

“Ah, no. Just one. Wont you tell me a story while we eat?”

“Me, Maestro? Tell you a story?”

Bastione took his cake and began eating. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Lev took a seat on the floor, Bastione joined him.

“I can make something up,” Lev offered.

“All the best one’s do.”

“In the land of Cappacione there lived a man who by his birthright roamed the less traveled roads, robbing those he came across. It was said the man was a gentleman in all but title and that he had always made an effort to demand his tax without bloodshed. It happened one day that a poor wanderer crossed the gentleman’s path.

“Stand and deliver!” the highwayman commanded. He drew a pistol and leveled it plain at the beggar.

“Please sir, I haven’t two copper to rub together and I’m awfully tired. Surely you can let me pass?”

The gentleman approached the old man, with his pistol still aimed. “If you have no coin to pay my tax, how do you expect to cross my path? Turn around and come back with coin.”

The old man looked surprised at the demand. “Sir, I have heard you are a gentleman of the road, that you are fair, and shed no blood in your acquisitions. The man I see before me seems a brigand. Are you not the man I have heard of?”

The highwayman lowered his pistol and smiled. “Look sir. If I let you pass untaxed, words gets around that anyone dressed in rags can travel my roads without compensating me. You see the position that puts me in.”

“It’s your reputation that concerns you? You must be feared, as the cutthroat that sails the seas from Hestralia?”

“You’re catching on, sir.”

“Well I have no coin but if you must charge me, will you take this?” The beggar pointed at his temple and tapped.”

“I’m not following, sir.”

“I am poor in coin but rich in wisdom. If you must charge me for my passage I will pay with that.”

“What wisdom do you offer? I know how to live off the land, hunt, shoot, rob and speak with annunciation. I know how to ride horses, and I know the location of every cave within twenty miles. I ask again, what wisdom can you offer?”

“I know the secret of immortality.”

The highwayman laughed. “And you can teach me that secret?”

“I can. It is more valuable than any coin, don’t you agree?”

“Well of course. Well, let’s have it then.”

The old man reached for the feather in his cap, plucked it held it to the sun. “It’s a fine feather, isn’t it?”

“It is very fine, yes. And?”

“Do you see the lichen, growing on that tree there?”

“Will you start making sense, sir? No, I didn’t notice the lichen.”

The old man walked to the tree, gathered a handful of the vegetation and peeled bark from its trunk. He placed the lichen inside and then, began to micturate into it.

“What are you doing, sir? I don’t approve.”

“Let it ferment. I’ve given you the secret to immortality. An ink and quill.”

“But I don’t know how to write.”

“Then accompany me to the next village and I will teach you the alphabet.”

“You’re comfortable traveling with a highwayman, sir?”

“I can think of no better protection than a man who can hunt, ride a horse, fire a pistol and knows every cave within twenty miles. Shall we?”

Lev nodded as if to bow and noticed that Bastione’s head drooped at his chest. The Maestro had fallen fast asleep…

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My Life Truly Begins

I could hear them gossiping. Oh Benalus, the gossiping.

Matri and Nonna were chatting up a storm over tea and pastries in the kitchen like they do every Sunday morning. I was trying to slip past unnoticed to go run amok for the day. Obviously I don’t spend enough time with Papà, as Matri heard me trying to creep to the door.

“Teté, come here!”

“Matri, please call me Hekté…” I begged.

“Oh Hekté, give your Matri a break!” Nonna chimed.

“I just came of age! Can’t you let that silly nickname go?”

“I know you’re an adult now,” Matri chided, “Let me hold onto the nickname.”

“Fine,” I conceded, “But do you HAVE to be talking about… y’know…”

“Marriage?” Matri asked.

“Si! Yes! Why?!..” I cried, exasperated.

“Well,” Matri explained, “We may not be a super wealthy family, but we can afford to arrange you to marry into a richer family. You have the brains to work in the ports! Think of where that will get you! Plus, Nonna will kill me if I don’t get you a nice girl.”

Nonna chuckled and sipped her tea.

Matri continued, “The nice Capacian girl in the port is still single, and I was considering sending a proposal soon. There’s also the Bookkeeper’s daughter – you remember her, right? I’ve also been looking at some of the available gentry, but I don’t think I could buy off anyone’s fathers yet…”

Matri kept rambling on about prospective partners to Nonna. I had my hand on the door handle when Nonna caught my eye. She smiled, and then winked. I smiled back, a little uncertain and fled the house before Matri started asking questions I couldn’t – or shouldn’t – answer.

I took a quick pace to Aquila’s rookery, in need of some work to keep my mind busy. The cobblestone sidewalks were full of people bustling to and fro on their morning errands, and the canals were alive with gondolas of goods. I turned toward the capital buildings, where the rookery resided and where the wealthy and the gentry chose to live.

The Mistress waited within the rookery, flowing robes showcasing her insane wealth. A number of well-kept ravens stood tall and haughty around her as she looked through a ledger.

“Buongiorno, Mistress,” I greeted. She looked up, long dark hair spilling over her shoulders.

“Buongiorno Hekté. What brings you here on your day off? Is your family gossiping again?”

“Si. You know I’d rather take the Sunday shifts. It gives me an excuse to leave the house.”

The Mistress laughed, “Hekté! I’ve told you that we don’t send anything out on Sundays! I’m sorry, there’s not anything I can do right now.”

“Well, it’s getting out of hand!” I exclaimed, “I’m not interested in girls or marriage! I just need to get out of that!”

The Mistress glanced at her ledger, then back to me. She smiled shrewdly, “Of course, you could always tell them that. Or maybe not. I remember being your age and wanting to be my own person.”

I shuffled my feet, “If I may ask, what are you getting at?”

“Hekté, I think I have an assignment for you.”

The Mistress picked up an envelope, and passed it to me. It was fresh and smelled of ink still, so I knew it had just been written. She placed her hand on mine, and said:

“That letter needs to get to Stragosa”.