[Mkguild] The Last Tale of Yajakali - Chapter LXII

[C. Matthias]

And yet another Chapter cometh!

Metamor Keep: The Last Tale of Yajakali
By Charles Matthias

Chapter LXII

Unrequited Love


         “I’m sorry, but you cannot enter Long House without permission.”
         Murikeer stared at the guards in 
dumbfounded surprise. He’d never been denied 
entry to Long House before despite not being an 
official member of the group. The four guards – 
two humans male and female, a lanky prepubescent 
boy, and a goat whose horns were no longer than 
his palm was wide – standing before the double 
doors into one of the most secretive places in 
Metamor were dressed in Metamorian blue with a 
black axe stitched into their tunics as befitting 
their special status as guards Misha and George 
trusted to defend the Long House. They’d likely 
never be Longs themselves, but each one of them would hope for it.
         “What do you mean?” Murikeer chuffed as 
he glanced from one guard to another. His tail 
flicked behind him in agitation. “Your master 
Misha has always trusted my counsel in the past. 
I have just returned from a very long journey 
through the southern kingdoms and I have learned 
much concerning the events and happenings there 
that may have impact on Metamor, and need to 
bring that information to Misha so he may 
understand.” He shifted the satchel he carried, 
hooking his hand through the strap across his 
chest without backing down in the face of the 
soldiery. After what he had learned in the past 
few days he wasn’t sure he wanted to know of any 
more tragedies that had befallen his friends.
         The woman shook her head and tightened 
the grip on her spear. “Master Misha has given 
instructions that only those on Long business are to be admitted.”
         Murikeer swore under his breath and 
pointed to his eyepatch. “I received this wound 
while avenging the death of a Long, madam. Misha 
knows who I am. Announce me to him, let him 
choose whether to see me or send me away. He 
cannot be so busy he cannot grunt come or go.”
         The age-regressed boy, not looking out 
of place in the full livery of a member of 
Metamor’s military, cleared his throat 
self-consciously. “I know you, Master Murikeer, I 
will let Misha know you wait without.” The boy 
turned to the door. “I’ll ask for you.”
         Murikeer stared closer at the boy but 
didn’t recognize him. It wasn’t surprising. When 
he’d first come to Metamor he’d done all he could 
to avoid the humans living here. Only those 
Keepers struck by the animal curse made him feel 
comfortable. But with time his fear of humans had 
abated, and after his long journey into Sathmore 
the nightmares of being hunted like a beast had finally passed.
         The boy must have seen him in passing 
then. He did his best to smile and pretend like 
he knew who the boy was. “Thank you. That is most 
considerate of you.” He cocked his eye toward the 
other two still posted obstinately before the 
door with their pikes, wholly ineffective weapons 
in the confines of the corridor but impressive 
looking, crossed between them. The skunk mage 
wrinkled one corner of his muzzle and chuckled 
darkly, eliciting a raised brow from one guard.
         The remaining guards watched him glumly 
and kept their mouths shut while they waited. 
Murikeer purposely made them as uncomfortable as 
he could, rocking back and forth on his paws in 
front of the door and smiling a feral, 
sharp-toothed grin as if he knew something they 
did not. The goat tapped the end of his spear on 
his horns as if still getting used to having 
them. He looked young enough to have been changed 
only a year or two, but he could also be one of the refugees.
         The boy returned a few moments later 
looking flustered, unable to meet Murikeer’s 
intense gaze when the skunk focussed upon him. 
The other guards drew up their pikes and watched 
the oddly behaving skunk while waiting for word 
from their compatriot. “Well?” Murikeer chuffed impatiently.
The boy nodded and gestured to him with a finger. “Misha says you can come.”
         Murikeer sighed and passed through the 
double doors into the Long House. The main hall 
was empty which struck him as odd. The practice 
areas looked to have been recently used but there 
was no one there now. The scent of fur, oil, and 
steel was fresh in the air, but whoever had made those scents was gone now.
         The door to Misha’s office stood open 
and Murikeer stepped into the office quietly. 
Behind a desk stacked with maps and papers was a 
rather frazzled fox. He still jumped from his 
seat, knocked over a stack of papers while coming 
around one end of it to grab the skunk in a tight 
embrace. “Murikeer Khunnas! It is a fine thing to 
see you again! A fine thing! Come in, come in! 
Don’t mind the mess. All hell’s broken loose for 
us scouts what with Duke Thomas’s wedding and all.”
         “Is that why I wasn’t allowed in?” 
Murikeer returned the hug with some bemusement. 
While he had known Misha passing well before he 
left for his southern journey he had never seen 
him quite so flustered, or gregarious in his 
greetings. Misha released him with a distracted 
fox-grin and gave him a clap on the shoulder.
         “Sit, Murikeer, sit!” He barked, waving 
a hand at one of the uncluttered chairs crowded 
around the front of the desk. The fox returned to 
his own chairs after carefully navigating the 
splayed fan of spilled documents. “It’s why 
nobody’s getting into Long House right now!” 
Misha barked. “You just missed Finbar and 
Meredith. Finbar left today with a squad, and 
Meredith returned from his patrol. That bear’s 
gone down to the baths to soak for the next two 
days I think. When Kershaw returns in two days, 
I’m going out to replace him for a week. News of 
the Duke’s wedding has been sent out to every 
damn country, and now Andwyn is convinced 
there’ll be spies behind every tree come to disrupt the thing!”
         Murikeer’s tail twitched. “It would be a good time.”
         “I know. That’s the problem. You’ve come 
back at a good time though. I heard that you were 
already in Glen Avery and that you went to the 
Lothanasi Temple. You saw Rickkter?”
         Murikeer quirked his whiskers at that. 
While he was not in direct command of Metamor’s 
spies the scouts worked in close conjunction with 
them and even the smallest news, such as the 
return of a single mage, would not likely slip 
unnoticed from the fox’s attentions. He nodded. 
“I came from the Temple directly. Raven says you 
cannot get to the Belfry anymore, and that the Censer of Yajakali is there.”
         Misha’s scowl was so deep and bitter 
that Murikeer flinched. “Aye! That damn thing is 
there, always at the back of my mind. A day can’t 
go by without that thing taunting me. I couldn’t 
do anything about it. My axe couldn’t do anything 
about it! Did she tell you that?”
         “I don’t know what your axe can do, but 
if the thing is responsible for Rickkter’s 
situation I rather doubt you or I could have done 
any better. What I have heard is enough.” He 
rubbed his paws together. “There are things about it I should tell you.”
         Misha frowned and sat behind his desk. 
He grabbed a quill and then rifled through the 
maps to find a blank parchment. “Where is Vinsah? 
Reports from scouts said that the three of you 
left the valley together. You and that minstrel, Dream.”
         “Malger,” Murikeer corrected absently. 
“And yes, we left together. But I know not where 
either of them are now, we went our separate ways 
in Silvassa. But I saw something you should know. 
I saw the woman who was there when Patriarch Akabaieth was slain.”
         Misha tore the page with the tip of his quill. “You did what? When?”
         “A few days before the Summer Solstice, 
almost six months gone now. She was aiding an 
invading army from Breckaris that was trying to 
take control of the trade pass between the 
Southern Midlands and Sathmore three days north 
of Silvassa. She’s a Runecaster, and has a ruined 
eye much as I do, but very much worse, almost 
demonic in appearance as if she were touched, or 
possessed, by some otherworldly entity. I have 
never seen someone with such power as she.”
         Misha tapped the torn parchment with the 
quill tip but did no more than blot it with ink. 
“She was here at the Summer Solstice, Muri. She 
was there in the Belfry with Zagrosek and Yonson 
and the Marquis du Tournemire.”
         Murikeer stared at the fox. “What! It 
took us three months to make the trip from 
Metamor to Silvassa! How could she do it in three days?”
         Misha snarled angrily, “You tell me! You’re the mage!”
         The skunk took a deep breath and nodded. 
“She was able to summon some portal. It was the 
same sort of portal that I found at the 
Patriarch’s camp, but she had already escaped 
through that magic by the time I realized it. I 
fought her, but... she was too powerful for me.” 
He shook his head at the memory of their brief 
battle. Had he not been supported by purely 
mundane soldiers keeping her attention divided 
she would have bested him easily.
         “You’re lucky to be alive,” Misha 
replied, the edge still in his voice. He turned 
to one side and threw the quill across the room 
and smacked another stack of papers to the floor. 
“Damnit, Muri! It doesn’t matter! None of it matters!”
         Murikeer jumped to his feet and stepped 
back a pace. His tail lifted dangerously. “What doesn’t matter?”
         “Zagrosek, the Censer, the whole lot of 
it!” Misha stormed across the room and began 
pacing back and forth, gesticulating wildly with 
his arms. “One of my friends is in a coma, 
several more are out somewhere to the south 
chasing after this evil, an evil that moves 
across the world at will, and there’s not a damn 
thing I can do about it! We have one of these 
artifacts here at Metamor and we can’t do 
anything about it either! It’s been gnawing at me 
for months now, Muri. I wanted... I wanted to go. Damnit!”
         “Why didn’t you?” Murikeer watched 
Misha’s caged-animal pacing warily and with some 
pity for the frustrated, overworked commander.
         Misha took a deep breath, bent over and 
began collecting his papers. After a moment, 
Murikeer came to help him. The fox waited several 
seconds before replying. When he did, his voice 
was level and without a hint of his earlier rage. 
“I was told I couldn’t. Did you know of Zhypar Habakkuk?”
         “Of the Writer’s Guild? We crossed paths 
once or twice in the library. Kimberly told me that he went.”
         “Went? He led the whole thing!” Misha 
began organizing the papers on his desk, but his 
eyes stared past them to something that clearly 
haunted him. “Turns out he’s some sort of prophet 
whose been organizing the fight against Marzac. 
He picked the people to go and Duke Thomas agreed. I wasn’t picked.”
         Murikeer shook his head. He’d never 
noticed anything odd about Habakkuk so had never 
studied him magically. A prophet? By itself it 
would have been a surprise. On top of everything 
else it seemed a natural afterthought. “So there 
really isn’t anything we can do?”
         “Either of us? No.” Misha grabbed the 
maps he’d knocked over and waved one, still 
rolled tight and bound, around like a staff. 
“Which means we do our duty to Metamor. And for 
me that means I’m going to be making sure that 
nobody can so much as sneeze in this valley 
without the Longs knowing about it before it 
happens. Why don’t you help us, Muri? I know I could find a place for you.”
         “Nae, my friend, I must decline. I have 
returned with my father and my master’s ashes. I 
must see that they are buried next to my mother.”
         “Is that why you went to the Glen first?”
         “Aye. I’m going to return there tomorrow 
morning. I can do good there with my aunt and 
with Kimberly. She told me most of the Longs came 
out for her boy’s funeral.” Murikeer carefully 
set a stack of papers and maps on the end of the 
desk. “I will be making my home there, the Lord 
Avery deeded me an abandoned farmstead a short distance south of the Glen.”
         Misha grimaced and set the map down. His 
grey eyes did not meet the skunk’s. “All that 
could be spared. We’d have stayed with her if not 
for Duke Thomas’s wedding.” He sighed and drummed 
his claws along the tabletop. “It’ll devastate 
Charles when he gets back. The boy had the 
Sondeck too. On the last day I ever saw him, he 
was telling me how much he looked forward to training his son.”
         “He still has four children who will need him when he returns.”
         “Aye,” Misha said. Murikeer was not 
about to allow either of them to entertain the 
horrible notion that the rat might not return from so vile a place as Marzac.
         Murikeer gestured to the assorted mess 
on the fox’s desk. “You seem to have a great many 
things to do, I won’t keep you from your 
responsibilities.” He paused and looked at the 
papers, maps, reports, and general chaos on the 
desk. “But if the Duke is intent on having this 
wedding we might expect those
 people behind the 
placement of the Censer to come when they learn 
of the event, if it is truly the Duke they wish 
to overthrow and not some more broad agenda. I 
know the Runecaster, and her magic.” Murikeer 
glared with his good eye, “I want another go at her.”
         Misha growled and nodded, “Stand in 
line, lad, stand in line. I’ve a bone to split 
with the Marquis, myself” Murikeer nodded slowly 
and met Misha’s hard stare. After a few seconds 
Misha’s shared hatred waned as the immediate 
responsibilities returned to the fore of his 
mind. “Will you come for the wedding?”
         “Am I invited?”
         “If you want to be, I’ll see to it.” 
Misha chuckled with a shrug, “I could really use 
your help there, as well. We’re terribly short of 
capable mages these days, and the Guilds are not 
about to send support here because of the damned curse.”
         “Then I will come. I can show it to the 
Glenners with my illusions after. Many will want to see it themselves.”
         The fox grinned at the corner’s of his 
muzzle. “Aye, so will most Keepers. I’ll wrangle 
an invitation for you from Thalberg. Deliver it myself if I have to.”
         “You’d be welcome at the Glen.”
         “Pfah! Angus and Avery and the rest 
would cajole me into staying several days if I 
did.” Misha shook his head and finally looked up 
at the skunk. “No matter. I’ll see you in a 
couple weeks.” He reached into his desk and 
tossed a gold coin. Surprised, Murikeer only just 
snatched it out of the air before it could tumble 
down his tunic to the ground. “And get yourself a 
nice room at the Deaf Mule for the night. You 
look like you need it as much as I do.”
         “I have my own money,” Murikeer replied, 
holding the gold coin out, “And Kyia has kept my old chambers in order.”
         “It’s a gift, Muri. I’ll see you in two weeks.”
         Murikeer closed his paw around the coin 
and nodded. “I hope to see you in better spirits when next we meet.”
         “Just one good word of Charles, Jessica, 
and the rest and I would be.” Misha stepped 
around the desk and gave the skunk a firm 
hug.  “Now off with you.  I have work to do.”
         Murikeer returned the hug and smiled. “I 
will disturb you no longer, my friend.”

----------

         Night still came early in the infernal 
swamp.  Hideous cries abounded in the darkness 
around them.  Sometimes they would raise in pitch 
and then gurgle into nothingness.  A horrible 
chewing would ensue that left them all clutching 
their weapons and watching the swaying cypress 
and mangroves.  But whatever monsters that lurked 
in the night, none drew near their fire.
         The vines they’d collected from the 
plant monster Charles had helped kill proved 
excellent fuel.  It burned bright and slow.  They 
had enough for at least another week’s worth of 
travelling, which according to Habakkuk would 
bring them to the Solstice when all would be consummated.
         It both gladdened and sobered them to 
know that only a week remained in which they had 
to defeat the evil at Marzac.  The swamp showed 
no sign of ending nor any of human 
habitation.  On the few tracts of solid land 
animal tracts scattered in every 
direction.  Through the numerous ponds and 
streams, algal blooms prevented them from seeing 
anything below, but already they’d had to mend 
wounds on their legs when the fish had decided to 
bite.  Poor Jerome had salve along one shin where 
the skin had been ripped apart.  Jessica had 
healed it as best she could, but he would always bear the scars.
         “One week,” Lindsey murmured as he sat 
with his back to the fire.  He pulled his knees 
to his chest and grunted. “One week and this will 
all be over, for good or ill.  If nothing else, 
I’ll be glad if it means we can leave this swamp 
and its damn insects!” He slapped his neck and 
rubbed at the numerous bites.  That only made 
them itch worse, so he pulled his hand away and held tightly to his knees.
         “Aye,” Charles said.  The rat was still 
in his six-limbed form.  He’d stretched out his 
lower torso on the ground with his long tail 
curled up to his forepaws.  With one paw he 
stroked the vine wrapped around his 
chest.  Occasionally the leaves would turn like a 
dog reaching for their master’s hand. “It’s been 
almost six months since we left Metamor.  I 
wonder what’s happened since we left.”
         Kayla polished the katana in her lap and 
shrugged. “Well, Duke Schanalein said that Thomas 
is to be wed.  That is good news at least.”
         “Probably the biggest celebration in 
Metamor for the last twenty years and we’re going 
to miss it,” Lindsey said. “Not that most of us would have been invited.”
         “Oh, you’d be surprised,” Charles 
said.  The rat smiled and turned his head to the 
side.  The fire glinted across the black 
hand-print on his face. “If we survive this, I 
bet we’ll be invited to every celebration Duke Thomas can think of!”
         “I don’t know,” James said as he stirred 
his hooves in the soft loam. “I don’t think I 
want to be there.  All those important people 
making you know how important they are.  They 
make you feel just how small you are.”
         “You won’t be small after this,” Abafouq 
said.  The Binoq fingered the charm at his neck 
and stared into the sky.  They could see the 
stars clearly that night, though the 
constellations all seemed to be in the wrong 
places.  Charles had said they changed as you 
moved north or south, but Lindsey hadn’t even 
noticed it before. “You’ll be heroes.”
         “We’ll all be heroes,” Jessica added. 
“We just have to succeed and return home.”
         “I don’t know if we’ll ever get home,” 
Lindsey admitted with a hearty grunt. “Even if we 
defeat the Marquis, how are we supposed to get 
back?  Do we walk the entire length of this swamp 
again?  Without the Rheh, it’ll take months to reach the Pyralian frontier!”
         “And months more to return to Metamor,” 
Charles added with a heavy sigh. “My children 
will be talking and walking by then.  Will they 
even remember me?”  The rat shook his head even 
as the vine pulled closer as if hugging him.
         “And I an even longer journey,” Abafouq 
pointed out. “You at least know you have a home to go to.”
         “You can come to Metamor,” Kayla said. 
“You’d be very welcome there.  You’re our friend.”
         He smiled a bit and then turned to stare 
into the dark night. “Thank you, but I want to 
live among my people again.  If they’ll forgive 
me.”  The great Nauh-kaee crept up behind him on 
silent paws and nudged him in the back gently 
with his beak.  Abafouq turned and wrapped an arm 
around Guernef’s neck. “I would miss you, my friend, yes.”
         “You will go where you are needed,” 
Guernef said in words each of them understood. 
“As will I.  If the wind carries us different ways then such is the wind.”
         “It will be strange though,” Kayla added 
after a moment’s silence. “When we go back home 
that is.  We’ve been together so long, not waking 
up in the woods with you around me will seem 
wrong.  I may see many of you again, but we’ve 
been each other’s only companions for so long, I 
don’t want to part with any of you.  Even the Åelf.”
         Both Åelf had retired to their tents an 
hour before.  Habakkuk had followed them shortly 
to his tent, but they could see his silhouette 
against the fabric.  The kangaroo was still up 
and likely working on his letters as had become 
his custom.  Lindsey eyed his outline with a heavy heart.
         “I’m going to check on Zhypar,” Lindsey 
said as he climbed to his feet.  The others 
continued their conversation while he ambled over 
to the kangaroo’s tent.  The long ears turned at 
his approach, and when Lindsey reached for the 
tent flap, the rest of his head followed 
suit.  Inside the tent Habakkuk sat cross-legged 
with his tail behind him.  Half-finished letters 
were arrayed in a circle around him.  He held one 
in his hands, and he used a bit of slate to keep 
the paper still while he wrote.  His shirt lay in 
a folded pile on his blanket next to his sword.
         “Lindsey,” he said with a faint smile. 
“Wait but a moment more and I’ll put these 
away.”  He frantically scribbled letters on the 
parchment as if afraid that others might see what 
he wrote.  The northerner glanced at them but 
from his perspective the text was upside 
down.  He’d just realized that the letter nearest 
him was meant for Kayla when Habakkuk set the 
tablet aside and began carefully gathering the letters into a bundle.
         Lindsey watched him, noting that apart 
from the Binoq’s amulet to keep the corruption at 
bay, his chest was completely bare.  His soft 
russet fur glowed in the lamplight, muscles 
rippling beneath.  A few angry red spots welled 
along his arms where he’d been bitten.  For a 
scholar he was in very good shape, much as 
Lindsey remembered him being all those years ago 
in Arabarb.  The northerner watched Habakkuk’s 
leg stretch out, the middle toe claw nearly 
brushing Lindsey’s knee, admired the pleasant fur 
and muscles, and then noticed something that made 
him gasp.  Black like pitch, a sore spread across 
the middle of the kangaroo’s left side just beneath his ribcage.
         “What happened to you?”
         Habakkuk lowered one paw against the 
black scar. “This?  Ah.  It is nothing to worry 
over.  Yonson did that to me in the tower when he 
struck me with his Ash staff.”
         Lindsey took another kneeling step into 
the tent and put one hand on Habakkuk’s leg as he 
leaned closer. “Does it hurt?”
         “From time to time,” Habakkuk admitted. 
“I’ve kept it hidden because I didn’t want you worrying over me.”
         “And now?”
         Habakkuk gestured to his shirt. “It’s 
unbearably hot here.  I didn’t think anybody would come in.”
         Lindsey managed to sit down across from 
the kangaroo.  He set his axe to one side and 
pulled his shirt free. “Good idea.” The talisman 
bounced on his hairy chest before settling 
between his beard braids again. “Who are you writing the letters to?”
         “Everyone,” Habakkuk gently returned the 
letters to his knapsack.  He placed them between 
two slats of hard leather to keep them from 
wrinkling and then put his quill and ink away 
too. “I’m writing letters for everyone.” There 
was a weariness in his voice that Lindsey knew 
all too well.  It was the weariness he had from seeing into the future.
         Lindsey ran his fingers along Habakkuk’s 
leg, gently massaging when he found a knot in one 
of his muscles.  The roo’s ears folded back at 
the touch. “Why write letters to us?  Could you 
not just tell us what we need to know?”
         “The letters are for if we survive 
this,” he said.  He turned back and his dark eyes 
glanced where Lindsey massaged his leg.  He 
wiggled his toes but didn’t object. “They concern 
events that take place only if we succeed.”
         “And if we fail?”
         “We’ll all be dead, so there’s no need for letters.”
         “So why not tell us now?”
         “Then you’d worry about something you 
can do nothing about.  This way is better.”
         Lindsey moved his hand up to the edge of 
Habakkuk’s baggy trousers and then back down 
again. “So why not tell us after we’ve defeated the Marquis?”
         Habakkuk sighed and patted the 
northerner’s knee with a paw. “Because even if we 
win, I don’t think we will all survive.”
         Lindsey nodded and grunted.  He was 
amazed they’d survived so long as it was. “Do you know?”
         “Who will die?” The kangaroo asked in a 
sad voice.  Their eyes met, and Lindsey saw in 
the kangaroo’s the familiar glint of far off 
vistas that only he could glimpse.  Before they’d 
gone to Metamor, Lindsey had many times tried to 
see the future reflected in Habakkuk’s eyes and 
several times he’d almost thought he had.  This 
time, he saw nothing but a familiar face staring 
back. He could well imagine how that face had 
once been; thinner and without a beard but still 
strong.  The reflection seemed to follow 
Lindsey’s imagination and there before him was the woman he’d once been.
         The moment seemed to fade as Habakkuk 
spoke, but it didn’t go away altogether. “There 
are several possibilities.  I have not seen a 
single one of us spared death in every one of the 
possible futures.  So I cannot tell you who will 
die.  Every possibility that lays before us is 
converging to one point, one terrible point in 
time and space.  Everything will be decided there.”
         “The Chateau Marzac?”
         “Aye, the Chateau.” Habakkuk lifted one 
paw and gently touched Lindsey’s cheek. “You must 
stay with me when we go in that place, 
Lindsey.  It is a terrible place, and it will try 
to destroy our minds.  Together we can survive.”
         He felt himself more the woman he’d once 
been at the kangaroo’s touch.  He relaxed and 
drew himself closer. “Won’t we all stay together?”
         “In that place?  No.  I don’t think so 
many of us can, but we two can do so.” Habakkuk 
stared at Lindsey with a longing he knew well 
even though he’d not seen it in years. “I don’t 
want to lose you again, Lindsey.  I’m sorry I’ve 
been so distant lately.  You’ve needed me and I haven’t been here.”
         “Nae, you haven’t.  I should not push so much.”
         “When have you pushed?” the kangaroo 
asked.  He ran the back of his paw down Lindsey’s 
cheek and across the top of his shoulder.  The 
fur felt so soft against his rough cheek.
         “I don’t rightly remember,” Lindsey 
admitted. “That night in that Binoq city.  I pushed that night.”
         Habakkuk’s face drew back, nose 
spreading to take in the air, jowls lowering as 
he considered his own memories. “We were tired 
from our flight through the mountains.  Agathe 
almost killed us.  You were upset that I didn’t 
listen to you.  I only listen to those things I see in the future.”
         Lindsey frowned and put his other hand 
on the kangaroo’s chest.  He spread his palm over 
his dear friend’s heart and leaned closer. “You 
listened.  You were listening in here.  You’ve 
always listened in here.  I... I could not bear to admit it.  I was too angry.”
         “I should have said something sooner,” 
Habakkuk admitted.  He put his other palm over 
Lindsey’s hand, his short claws gently lacing 
between the man’s fingers. “There was no time 
while Agathe was there, and then with the bitter 
cold of the mountains, and flying in that 
dirigible... ah, I make excuses for myself 
again.” He shut his eyes angrily and turned away.
         Lindsey caught him and pulled him back, 
shifting closer. “We’ve both been wrong.  We’re men, what else could it be?”
         “I have always been a man,” Habakkuk 
replied. “Not so with you.” He traced one claw 
down Lindsey’s beard an pressed against his chin. 
“I remember the sweet dimple you used to have 
here.  I would rub my finger tip here while you 
leaned over me and tended my wounds.”
         Lindsey smiled, one hand stroking along 
the kangaroo’s side, careful not to brush the 
black scar beneath his ribs. “You were foreign 
and exotic, but in a good way.  I saw kindness in your eye, even as I do now.”
         “I loved you,” Habakkuk admitted, his 
voice weak and but a whisper. “I’d never loved another that way.”
         “Nor I.” Lindsey let his hand slide down 
to the kangaroo’s breeches. “And now?”
         Habakkuk let out a sigh, long ears 
folding back behind his head. “Aye.”
         The northerner leaned forward again and 
Habakkuk leaned back, long tail shifting to the 
side as he closed his eyes.  Lindsey pressed his 
lips to the kangaroo’s snout, as their hands each 
groped and tugged at their leggings.  The two 
pressed close, holding one another tight, 
illuminated only by the fickle lamplight.
         And then, their bodies afire with 
passion long denied, they finally freed 
themselves of all their clothes.  Habakkuk and 
Lindsey paused, both staring at the prominent 
features that they saw betwixt the other’s thighs 
in accordance with their Curse bestowed 
natures.  Lindsey’s fingers flexed slowly and he 
reached toward the kangaroo but his hand stopped 
short of the inhuman masculinity that was 
Habakkuk the man; Habakkuk the animal.  Habakkuk 
gazed for several seconds with his long jaw agape 
and large eyes blinking.  Slowly his tall ears 
swivelled back and then lay flat.  His eyes 
closed and he turned his head away with a caught 
breath hitching in his throat.  Lindsey brought 
his gaze up at the same moment, the repudiation 
for what the Curse had done to him, to them, and 
understood in that moment the same. “No,” he 
crawled backwards shivering with sudden palsy. 
“No, this... is sin,” the bearded northerner moaned softly.
         “Aye, it is wrong,” Habakkuk said with a 
choked sob.  He rolled onto his side, and pulled 
his legs and tail close to his chest. “It is all 
so wrong!” Tears rolled down his cheek and he put 
his paws over his face as he gave free reign to 
his misery.   Lindsey kept his tears at bay long 
enough to cover Habakkuk with his blanket and put his own clothes back on.
         “I’m sorry,” he whispered at the still 
sobbing kangaroo.  Clutching his axe tight, he 
crawled out of the tent and met the questioning 
stares of his friends. He drew himself up to his 
full height and held out one hand. “Leave him 
be.  And I too.” One by one they nodded and returned to their watch.
         Lindsey took a step forward and then 
stopped in front of the campfire.  Slowly, he 
lifted the axe before him.  He stared into the 
metal, nicked and scarred from use but still 
sharp enough to split stout oak.  And for so many 
years it had done just that; his one true 
companion in the cold northern woods when all 
else failed.  He glared at its surface, snarled 
in a fury he only just silenced, and tossed the 
axe to the ground.  Lindsey turned and stalked 
into the darkened trees, fists pressed tight 
against his chest to slow the pounding in his heart.
         Behind him, the rat jumped to grab the 
axe before the haft caught flame.  Lindsey 
half-turned and saw the Nauh-kaee step between 
him and Charles.  The white gryphon shook his 
head and the rat sat back down, clutching the hot 
axe in his paws.  The northerner felt the 
watchful eyes of Guernef following him into the darkness.
         Still he could hear Habakkuk’s cries 
through the tent.  Not a one of his friends said 
anything or made any noise.  Even the creatures 
dwelling in the darkness seemed to pause in their 
feeding to listen.  And ever so faintly, as the 
northerner crushed leaves and fronds in his walk 
through the nearest trees, he thought he heard them laugh too.
         And that’s when his tears came.

----------

         Tyliå-nou sat in Verdane’s chair and 
watched as the Duke of the Southern Midlands 
composed himself.  Verdane glanced between the 
ornate scroll-case and the blue-cloaked 
stranger.  The scroll-case was decorated with 
intricate filigree of trees and stars.  He saw no 
clasp.  The Åelf did nothing but sit in quiet 
repose.  Outside he heard the laughter of his 
guards and the hollow cry of the wind.
         Verdane rubbed his face several 
times.  With each breath he regained some control 
over his emotions.  It had been thirty years 
since he’d last felt so helpless.  That time he’d 
been a youth facing down a bear in the woods all 
alone with his spear broken and his knife 
lost.  With nowhere to go he’d climbed a tree 
just small enough that the bear couldn’t follow 
him.  Instead it had beat against the trunk with 
its paws, shaking the limbs repeatedly.  Several 
times Verdane had nearly lost his grip and fallen to a certain death.
         But he’d hung on long enough that his 
father’s hunters found him and dispatched the 
bear.  It was the last time he’d allowed himself 
to be helpless against another.  He hated 
weakness, especially in himself.  Yet now he knew 
he was the weak one.  Tyliå-nou would have what 
he wanted no matter what.  And the only thing 
Verdane could see that it cost him was his time.
         Of the Åelf he knew only what the 
legends had said.  Distant cousins to the more 
familiar Elves of Quenardya — of whom the Duke 
had also never seen — they were said to be 
recluses who never consorted with any but their 
own kind.  So, that this Åelf was here now meant 
that whatever this letter contained was of vital importance to them.
         Verdane reached out his hand and took 
the scroll-case.  His fingers laced through the 
filigree but still found no way of unlocking the 
device. “Why would I be receiving a message from 
your kind?  What have I to do with you?”
         “But one thing.  You are the recipient of the letter.”
         “I have had ill fortune with letters of 
late,” Verdane replied. “Especially those that do not open.”
         “You refer,” the ancient creature said 
with an air of indifference, “to the letter from 
Duke Krisztov Otakar.  That letter took your son 
away.  This will tell you how to bring him back.”
         He wondered again why the Åelf would 
want to aid him.  And how had he known of the 
letter from Otakar?  Apart from his immediate 
vassals and his closest confidants, he’d told no 
one.  Not even the people of Kelewair knew that 
their lord mayor and the heir to the Duchy was Otakar’s prisoner.
         But he suspected that was a question he 
would never receive an answer to.  He took 
another deep breath, climbed to his feet and sat 
in the chair across from Tyliå-nou. “You did not 
answer me fully,” he chided with as much force as 
he deemed prudent, which was not much. “How do I open this scroll-case?”
         Tyliå-nou gestured with his gloved hand. 
“Clasp the star symbol on the left and the tree 
on the right.  Twist forward with your right hand 
and back with your left.” Verdane did so, and the 
case separated along a diagonal crease he hadn’t 
seen.  A roll of parchment fell into his lap.  It 
bore a seal of a feather over a book in black wax.
         “Whose seal is this?”
         “It belongs to the man who gave me this letter.”
         “So not an Åelf?”
         Tyliå-nou’s frown deepened. “Not entirely a man either.”
         Verdane smirked, feeling some of his old 
self return. “Metamor then.  But this is not the Hassan sigil.”
         “Your curiosity will best be sated by reading the letter.”
         “Very true,” he replied.  There was no 
way around reading this letter.  He could not 
call for help, his servants knew not to intrude 
when he slept, and he couldn’t part the tent flap 
to escape.  His unwanted guest would leave once 
he’d read the letter.  If he held an enemy of his 
in a similar situation, he would make sure to 
have absolutely ever last concession he could 
squeeze from them before letting them go, but he 
knew the Åelf had a different sort of honour.
         He undid the wax seal as carefully as he 
could.  He smudged the edges but managed to keep 
the sigil intact.  Verdane then unrolled the 
letter and scanned to the bottom but did not 
recognize the name.  Irritated, he returned to the top and began reading.

To his grace, Duke Titian Verdane IV of Kelewair,

         I apologize for the distressful manner 
in which my letter was delivered to you.  I know 
you are in a difficult moment and face treachery 
on every side.  You even doubt those closest to 
you, something that weighs heavily on your heart 
and your dreams for your family line.  Even now 
you know your hopes of crowning your son King 
over the Midlands will come to naught.
         And before you ask Tyliå-nou how it is 
that I know these things, let me assure you that 
this letter has not been written by anyone in 
your household either past or present.  We have 
never met and never will.  Though I have been to 
Kelewair once six years ago, I stayed only a 
short time before moving on.  I have not been in 
your lands for five years.  By the time you read 
this letter I will be hundreds of leagues distant from you and from my home.
         Do not concern yourself at this moment 
with how I know these things.  I do.  It is my 
vocation to know what I must know and to act 
where I must act.  In your case, this was all I 
could do.  I deplore what Duke Otakar has done in 
taking your son from you.  Rest assured that 
Jaime will never be harmed and will be treated well during his stay in Salinon.
         Again, I have never met Otakar nor have 
I ever set foot in his lands.  I ask that you trust me.
         Verdane lowered the letter and glared at 
Tyliå-nou. “This is ludicrous.  You wrote this 
letter didn’t you?  How long have you observed 
me?  How long did it take you to learn these 
things?  What makes you think I will believe any of these lies?”
         Tyliå-nou gestured at the letter.  He 
did not smile, but there seemed to be some 
satisfaction in his voice. “You will find the answers you seek in this letter.”
         Verdane wanted to demand an answer, but 
knew better than to risk anything more from his 
intruder.  He returned to the text.

         Please stay where you sit, your 
grace.  As hard as it will be for you to believe, 
I assure you, this is not ludicrous.  Nor did 
Tyliå-nou write this letter.  He has observed you 
only this day that he might find a time to enter 
your tent.  He knows only what he has told 
you.  And you will believe what I write because you know it will be true.

         Verdane flung the letter onto the table 
and nearly climbed back out of his seat. 
“Sorcery!  You’ve bewitched this letter!  You...” 
he glared at the text.  The two ends of the 
parchment had rolled together, leaving only the 
first line of that last paragraph visible.  Hands 
trembling he pulled himself back in his seat and 
stared. “How did... how did he know?  Who is this?”
         This time, Tyliå-nou did not need to 
invite him to read further to learn.  Verdane 
gripped the letter and unrolled it.  Eyes 
feverish to learn what else there was to learn.

         At this point you are wondering how I 
knew you would leap from your seat.  Let us set 
that aside for now and concentrate on what 
matters to you.  Your son Jaime.  Duke Otakar 
will never let him go so long as it weakens you 
and strengthens him.  Until he is certain he can 
hold Bozojo against your armies, Jaime is his.
         The reason for this is simple.  Otakar 
would like to put his progeny on the throne of 
the Midlands.  The Midlands have not had a true 
King since his ancestor Herouc died in a failed 
attempt to destroy the Binoq and the Åelf.  Many 
have called themselves King, but not a one has 
ruled all of the Midlands.  With the Midlands 
divided into three, it is only natural that when 
one grows too powerful, the other two ally to stop them.
         So it is now.  Otakar has secured an 
agreement with Duke Hassan of Metamor recognizing 
each other’s territory.  You, as Duke of the 
Southern Midlands, had grown too powerful, or so 
judge Duke Otakar.  So he takes your son and one 
of the principle means for your power, the city of Bozojo.
         If you wish to see your son again, you 
must do what for you will be unthinkable.  You 
must allow the Northern Midlands to grow in 
power.  Only if Otakar sees more threat from 
Metamor than from Kelewair will he release Jaime.
         “Aid Metamor?” Verdane snapped.  He 
simmered as he glared at the Åelf. “Is that what 
this is about?  You come to me in my time in 
weakness and seek my aid for a place I have spent 
the last seven years trying to undermine?  What 
sort of fool do you take me for?  And don’t tell 
me to read the letter!  I will do so.  But asking 
me to aid my enemy!  That is ill-advised at best!”
         Tyliå-nou folded his hands in his lap, 
eyes cold and distant. “You do not even know how 
you have been asked to aid him.”
         Verdane kept his lips tight, but did 
after glaring at the Åelf for several seconds turn back to the letter.

         However, I would not ask you to aid 
Metamor in a manner that weakened you.  I know 
well your animosity for Duke Hassan.  I also know 
your need to protect your lands and your 
people.  What I suggest will in now way endanger 
any of that.  Instead, I suggest you provide the 
Horse Lord a gift he will put to use in the far north.
         A more secure northern border for 
Metamor would allow them to better cultivate the 
assets they do possess.  There is little to be 
won with increased trade to the north, so trade 
will necessarily increase to the south.  Ellcaran 
will benefit handsomely from increased trade 
along the coast.  And you can divert many of the 
merchants from the river to the western roads to 
avoid paying taxes and duties to Otakar.
         All you need do is give Duke Hassan a 
man who is good for but one thing, war.  I 
believe you know such a man.  He is within your 
power to do with as you please.  Execute him and 
your son will never be returned to you.  Exile 
him to the north, give him nowhere to go but to 
your enemy, and you will have your son back.  It 
will take years, but he will be unharmed.  You 
will never crown Jaime King of the Midlands, but 
his son will have a chance for it.  The Verdane 
family will never see it otherwise.
         I counsel this course of action to you 
as both a Duke and a Father.  If you execute 
William Dupré, Duke Otakar will continue to eat 
at your northern borderlands until your grandson 
is forced to acknowledge him as sovereign.  If 
you exile him to Metamor instead, the war in your 
lands will end, all your vassals will end their 
bickering for fear of suffering Dupré’s fate, and 
within ten years your son will be returned to you.
         The decision is yours, your grace.  I 
shall pray for your soul and for your son Jaime for as long as I shall live.

                                                                 Dauern 
sie Felikaush,
                                                                 Zhypar 
Habakkuk

         Verdane puzzled over the salutation at 
the end.  The name was meaningless gibberish.  It 
was no name like he’d ever heard in the 
Midlands.  But the salutation was a Southlander 
dialect.  It took him a moment to translate it, 
but even then he could make no sense of it. “Last 
Son of Felix?  What does that mean!”
         He heard no reply from his unwanted 
guest so looked up.  The chair was empty and the 
scroll-case was gone.  Verdane stood up, hands 
still clutching the letter.  He glanced around 
his room but apart from a bitter cold bite to the 
air, there was no sign to suggest how Tyliå-nou had left him.
         Ruefully, Verdane realized that he’d 
done what he agreed to do; he’d made Verdane read 
the letter in its entirety.  With cautious hand, 
Verdane pressed at his tent flap.  The fabric 
gave as it should.  Verdane stepped into the main 
tent and glanced at his soldiers. “Did anyone come through here a moment ago?”
         The nearest shook his head. “No, your 
grace.  It’s been quiet since your daughter left.”
         Verdane swallowed, nodded to the 
soldier, and slipped behind the tent flap 
again.  He dropped the letter on the table, 
climbed onto his travelling bed and curled atop 
the winter quilts.  He pressed his fingertips to 
his lips and stared at the letter, words of a 
prayer falling unheard from his tongue.
         If not for that letter still laying on 
his table, he would have convinced himself that 
the Åelf had been part of his imagination.  He 
fell asleep wondering if he shouldn’t put on an 
extra guard to keep other fairy-tales from disturbing his rest.

----------

         The sun had been only a few narrow 
degrees above the dawning horizon when first 
sight had been made and it was now a similar span 
of degrees above the west and they had never lost 
sight of their pursuit. Throughout the long day 
Phil’s fleet straggled ahead of the enemy in a 
careful mass of uncoordinated seeming ships 
sticking together only by a similarity of 
possible speed. It was all a careful sham, but 
Phil felt that even had they held to the rigid 
structure of an established formation the enemy 
would have been equally as dogged.
         The rag-tag conglomeration of 
Marzac-influenced ships spread out behind them in 
a long ragged line with the fastest oar driven 
vessels barely competent to manage any rough 
waters at the fore, heavier dromus and dromonai 
behind them escorting the ponderous Pyralian 
flagship that nonetheless managed to keep pace, 
and at the rear the far slower sailing vessels. 
Nearest were a dozen small, fast moving drom that 
had managed to close within less than a quarter league.
         “It feels like we’re hauling the whole 
damned armada along behind us on tow lines.” 
Aramaes groaned upon emerging from the cabin 
below the aft castle he shared with the four 
journeyman mages that made up his pentette. He 
joined Phil and Ptomamus at the slate table on 
the aft deck for a mug of watery ale and kebabs 
of salted fish warmed by the ship’s cook over an 
open brazier on the gangway of the main deck.
         “Have they used magic to do just that?” 
The captain asked while Phil nibbled a stalk of watercress.
         Aramaes shook his head, “Not that I can 
delve, but they’re getting a damn good bit of 
magic from somewhere. The sea would be a turmoil 
if we tried to push that many boats using ambient magic.”
         “Marzac.” Phil intoned with a frown.
         “My guess, but they are not using it to 
slow us. Probably too much work just keeping up.” 
Aramaes swept an arm toward their aft, “They’ve 
knotted up a tight weather push to keep their 
sturak and galleass within their group, but they 
cannot sustain that indefinitely.”
         “They’ve fewer mages, for a start.” Phil 
pointed out, “Pyralian ships disdain mages, 
pirates and merchants can’t afford them, leaving 
our own Whalish brethren and any the Sathmoran 
ships put on crew to manage that fleet.” He 
carefully picked up his shallow mazer between his 
handpaws and took a slow sip of watered ale. 
After a fortnight on the sea ale was almost the 
last of their beverage, plus whatever fresh water the mages could produce.
         “That is to our advantage, then.” 
Ptomamus smiled grimly as he cast a glance over 
his shoulder, past the steersman, to the drom 
skirmishers still close behind them. The light, 
narrow boats had put considerable distance 
between themselves and their armada to creep ever 
closer toward the retreating Whalish group. 
“Those rakers have left themselves dangerously 
exposed. If we invert our flying wedge we’ll 
surround and crush them before even the fastest of their support can close.”
         Phil shook his head, “Each ship damaged 
in that skirmish would be one less ship to lend 
its strength to the final engagement. If they 
close within projector range we’ll light a few, 
but we should let our archers wither their decks 
clean and not waste ourselves needlessly.”
         Ptomamus nodded, “They act heedlessly in 
closing without support, that worries me.”
         “After the carefully staged attack on 
Whales, I am inclined to agree, captain.” Phil 
set aside his food feeling very weak of appetite. 
“We should slow, else it will be after dark when 
they are close enough to trade blows.”
         “Aramaes, inform the other crews to slow 
that me might rake these fleas off our back.” The 
captain stood and set aside the white lace 
handkerchief after dabbing the corners of his mouth. “Archers make ready!”
         “Archers make ready!” Echoed the officer 
of the deck somewhere out of sight below. Aramaes 
bent forward over his knees, head bowed for a few 
moments while he muttered arcane babble once 
again. Ahead of them the loosely grouped Whalish 
dromon began a slow tightening inward course 
while the Burning Spear continued to drop back 
behind the overall group. Behind them the 
pursuing light skirmish ships continued to close. 
Phil wanted himself to be seen, a gleamingly 
white rabbit standing four feet tall in Whalish 
regalia aboard a Whalish fire ship would be near 
impossible to miss, a target that the enemy would 
be willing to risk careless assaults to vanquish or capture.
         Aramaes walked to the aft rail. “We can 
sink those fleas, captain.” He announced confidently.
         Ptomamus shook his head emphatically, 
“You mages just keep us moving, Ara. Let the 
fighting men deal with the fighting, we will 
scratch these parasites from our coats. Have you 
far-talked with the other fleets since the morning?”
         Aramaes looked crestfallen at being 
banished from the eminent skirmish. “Aye, sir. 
Stohshal is withdrawing the Wind Runners from the 
turn and are making for Whales. Pythoreas is 
bringing his group around from the north, 
dividing his slower galleass contingent to join 
the Runners while his drom will attempt to 
rendezvous with us late tomorrow.” He ran a hand 
over his sweaty scalp, “If we can maintain this pace.”
         “We must.” Phil announced, “What will that give us in strength?”
         “On oar, twenty-three but only seven 
with fire to their possible seventeen. If we 
bring them into our trap and reinforce with the 
Runners we’ll have thirty five.”
         “Plus the dragons.” Phil pointed out.
         Ptomamus raised an eyebrow slightly, “If 
we can count on their support your highness.” He 
did not sound convinced. “My worry is about those missing boats.”
         “Which ones?” Phil glanced at the 
sprawling fleet arrayed out behind them without 
any apparent order beyond the Pyralian flagship and its immediate escorts.
         “Ours. There are only nine in that damn 
mob, and only three of those are equipped with 
projectors. Twelve fire boats struck us in port.” 
Ptomamus ticked off each point on his fingertips. 
“At last count seventeen fire ships were 
unaccounted for, and twenty others as well.
         “Added to what they’ve taken from 
Pyralia and the other kingdoms makes for a truly 
frightening naval force to consider, fire or no.”
         “And what’s more,” Aramaes interrupted 
with a frown, “The maeril seem to have gotten involved.” He muttered.
         Phil groaned inwardly at the new angle 
upon too many already. “How so?”
         “Pythoreas’ group encountered a damaged 
merchant sturak attempting to make for Whales 
with her keel broken and severe hull damage 
because they were, apparently, rammed by a whale. 
After the ramming a dozen maeril attempted to 
board but were slain.” The mage looked from Phil 
to the captain and back with a helpless shrug. 
“The maeril are generally benign, they have 
little comport with man and are hardly dangerous 
out of water. What might drive them to attempt 
such a boarding I hazard to imagine, but I can guess.”
         Phil nodded. “Marzac, again and always 
it is Marzac. If the dark taint of that place has 
turned the maeril within its reach then it is 
far, far more pervasive than we ever imagined.” 
His ears backed and dropped flat. “And that 
leaves us fearing a whole new direction from which to expect an attack.”
         “We can withstand maeril, highness, they 
are awkward at best out of water.” Ptomamus paced 
to the aft rail and stood beside Aramaes to watch 
the ships swiftly overtaking them. Their own 
ships had drawn into a loose running line moving 
just a slight degree slower to let the enemy 
ships close. The Burning Spear’s shadow joined 
those of their companion ships stretching across 
the water as the sun neared the western horizon. 
As he watched the dozen ships that had been 
harrying their wake for the duration of the day 
raised their oars from the water and slowed swiftly. “What is this?”
         Phil hopped to the aft rail and leaned 
his hand-paws upon it to stare at the skirmish 
drom falling further aft with each passing stroke 
of the Spear’s oars. “They’re withdrawing? Why now?”
         “They may be falling back to await 
nightfall to fully close.” Ptomamus pondered 
aloud while his hands clutched at the rail. “Ara, 
can you give our night watch any better sight?”
         The bald mage shook his head. The enemy 
skirmishers began to dip oars once again but it 
was only to turn and make their way back toward 
their own formation. “That worries me.”
         “Aye,” Phil grunted, “Why withdraw your 
knife unless you’ve a mace ready to drop.” He 
looked around warily. “Aramaes, I’ve a request. 
Ask the captains of the other vessels to put 
someone wearing white upon their aft decks once the sun goes down.”
         “Wearing white?”
         Phil nodded. “Aye, white. Preferrably someone small.”
         Aramaes smiled at the thought and 
nodded. “I will inform them, your highness. A good decoy.”

----------

May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,

Charles Matthias