Tag: epic

Isubane’s Echo, Chapter 7: Echoes of War

Image by Gemini

Gemma

Gemma Reedly had never really thought of herself as a good person. She had a certain code of conduct, a set of very loose principles, but mostly she looked out for herself. If there was one thing she had learned growing up on the streets of Arksellum, it was that caring too much about other people was hazardous to your health. That was why, as soon as she entered the glowing white quartzite walls of Osenvale, she went straight to the information brokers. She figured information about the kid would be worth some coins, and she was correct. She liked the boy well enough, but money was money, and people were going to find out anyway. She told them everything she knew, under a truth compliance spell, of course. She told them she was pretty sure he was somehow the reincarnation of his grandfather, and she told them about the special artifact he had received from Mecre himself. Mostly, the brokers wanted to know about his combat prowess and who his companions were. She felt a pang of guilt telling everything she knew about Beldere, the Sulwoods, and the facet of Mecran soldiers, but she was not overly worried. Someone would have to be a lunatic to go after that crowd in a Mecran city.

“Why are people so interested in this?” she asked. The broker looked at her with surprise, and for a moment, she thought he would try to charge her for the information, which she could tell from his expression, everyone already knew. It wasn’t her fault she’d been living out in the middle of nowhere for the last two years.

“I suppose it’s common knowledge now,” he sighed. “It’s the bounty for his capture. Talk to that broker over there if you want to know more.” He pointed to a greasy-looking hybrid humanoid who looked like a creepy cross between a snake and a human. It was hairless, earless except for holes in the side of its head, with slimy grey skin, slitted eyes and nose, a mouth that was too wide, and arms too long. It stood a little over six feet tall, even though it was stooped. Some evil fecking Ssythe experiment, she guessed.

“Hey! What’s the bounty on Isubane?” she called out. The creature actually flinched at her words but answered in a calm, sibilant voice.

“Ten thousand Mecran gold marks.”

“Who’s paying?” she walked right up to him—at least she assumed it was a him; she didn’t see any obvious lady parts, and the voice was relatively deep. He made her wary for some reason, but she wasn’t going to let him know that.

“The consortium of labor procurement,” he tilted his head, “are you interested in participating?” She ignored the question.

“The slavers’ guild can post bounties like that in Mecre?” She was more than a little taken aback. The idea that the consortium could just pay to kidnap someone in a kingdom where slavery was forbidden was scary. And ten thousand gold? The kid might make for a great gladiator in the coliseum of her home city, but no one would pay that much for a fighter who likely wouldn’t last a month.

“The guild of brokers only asks that the coin amount is valid and available,” the emotionless thing replied. “We are only providing information. The legality of the capture or where and when the target is acquired is the prerogative of the hunter.” Gemma just shook her head and barked a laugh. She tried to calculate the number in her head of what she would need if she were stupid enough to try. It would be more than the bounty was worth. And in Osenvale of all places? There must be over ten thousand soldiers here, not to mention priests and druids and at least a dozen mercenary companies, all mostly loyal to Mecre. Even if they managed to grab him, they’d never get away without some serious veil manipulation.

“Well, best of luck to any idiot who tries a fool’s snatch like that. They’d best bring an army! Sounds like a good way to get planted early.” She was laughing aloud as she walked off. The broker’s unsettling smile followed her out the door.

Gareth

Gareth had heard about the bounty as well, but from a different source. His mercenary company was already aware of the reward and the officers confronted the wayward mercenary about it soon after his return. They weren’t interested in the job; there were too many risks, and the client was one they did not care for. They were also not desperate for coin, like many companies. However, they were curious about the boy and what made him so special. Gareth told the officers what he knew and some of what he suspected, but none of them were well-versed in the arcane or Mecre’s legends and lore, and so had little idea what it meant. They understood that Catwright might be the rebirth of some great hero who had died almost fifty years ago, and accepted it without question. They had certainly encountered stranger cases in their line of work.

“A bounty like that on a kid who’s barely left home,” Beornen of Lacrath shook his great head. The commander of the mercenary company known as Beornen’s Barbarians was a towering man, almost seven feet tall and over three hundred pounds of muscle. He resembled a member of one of the greater magical lithos races, something more than human, and he kept that veil of earth mana open almost constantly, which added to the impression. “What do you personally think of him, Gareth?”

Gareth was finding himself enjoying the attention despite himself. He idolized his commander, even though Beornen was a few years younger; he truly was the stuff of legends. “I like him. He is stubborn beyond all reason, socially awkward, but good-hearted. He is strong-willed and determined to improve in a way I’ve never seen.”

“Sounds like you and I are in agreement then, that we should stay far away from this slaver nonsense.” Beornen sighed, his face thoughtful. “There are shadows at play here we don’t understand, and I have a fear that our stance and your relationship with the boy might create a conflict with some of the other companies. I know you’ve thought about it. What would you have us do?” The commander was far more canny than most gave him credit for and had likely already seen several levels of complications beyond anything Gareth would have considered.

“Recruit him,” Gareth replied without hesitation. “He would be an asset to our company.”

“You mentioned earlier that he could fight; just how good is he?”

“Two years ago, I had skills I could teach him; I could surprise him, but it was still a tough match. Now, he could probably fight a half dozen men like me and emerge victorious.” The commander’s eyes widened at this; Gareth was no weakling. “I mentioned this before, and I’m not sure any of you truly believed me: he has mastered all five of the elemental forms. He does them every morning as a warm-up, and it is an impressive sight.”

Beornen just grunted. No one in his five hundred strong company had mastered all the forms. There was quite a difference, however, between knowing an entertaining dance and using it effectively in combat. “That I would like to see. Do you think he could best me?” The giant grinned and puffed out his chest a bit. Gareth paused and took the question seriously.

“You have certain advantages that he might not be ready for, so I would favor you for the first few matches.” Then Gareth grinned. “But should you beat him, he will haunt you like a spectre until he learns all he can from you.”

Beornen bellowed a laugh at that. “I will consider what you’ve said Gareth. Recruiting may indeed add to our infamy, but I’m not sure I want to fight the other mercenary companies and the slaver’s guild for him.” 

Gareth appreciated that the big man always put the good of the company first, and considered all the angles. “Surely you don’t think someone would be reckless enough to try and grab him in Osenvale?”

“I do think someone will try, and I agree it makes no sense, but some of the other companies have already been talking about it. I feel like someone has been goading them to action. We’ve been in this city for a couple of weeks and there’s a lot of unusual movement in the underground. As I said, shadows at play, puppets of the Ssythe and the slavers working together. That alone seems unusual, and the fact that they are operating at all in a Mecran city is even more so.”

“What will the company do?”

“We will watch and wait. Whatever plays out should be entertaining at least and unlikely to involve us directly. Have a care Gerath, it is not unusual for slavers to use someone perceived as a friend of the target, as a means to get close to them.”

Gareth had a lot to think about. Despite the commander’s warnings he would seek out Catwright when he entered the city. If he wasn’t aware of the danger, he needed to be warned. Also, Gareth still felt that one of the best moves for the kid and the company would be to recruit him to their ranks. He also wanted to dig deeper into whatever plots were afoot in the city. Espionage was not his strength, but it seemed like the company had their nose to the ground, so he would start there.

Luarca

Minions swarmed around the hulking abomination like ants in a frenzy, desperate to please the creature. Willing or not, they served, their small minds had no real ability to resist. This is what the Gnarr-Ssythe had been built for; war and conquest, domination of the weaker races by raking claws and crushing teeth. Standing at over seven feet tall, with crocodilian features, hard grey-green scales and at least four arms, what they lacked in intelligence they made up for with raw ferocity. Luarca had wasted little time upon reaching the surface, putting plans into motion. The Ssythe had been breeding for decades on these islands. They had been left alone by the softer races, thought to be defeated. Now the Ssythe would strike, not just for conquest, but for a foothold and access to more power. These changed creatures who worshipped the Lord of the Unseen were still pathetic, but they were improved tools and with time would become even more so.

The help of the Gavanti had been procured much more easily than anticipated. They wanted wealth and slaves for some great excavation project they had in the far north. Wealth was simple, and the Ssythe were very good at providing slaves. The ancient cult had been ecstatically celebrating the return of their god or some such nonsense. Luarca had casually investigated and found some moderate divine magic in their midst, but it was not a familiar signature. It was probably some new rising power grabbing any desperate devotees they could manage. Agavantor, the lord of darkness and magic, had been before Luarca’s time, an ancient enemy of the pesky druid god and supposedly well and truly dead. Hopefully, that was still the case. The legends told of an evil the likes of which even the Crawler in the Deep did not wish to encounter.

Power emanated from the writhing ritual circle in the courtyard of his new aboveground abode. The dwelling was unnecessary; after sleeping for years, it would be decades before rest was needed again. If the goals of the ritual were accomplished, the idea of rest would be obsolete. Having any indoor area for living seemed a waste; none of the elements could cause this form any serious discomfort. There was food  aplenty all about. A ravenous hunger had taken over upon reaching the surface, and the titanic horror had gorged itself on human slaves and the slower Ssythe for hours. The feast had revitalized and empowered its atrophied body and refreshed its mental faculties. Now the monstrosity wielded an arcane knowledge of the veils, long forgotten by lesser beings. It modified the older techniques of mana amplification, creating more useful rituals fueled by lesser implements stitched together by mystic weaves. Five humans formed the sides of the pentagonal ritual. Their taut, tied, naked bodies twitched in agony. Their skin was ravaged, and their raw throats were useless after hours of screaming. Yet still they lived. Humans did have a certain resilience, which made them an excellent resource for soul-powered magic.

There were a variety of Ssythe and Gavanti agents in the city called Osenvale, but Luarca preferred to keep the conflict between humans as much as possible. With the aid of the augmented circle of enhancement, plenty of weak-minded individuals could be directly influenced, even from over a thousand miles away. Simply bending its will toward the pentagon showed Luarca hundreds of thousands of glowing souls and soft human minds. The master psion had tried to directly influence the Isubane child, but whether it was the distance or some inherent resistance, the most it had accomplished were some minor nightmares. The boy hadn’t even woken up or reacted to them in any noticeable way.

The ritual also opened up communication to all of the agents within the city, and some of them were strong enough to influence other potential pawns. They were already stirring some of the mercenaries into action. If this plan failed, another group of specialized contractors within the city could accomplish what was needed with minimal fuss. This shadowy syndicate owed favors and a great deal of their livelihood to the Ssythe, whether they were aware of it or not. It might be time to call in some of those favors. And of course, there were contingencies upon contingencies. Luarca had not lived for almost a thousand years by being complacent. Now that his full awareness was bent upon the surface of Primythera, there would be change.

Dain

There were several things most people did not know about the great grey bears of the Lelldarlyn Mountains. It had to do with their magical nature and how they were able to exist in the first place. A normal bear the size of Feingar would be encumbered by its own weight, actually making it slower than its smaller cousins. Yet, the grey bear’s bones were lighter and much stronger than normal bones. Their muscles were also far more powerful in proportion to their mass. Druids and scholars all recognized that such a creature did not evolve naturally, and theories abound as to their origin. Their uncanny intelligence and physical prowess make them a dominant predator on the peninsula of Lendre.

Feingar also had the unique advantage of having a very powerful magical saddle, a gift from Duke Kerold Oboggin of Konig after the unexpectedly brutal Konig River campaign. The fine-looking leather saddle was studded along the outer seams with small sapphires. It magically improved the mount’s speed, reduced their fatigue, and provided sustenance. It was specifically crafted for long-distance rapid travel on a warbear. This was how Dain Sulwood was able to make the normally three to four day trip to Braunwood Town and the castle of Count Eckheart of Vessalia in less than five hours.

The Count was a large man in his late sixties with a head of sparse grey hair and a prodigious paunch. Though he styled himself a military man, with ornamental armor and a jeweled sword, Lord Eckheart had left the military after his mandatory two years for more mercantile pursuits. Rumor was that he was at the battle of the twin gods, when Isulas, Isuna and their army stormed the gates of Mecre City. After seeing many of his friends slaughtered trying to hold the line, he’d lost his taste for violence.

Dain counted some forty nobles occupying the great hall in attendance of the Count and his advisors. There were six Barons, including Baron Galunte of Lockdale, who was Dain’s direct senior in the hierarchy. Looking around at all the various military-style uniforms, Dain reflected on the differences between this government and the feudal societies of old. Mecre’s governors were generally selected on merit by the council of druids in Mecre City, and they conducted themselves much like a military chain of command. There was less formality and ceremony and more practical decisiveness. If a Duke were a general under the king, then a Count might be a Colonel, and the Barons act as Captains and so on. Everyone also knew that they could be fired and replaced without regard to their genealogy.

The social atmosphere was relatively casual as food and drink were served. Pleasantries and platitudes were exchanged in equal measure, there was a friendly and familiar air about the chamber. Many were discussing military matters such as training and equipment, while others made minor trade deals and inquired about friends and relatives. Meetings such as this were very rarely held for economic reasons, however, as Mecre did not have any serious issues in that area. One of the benefits of having a druid council and a druid patron god was an abundance of food. Many farms could produce four or five normal yields a year, and selling the surplus to neighboring realms made an easy profit. No, a gathering such as this meant one thing: war.

In the center of the great hall, a large, exquisitely detailed stone war table depicted the southern half of the peninsula of Lendre, including all the surrounding islands. This was no game, however; this was a map of Mecre’s actual military forces and known enemy armies. In just a few days, the Ssythe armies had spread out from the islands of Memath and Chelan and taken over the entire multi-island nation of Coramar. The small kingdom was sparsely populated and had very little military to speak of, yet it was still hundreds of thousands of people who were now likely slaves or meat for Ssythe bellies. Mecre was organizing a defense of its coastal population since the King believed that would be where the lizardfolk would strike next. He also wanted to organize a counteroffensive to liberate the Cormarians, but most of the druid council was opposed to the idea, citing neutrality and possible threats from the north.

Druids generally would not go to war unless it came to their doorstep, and Mecre the kingdom had thrived under this philosophy for over a thousand years. Mecre the king believed that the time to flex and train their military strength was now, and that war was inevitable; he wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t. There were a great many Mecrans who saw their returned everborn king as a warmonger, an omen of doom, and someone to be feared, but there was no doubt that he knew battle. It was said that whenever the king arrived in person to a conflict, the outcome was all but predetermined, no matter the odds. He could not be stopped on the battlefield. The Ssythe, however, had their own undefeated champions.

The group of men and women at this gathering, already burdened by the weight of leadership, had become used to war over the past few decades, but those battles had been mere skirmishes compared to what was coming. Reports had the Ssythe warriors numbering close to a million. It would drain all of Mecre’s garrisons to field a human army a fraction of that size. Thankfully, Mecre was not asking for such a commitment just yet. A defensive war could be waged with far fewer soldiers, especially with the aid of the druids. The council nobles agreed that a levy of twenty percent of their standing troops would be adequate.

There would be no squabbling or politics over who should go or who should stay. All was balanced in the land of druids; it was the way of Neador and had been for over a millennium. As for the soldiers, there would likely be volunteers in excess of twenty percent anyhow, as Mecre was a patriotic kingdom that did not suffer invasion lightly. The meeting was conducted and concluded in the space of one long meal. Within four hours of arriving, Dain was on the way back to Breckan’s Hold with new orders and a grim purpose. He would assign his own portion of the required levy and then leave for Osenvale to assist Duke Jamelyn in negotiating with the mercenaries gathered there. There he would also unite with his wife in the effort to keep his impetuous youngest son from joining the war effort.

Isubane’s Echo, Chapter 6: The Road to Osenvale

Image by Gemini

The fumes from the back porch of Giblin’s tavern were more potent than the alcohol in his drink. They stung his eyes and made his nose itch, but slowly he felt himself relaxing into a state he had never felt before. Everything around him took on a dreamlike quality, and his worries faded into the background. At first, he had been worried about offending Seleger’s friends, but after a while, the apprehension stopped, and he tried to focus on saying things that did not elicit gales of laughter from everyone listening. He vaguely remembered Gemma coming by with what seemed to be a sympathetic tone, telling him that he’d figure out how to talk someday. Cat wasn’t sure what she meant, but she also said the mercenaries would all be leaving for Osenvale in the morning and that he should look them up when he got there. Some time after that, Seleger suggested they all relocate to somewhere more private.

Catwright, not being a complete idiot, had some idea of what was happening and did not have any interest. It was not that the girls were unattractive; they just made him uncomfortable. He didn’t like the smell of the herbs, and he didn’t like the sense of complacency in their conversation. They complained about their circumstances but offered no solutions and exhibited no desire to make the necessary effort to change their situation. He told them that he was not feeling well and that he felt some extra rest would do him good. This was true enough, but he also knew that once he made his way to the fresh air, his metabolism would deal with whatever toxins he had imbibed and inhaled, and he would quickly feel better.

Beldere was waiting for him outside. The priest was dozing in a chair in front of the tavern but came awake as Catwright approached.

“You know that I can feel you poisoning yourself.” The priest spoke slowly and carefully, as if he were under the influence of the herbs himself.

“Can’t you cut the thread or something, like mages do?”

“Not really, the thread is not normal magic, it is soul based and would be there whether or not either of us were aware of it, just based on our time in proximity and knowledge of each other. I don’t know how. I’ve been connected to you for so long, your… condition is always in my head. I think there is a way to mute it, but I’ve never really tried to”

“That sounds terrible,” Cat remarked unsympathetically.

The walk back to the manor was mostly quiet, but Cat could tell Beldere was struggling with something. “Go ahead and say it, Bel.”

“I would never change your thoughts, Catwright.” It was not what Cat was expecting the priest to say, but Cat nodded in encouragement, interested in where this was going. “I mean, I don’t think I could anyway, but I wouldn’t try because it goes against my calling to ever harm what you are. I know you’re afraid of it since you saw what I did to Dernus Bailer.”

“So what am I?” Cat was curious why the priest had phrased it that way. He knew about the priest’s calling, of course, and though Cat had his doubts about the authenticity of its origin, he could definitely respect Beldere’s conviction.

“You are a chosen of Primythera, a force of nature to help guide Mecre’s people through the coming darkness.”

“Just Mecre’s people? Oh well, I guess that shouldn’t be too bad.” Cat was simultaneously needling and deflecting. It was an old sarcastic argument about how the lesser gods like Neador only seemed to be concerned with their small part of the world. Cat was also mocking the idea that the planet spirit herself would be directly interested in him. He was no Everborn or druid disciple to have such a responsibility. Just the idea of such a weight made him uncomfortable.

“I know you don’t really believe. It is difficult, even for me. I have a feeling, however, that the next couple of years will be telling.”

They made the rest of the walk to the manor in the silence of dark thoughts. That night Catwright dreamed of slogging through a hot, damp jungle with unseen eyes upon him. Beldere dreamed he was tethered to a wagon the size of a barn and had to pull it up a steep, narrow, rocky trail by himself.

The next week went by in a flurry of activity as the hold bent around the task of safely conveying Natalia Sulwood to the city of Osenvale. Carriages were inspected and upgraded, competitions were held for those who would have the honor of providing her escort, and outfits were commissioned for those who would be part of her entourage. Catwright, along with Chatwick and Beldere, found to their chagrin that they would be included in that illustrious group.

“Catwright Isubane the Third! Your father should be ashamed! It’s been too long since I spoke to that old bastard; he obviously needs a hard dose of womanly sense! You are for all purposes landed and titled nobility, and you come here with only two sets of dirty old military rags for clothing? Unacceptable!” Natalia paced in front of him in dignified righteous fury. “I shall commission a full set of appropriate attire, including a fine set of parade armor. I will have a note of account for the cost, including a strongly worded message from myself sent by courier on the morrow!” Cat almost grinned, thinking about how his father would react to such a letter. “And you, Beldere of Ironwood, how is it that a priest of Neador only has two sets of robes that you obviously grew out of years ago? Is this also the fault of that miserly, loafing dullard Catwright calls his sire?”

“I’m sure Colonel Isubane or one of his subordinates would have provided additional garments had I…” Beldere began.

“So you didn’t even request appropriate outerwear?” Natalia pressed. Catwright and Seleger smiled. Chatwick looked like he was trying to disappear into the background. Beldere opened his mouth, probably about to spout some nonsense about how he was just a humble priest who did not require such largess, but Lady Sulwood just rolled over him. “You represent the Lord Watcher of the Wood, Neador of Lendre. Have some respect for your station! The common folk should look upon you and see something to aspire to, not be appalled by your obvious lack of means. No, no more need to speak of it, I shall have this travesty remedied before the sun sets.” Her grim face changed abruptly to a sweet yet predatory smile as she turned to Chatwick. “And you, my dear.” Catwright swore he saw the boy flinch. “Your newly acquired attire is acceptable, but we will have a more formal set made with perhaps a bit of room for growth. I predict you will gain a bit of weight before we are presented before the Duke.” All their eyes widened a bit at this. Apparently, Natalia meant to stay at the castle in Osenvale. Now that he thought about it, Cat realized that it made sense that she wouldn’t settle for a relatively unprotected inn when suites were available for nobles and their entourage within the fortified walls. Cat found that he was disappointed that they would not be experiencing the more entertaining and less formal options for accommodation. He was also not looking forward to having to present himself formally before Duke and Duchess Jamelyn and residing under their thumb, but he was still excited about going to the festival and participating in the competition.

The fittings went as expected, and within two days they all had new attire. Catwright would wear the livery of House Sulwood since he did not have official colors of his own yet. The silver and dark green looked good on all the boys, though Cat couldn’t remember wearing anything so stiff and restricting that was not armor. The dress armor was a refurbished one of Seleger’s old extra sets; it really did not have to be adjusted very much to fit him. The green and white feathered plume on top of the helmet was a little much, and the pauldrons were far too large and ostentatious for his liking. They were basically shoulder decorations more for intimidation than anything else, blocking peripheral vision and making certain sword maneuvers very difficult. Overall, Catwright liked the simple polished steel design with relatively few embellishments on the rest of the armor. It was light yet sturdy, not a full encasement, but enough to protect the essentials. Seleger’s set had far more ornamentation, including at least one thumb-sized emerald on each piece, which Cat was sure held some kind of linked enchantment.

“You should have worn that when you rode out for a joust, you probably would have done better,” Cat teased.

“What? And get this magnificent set all dinged and dirty? Mother would have thrown a fit!” Seleger laughed. Cat’s guess about the enchantments was proven correct a moment later when they strode from the armory and Seleger’s armor disappeared from one step to the next, leaving him in a slightly rumpled set of loose casual linens.

“Wow!” Cat said, seriously impressed. He had only a basic education in magic theory, but he knew serious magical ingenuity when he saw it.

“Oh yes!” Seleger beamed, “and watch this, well, hopefully, it works.” A slightly worried expression crossed his friend’s face moments before the full set of armor appeared around him, already tightened and buckled. Cat couldn’t pick his mouth up off the floor to make a comment. That was masterwork smithing, engineering, and magical linking. “Oh, thank the Watcher!” Seleger laughed, “the last time I tried that, I was nearly castrated! The uh, codpiece was just a smidge too small, you know.”

“I’m sure that was the issue,” Cat retorted with no small amount of sarcasm. They ribbed each other good-naturedly on the way back to the manor as Catwright concentrated on his own set of armor. It was not as smooth, but over the course of a few steps, the cuirass and the helmet disappeared, then a few seconds later, the pauldrons and the greaves, followed just moments later by the rest of the armor relocating to the soulbound amulet’s dimensional space.

“What? I didn’t know it could do that!” Seleger exclaimed. They had discussed the potential uses for the artifact, but Cat was discovering that some of their perceived limitations could be overcome with concentration and practice. He had discovered that when he focused on the item when holding it in his hand, he had an awareness of inanimate objects in his vicinity, and if he concentrated hard enough, he could bring them into his inventory without making physical contact. He then discovered that the more he practiced, the more he could move at once. “Now, put it back on!” Seleger encouraged. Cat gave him an incredulous look but stopped walking and concentrated hard.

The clatter of metal showering onto the cobblestones was loud enough to cause a dozen people to stop what they were doing to look and see what happened. The bellowing laughter that followed was no less resounding, though it came from a single human. How is he so loud? Cat thought. Is he channeling air mana?

By the time Seleger caught his breath, Cat had managed to store all the armor again. “By the Watcher’s brown hairy balls, Cat, that was an absolutely delightful epic failure! You might want to practice that trick a bit more!” Cat wanted to punch Seleger’s smiling face. He knew his own face was bright red, and he had a bruise on his head and shoulder from the falling metal. Seleger, however, was actually crying from trying to hold in his laughter.

“It’s not that funny,” Cat deadpanned, trying to steal a bit of the mirth. Seleger just started laughing again, mercifully less raucously than before.

“Oh gods! Ellie’s perky little tits, I think I cracked a rib!”

“Don’t let your mother hear you talk like that; she’ll crack more than a rib!” Cat chided.

“You’re probably right; Ellitra’s certainly her favorite of the Watcher’s disciples. Speaking of my mother, you’d best set about repolishing that suit before she sees it!” He was right, Cat realized. That armor had gleamed with perfection, and now it had been dropped on the stones. Not only would there be dirt, but dings and scratches as well. It would be a long night.

Two days later, they were finally on the road to Osenvale. Dain and Natalia parted ways with some ceremony and a tasteful display of affection. Dain apparently needed to attend a meeting of local lords to the south but promised he would catch them before they reached the city. He wished them all good speed as the caravan rolled out of Breckan’s Hold. The three wagons in the procession, however, slowed them considerably. Even with the druidic magic and other various travel enchantments available, the three hundred mile trip would take a full ten days.

Rolling hills gave way to more level fields and meadows. The lush farmlands surrounding the small townships made for some fascinating culinary experiences. Natalia was not one who settled for travel rations when she could pause in each village and purchase a sample of the local fare. Catwright had never been excited about fruits and vegetables until he tried some amazing salad dishes with a dozen ingredients from leafy to savory and various dressings made from oil and vinegar and spices. They shared plates of spiced meats with a variety of cheeses, some of which somehow smelled questionable but tasted wonderful.

Their passing was met with celebration and cheers wherever they went. Natalia was apparently well-loved by her peers and their subjects as well as her own. They did not stay in any one place more than a night, but they always dined on the finest each place had to offer and stayed in warm, cozy accommodations where everyone, even the guards and soldiers, had their own rooms. Catwright reflected that every accommodation he had enjoyed since arriving in Breckan’s Hold was larger and far more comfortable than the room in Ironwood Keep where he had grown up.

Natalia took time to speak with other nobles or town leaders, and Seleger took the time to shamelessly flirt with every entity in a skirt. One town even had a community of Lowenti. These small folk were rarely taller than a man’s waist, but that only caused the randy young lord to rise to the challenge. His exchange with one miniature woman was turning Cat’s face red. The Lowenti girl was well-proportioned with lightly tanned skin and bright green hair. She was dressed scandalously by human standards in what amounted to a pull-over shift that stopped at her upper thigh, but she was less than three feet tall and probably weighed less than twenty pounds.

“I know an alchemist who can brew a potion of growth that will last almost two hours,” Seleger claimed with a smile.

“Only two hours? Oh, we’d barely get started in that amount of time. You’d better bring two potions, or better yet, I know a wiley old mystic who can shrink you down permanently!” Her grin was wicked.

Cat had to laugh at his friend’s speechlessness and the dumbfounded expression on his face.  Later that night, after a few drinks at the local tavern, Cat finally had to ask: “Why do you do it?”

“Do what?” Seleger was scanning the tavern crowd, likely for more targets of his affection.

“Try to seduce every woman you see.”

“Well, it’s not every one, is it? Only the younger and more attractive…”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do love the ladies, Cat, their shape, their smell, the way they move, and they seem to like me well enough. Who am I to deny them what may be the defining experience of their life?” Cat wasn’t sure how to respond to such a pretentious deflection. After a moment, he sighed and continued.

“You don’t want to court all of them? Do you?”

“Court them! By the gods, no!” Seleger seemed disturbed by the idea. “That would be far too much work and commitment for a busy young lord such as myself. I’m just looking for enjoyment, a meaningful overnight distraction.”

“And they don’t get upset or jealous?” Cat was confused; most of the stories seemed to glorify love and monogamy at first sight.

“Well, some do, yes, but you just need to let them know from the beginning that you are after a momentary encounter. Unfortunately, my methods are subtle enough that some of the duller lasses don’t catch on, or forget whilst in the throes of passion.” Seleger was looking at Catwright now with open suspicion. “Surely when you tumbled some of those Ironwood girls, you didn’t go fawning after them the next day like some love-sick loon.” Cat’s open mouth and silence were all Seleger needed, and it should be noted that enough drink had been consumed to betray all subtlety. He bellowed loud enough for the entire building and people in the street outside to hear. “You did pine over the first buxom damsel to service your shaft!” Cat’s face was red now, and he stuttered a response.

“No, I uh, never…”

“You’ve never explored the wonders of a woman.” Seleger’s voice was suddenly soft, his eyes were gleaming with predatory mischief eerily similar to his mother Natalia. Having had a bit to drink himself, Catwright did not see the trap.

“Uh, no…”

“By the gods and the veils, Catwright, I did not know, but now that I do, it is my duty as your friend to help you through this.” Cat had a sinking feeling. “Attention, fellow patrons, and particularly all of you lovely young maidens!” Seleger’s voice was suddenly like a physical force of nature. “My friend here,” he gestured at Catwright, “has never known the pleasures of a woman! Ten gold for the first young lady to relieve him of his sad innocence and introduce his manhood to her nether sheath!” Some people laughed, some looked concerned, but many a young and not-so-young woman actually turned to look with interest. Ten gold was more than two months’ wage for most of these folk.

Catwright was moving beyond embarrassment into another emotion. This was not him. This was not how he wanted to do this. Seleger was going too far. As women actually started to approach the loud young lordling for an explanation of the exact terms, Cat’s face heated with rage, and he clenched his fists. Seleger was going on and on with his monologue, slurring his words slightly, though he was still loud enough to be heard within a hundred yards.

“Come and provide comfort to this strong, handsome young warrior! He who has never truly known a feminine touch.” Seleger was transitioning into a dramatic and melancholic story. He exaggerated and made bawdy metaphors. His audience was rapt, and like an overburdened dam, something in Catwright broke.

“…his childhood, bereft of affection, for his mother left him when he was just a babe! How could this affect…?” was the last Seleger managed to get out before Catwright’s fist crashed into his jaw.

Isubane’s Echo, Chapter 5: Whispers of Convergence

Image by Gemini

Luarca

A shape stirred in the darkness, awakened after years of slumber by its spies returning from the north. Milky white eyes opened, seeing everything, even in the absolute blackness of its cavernous home, hundreds of feet underground. It shifted its great bulk, tentacles atop its snake-like head twitching, spreading its awareness outward, seeking its kindred. The little lizards that other races called the Ssythe—it–he, no longer really resembled them. Was it even a “he”? It seemed like centuries since such trivialities had mattered.

The smell of death permeated the stale air. Blood leaked into its gruesome home from bodies ritually sacrificed in its name. Such a pitiful trickle of power compared to the one it sought. Visions swarmed its mind from multiple perspectives at once: the present, the past. Winged thralls danced in the skies and darkened the trees. The elder soul walked free, no longer protected by those dreaded ancients of bark and earth. To have such power there for the taking—the path to true immortality. The lord of the unseen licked its lipless face with a forked tongue in anticipation.

The waiting was finally over. Only a sliver of the twin’s power, but it was there: vengeance, hunger, pain. It remembered when the druids had returned the soul to this realm—hunger, pain, and a baby crying. The machinations of the pawns of Primythera were not hidden from Luarca, the crawler in the deep. A sinuous body contorted, and scales rippled, causing the earth to shake. Eight clawed limbs began pulling the creature toward the surface, passing enormous caves filled with a vast wealth of precious metals. Useless, except as rewards for minions. Yes, wealth—that was how things were accomplished in the human world. Tendrils of a deranged but insidious mind reached out to the faithful and began to issue instructions.

The earth continued to tremble and give way before the forty-foot-long reptilian monstrosity. Those above cried out in ecstasy and terror in equal measure. Siama Luarca, lord of the unseen, crawler of the deep, nightweaver, the elder Ssythe abomination human mythology referred to as the Blood Wretch, slowly made its way into the light once again.

Beldere

“Have you delved the auguries recently my son?” Master Adenide’s elderly face was severe but not unkindly, like a general whose countenance was stained by a life of violence but now held a precious new grandchild.

“Yes” Beldere was fidgeting, having trouble finding the inner peace that normally came so easily. It was more than the nervous regard for a respected elder, it was an apprehension for the difficult questions to come.

“And what have you seen?” The old priest relaxed on a cushioned chair made of polished and lacquered oak. The grotto of whispers was a modestly appointed great hall with four attached cabins in the shade of a small grove of young elderwoods. Everyone in the village was welcome to come in search of healing or wisdom, and the master and two acolytes provided all they could without asking for repayment of any kind. The quality of the crafted furniture, however, was a testament to the villagers’ appreciation. 

“Violence.” Beldere started, and then stopped himself not knowing where or how to begin. The one word seemed to be enough, however, as his mentor took a deep breath and seemed to stare inward for a long moment.

“Where do you see yourself?”

“In the middle of everything,” Beldere could not keep the catch from his voice as he relived the visions, “standing atop a pile of bodies, with…him, or dying underneath… feeling the suffocating death crushing my body, my soul.” He was sobbing now, wiping his face on his robe in a most undignified manner, like a child. Taking deep breaths, the young man embraced the fear and despair and then observed it from the outside, clearing his mind temporarily from the burdens of his emotions. “How can someone so isolated have so many enemies?”

“He has something that the powerful want. He doesn’t understand, but you need to. An elder soul is a powerful component in a ritual that can create a divine spark. The soul of Isubane will be even more sought out because of how he died.” The old priest stopped to let the younger man absorb the knowledge and reach the proper conclusions.

“You believe his soul absorbed aspects of Isulas and Isuna as they mingled between the veils.” 

“I certainly believe it is possible. Beings approaching ascension would sense that spark as it entered our realm. It’s one of the reasons the gods do not lightly send avatars, as even they have predators seeking a path forward.”

Beldere digested this for a moment. “There is more to it though, it’s not all about him.”

“Good, you do indeed show wisdom beyond your years. Isubane’s plight is but the tip of Mecre’s problems. Dark events encroach upon us. The Grulken attack in numbers greater than ever recorded, and they are organized. The Ssythe are amassing in the southern isles for unknown reasons. The druids on Mecre’s council report more unexplained breaches in the veils, beings that should not be able to come through are somehow doing so. I believe we are coming to that convergence of events which prompted the rebirth of Mecre Everborn. Primythera does not take direct interest unless something cataclysmic is on the horizon.” It had been thirteen hundred years since the planet spirit had summoned the Everborn, and that had been a war that encompassed the known world, where gods rose and fell, entire species were wiped out and the geography of the planet itself was changed.

Why me? I didn’t want this! Was what Beldere felt like saying, but he knew questioning the wisdom of Neador or Primythera was useless. They saw things in a different perspective than mortals. Divine plans might take several lifetimes to come to fruition and a mortal would likely never fully comprehend their part. I am a pawn, a small piece in a much greater plan. I must have faith. The young priest did not have to say anything, he simply sighed in resignation.

“I see you understand my son.” The old man smiled in a tired, and wry manner which radiated empathy. “You have my congratulations, and my sympathy.”

Chatwick

The night before had included one of the best meals and best nights’ sleep of his life. The meal was better than festival fare, with a whole leg of roast goose, potatoes, carrots, and bread. Then, they had given him his own room with a soft, clean bed, thin under-blankets called sheets, a warm odor-free blanket with no holes or stains, and best of all, no younger sister tossing and turning beside him. This morning was a different story. After their sumptuous breakfast of eggs, sausage, and buttered toast, his sister had been sent off to school. Chatwick, however, had been sent off to someone called an assessor, who quizzed him on various subjects, including reading and writing, and pronounced him “adequate.” Then, the assessor proceeded to poke and prod him with a variety of arcane instruments to determine if he had any ailments or injuries. Chatwick had assured the scholarly young man that the nice priest of Neador had healed him of every injury or ailment he had ever had, and even some he hadn’t known about. The scholarly young man had assured Chatwick that all armsmen needed to undergo a yearly evaluation so they could be utilized efficiently and given every opportunity to advance their skills. Chatwick wasn’t sure what that meant, and since his head conjured up visions both ominous and reassuring, he decided to let it go and save it for later thought.

Almost immediately after being pronounced healthy and reasonably educated, he was issued a short sword and a leather jerkin and shown to the practice area, where the big noble boys had apparently already been since before sunrise. Here, he discovered that his new master and his dour friend were relentless in the pursuit of the martial arts. Seleger led him through a series of warm-up exercises that left the thin pig farmer gasping for air. A dozen feet away, Catwright was thrashing the local soldiers one after the other, and they kept coming! As if it was some kind of privilege to get cut open and have their bones broken by a kid half their age. The priest was there as well, healing the wounds as fast as they came, a sad look on his face, as if he’d rather be anywhere else.

Chatwick took his turn sparring as well and discovered it was a lot harder than it looked. They mostly just talked to him about where to place his feet and how to hold the sword. No one really hit him except to batter his clumsily held weapon or slap him lightly with the flat of a blade. They were actually encouraging and nice for the most part, something he had not expected from adults, much less soldiers. Catwright avoided him, as if the newly minted squire was not worth the time of such a peerless warrior. He mostly squared up with Seleger, who patiently instructed and corrected as if he had been doing this his entire life.

“Why aren’t you thrashing me?” Chatwick finally gasped as he bent over, hands on his knees. He was exhausted, and they hadn’t even been at it an hour. He wasn’t lazy or unfit compared to other kids he went to school with, but he couldn’t even lift his arms anymore.

“What do you mean?” Seleger was grinning at him with that winsome, knowing smile that was simultaneously endearing and condescending. “You look pretty roughed up to me.”

“I mean like that,” he pointed to where Catwright had just stepped inside a slow swing and shattered a man’s jaw with the pommel of his sword.

“Oh, you’re not ready for that,” Seleger laughed. “Those men have been doing this for years! They have a soldier’s  alchemical conditioning, which makes their bones stronger and helps them heal and recover faster.”

“But you and Cat can’t be much older than me.”

“Well, yes, but again, we’ve been doing this for years, and we have augmentations as well, even more than most of the soldiers.”

“How is Cat so good? He’s even faster than you.” Chatwick stopped for a moment, considering the wisdom of his words. “No, yeah… I mean, he is, isn’t he?”

Seleger was still laughing. “Yes, he has a gift, plus he’s been doing this nonstop since he was old enough to stand.”

“Will I be able to fight like that someday?”

“You are not expected to fight like that, unless you become a knight in your own right. Your task is to stay alive and distract the enemy until I can get there.” Seleger beckoned the younger boy to follow, and they proceeded to a locked cabinet. Producing a key, the older boy unlocked the doors and retrieved a small corked vial of brownish liquid. “We call this liquid vigor,” he said. “We use it for beginning soldiers since it loses its effectiveness after a while. It’s not a true tempering drought, but it will help you recover faster, give you energy, and repair your muscles so you can get back to training again.”

Chatwick took the proffered vial, and though he knew it cost more than a half dozen healthy piglets, he downed it all without hesitation. This was his life now, and if these two older boys were the new standard, he had a lot of catching up to do. Within seconds, energy filled his body, and his aching muscles felt enlarged and strong. Seleger then took him through some basic instruction in a variety of smaller weapons, including knives and daggers, which Chatwick found he had a much better grasp of.

He was thankful at first that combat training was only the first three hours of the day, until he was shown to the other classrooms. He received detailed instruction on the subjects of history, etiquette, tactics, science, and magic. Some of the discussions were actually pretty interesting, but after his sip of vigor started to wear off, he could barely keep his eyes open. The classes were taught by old soldiers or scholars, and in most cases, he was in the class with only two or three other students. Everyone gave him so much attention; it was stifling compared to what he was used to. Unfortunately, he found it impossible to catch a nap. He barely had a chance to relieve himself after mid-meal before he was off to another class. At one point, he walked past a stable where a boy was mucking away happily and actually felt a twinge of jealousy. I need to get my head right!

By dinner time, he had his own pack filled with more books than he had seen in his life, and he was encouraged to study them in his room, which had its own desk and a shelf for said books. He talked to his sister at dinner to find that she had been fitted for three new dresses and only had to attend two classes all day. She’d had a grand time playing with some of the other children around the estate. After dinner, he spread out his bound and printed treasures upon the desk until it was covered. Feeling tired but studious, he opened up some of the other books and spread them upon his bed. where he promptly fell asleep atop them.

Seleger

Something was off with his friend. He acted nice enough and had the same mannerisms and all, but he was more guarded, more withdrawn. Seleger mentioned it to his father that first night after dinner and received a nod in response.

“He seems a lot older,” his father said. “Keep an eye on him. I heard they pushed him hard the last couple of years. That young priest looks like he’s seen his share of trauma as well.” Beldere did seem more withdrawn, now that Seleger thought about it. Well, it makes sense, he was there as well, elbow deep in the blood and guts.

The next morning, Catwright went to the training grounds with a will. It seemed like he had to prove himself to every able-bodied soldier there. Seleger had to practically pull him away for mid-meal, and when Cat wanted to go back right after, Seleger had finally had enough.

“Why do you need to go back? You’ve already beaten down every soldier in the barracks.”

The other boy paused for a long moment and sighed deeply. “What would you like to do?” Now Seleger smiled.

“We’re going to the tavern for a turn at the war table!”

“Don’t you have a war table in the manor?”

“Yes, however, here at our lovely home you will not find ladies of ill repute in their cups. Oh, and the games at Giblin’s place are much more interesting.” Seleger smiled again as Cat shrugged his shoulders in defeat. “Who knows, maybe you can start a fight! All your Sapphire Company and mercenary friends are sure to be there.” Cat showed a smile that was obviously forced, and Seleger tried not to take it personally. He would show his friend a good time if it killed him.

Giblin’s tavern was a relatively isolated two-story building on the southeastern edge of town. When Cat inquired as to why it was so far from the barracks, Seleger replied that old Giblin wanted to be as far from the manor and the grove as he could possibly be, and yet still be in town. Cat shrugged again, as if this made perfect sense. The bottom floor was quite literally overflowing with patrons, some of whom were already sleeping off their first round on the lawn outside. Seleger laughed loudly, “It’s barely an hour past midday, this is going to be great!”

Several people called out to them as they entered. Seleger recognized almost everyone in the building, and the crowd made way for the two boys with loud, jovial greetings and a shrill, joking, “Throw them out, they’re too young!” from Gemma. Tankards were waiting for them at the bar, but it took a bit longer to get spots at the war table. There were several teams waiting for a turn when the two boys approached. Not afraid of a challenge, Seleger charmed the competitors within a few short minutes, and with a few words and promises of free beverages, they were allowed to jump the line and have a game in time for the second round of drinks.

The table was a raised stone platform roughly eight feet long and four feet wide, and upon the surface were what at first appeared to be children’s toys, but were actually detailed miniatures representing groups of soldiers with various capabilities. Each miniature had a combat value, and the players would select a number of miniatures which added up to a certain number, usually four or five hundred, and then face off against one another in a game of strategy. A yardstick was used to measure distance, and small six-sided square dice were used to resolve issues of chance. A game could last hours or be over in minutes, depending on skills, chance, alliances, and levels of inebriation.

So many people wanted to play that they ended up creating four teams of two for the first round, with Catwright and Seleger splitting their force, each controlling half of their pieces independently. The game lasted less than an hour before Olivia and Jarod, the reigning champions, handily won after cornering Seleger’s routed unit in a ravine where he surrendered.

“I thought you were good at this?” Cat goaded.

“I am, well, better than you at least.” Seleger gestured to the board.

“I’m pretty sure everyone allied against me,” Cat stated matter-of-factly. Seleger had to concede the point. Catwright had been set upon by all three opponents before they ever attacked each other. That’s what he got for beating them all bloody.

Not giving up, Seleger towed Catwright along with him to socialize with the fairer sex. In his vast and varied experience, nothing cheered the suffering soul of a melancholy young man like the casual affections of a buxom young maiden. Perhaps the only superior cure was the ravenous attention of the not-so-maidenly sort. Behind the tavern, a partially fenced-in porch area held several wooden tables with chairs, along with a more sturdy set of tables dedicated to games of strength and coordination. Green vines with purple and yellow flowers covered the three walls, inside and out. In this sacred green area open to nature, the town leaf burners could partake of their vice without offending or accidentally sharing their experience with those inside.

Without hesitation, Seleger pulled out two chairs from a table where three women sat, immersed in a tri-color cloud of herbal smoke. He took a seat and beckoned Cat to sit as well. “Selya, Emmy, Bristol,” he gave them his best smile, “I’d like you to meet my friend Catwright.” The girls were young, well, a few years older than him, but pretty and so delightfully different. Selya with long dark hair and wide eyes, Emmy with her more mousy, innocent look, and Bristol with her open, challenging face and large… voice. He did love variety.

Selya’s eyes widened slightly, Emmy smiled shyly, and Bristol pointed and shouted, “Oi! I know you, my papi said he got his jaw broke by some kid from the Ironwoods this morning! That’s him, Catwright Itshisbane!” Seleger wasn’t sure if she mispronounced the name intentionally or if she were already burned, toasted, smoked? The terminology for their particular version of herbal impairment may have escaped him, but Bristol’s comment induced a round of excited chatter. Selya seemed to know every obscure rumor about Cat’s grandfather, and Emmy pouted about how it was such a shame she was already promised to the miller’s son. Catwright’s face was bright red, and it wasn’t from the brew.

All Cat managed during the conversation was a quiet “Um, hello,” and it struck Seleger that the other boy had never been around girls outside of a combat training exercise. Even then, those few women had been at least five years older. All at once, it struck Seleger. His friend was newly freed from a life so structured he almost never made his own decisions other than how to maim someone. Cat had no direction and, worse, no social skills. A bout of sympathy washed over the young lordling as he saw Catwright increase his rate of consumption to alleviate his awkwardness. This was a big problem, and Seleger was just the champion to solve it!